Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (10 page)

"That where you got hit?"

"Hit? I didn't. Least, not by something you
could see."

Elmendorf unzipped the sweatshirt and spread it open
with each hand. The rosy blotch grew darker and uglier as it swept
toward his waist. "I was exposed. Lots of us were."

"Exposed to what?"

"The Army doesn't know, or at least it isn't
saying. Guys started getting sick over there, but because most of us
weren't there long, the thing didn't hit us till we got back.
Headaches, nerves, rashes like this here. Plus aches in the joints so
bad you'd think they were engines running without oil, just seizing
up on you. How come I have to use the braces most of the time. And
how come I can't go back to photography. Man, there are days when I
can't even hold a newspaper much less adjust the settings on a
camera."

"What about the VA?"

"The Department of Veterans Affairs? They're a
joke. They had all of us register, we had any symptoms. But the
Defense Department's saying there isn't any 'syndrome,' and without a
'syndrome' they can't treat us and won't pay us. Thousands of
soldiers now, but they say they aren't responsible because we didn't
really get infected, or whatever, over there."

I thought about Agent Orange, and how long it took
those vets to receive any—and meager—satisfaction through the
courts. Good Luck, Norman. I said, "So you can't work at all?"

"Not with the aches, man. They just dominate the
day, you know?"

I didn't like the feeling I was getting about
Elmendorf, that big-talk, no-action sense you develop about some
troopers in bars. I took out two of the interview forms and handed
one to him.

"What's this?"

"As I told your daughter, I'm looking into
whether another condo complex should switch to the Hendrix company
for its management, and I've been asking your neighbors a few
questions to assess your satisfaction with how Hendrix is managing
Plymouth Willows."

"Okay by me. I don't exactly have anything else
to do."

"NAME?"

"Elmendorf, Norman, NMI."

"For 'No Middle Initial.' "

"Right. Guess that didn't change, either."

"Change'?"

"From your war, I mean."

I nodded. "HOMETOWN?"

"Lowell, like I said."

"EDUCATION?"

"Lowell Tech. They call it 'University of
Massachusetts-Lowell' now, but it was just Lowell Tech when I went
there."

"Your wife?"

"We're divorced. She took off when I got back
from the Saud. Basically abandoned Kira, the cunt."

I decided to skip the rest of the SPOUSE questions.

"How long ago did you move here?"

"About six years. Pioneers, like. First
purchasers from the guy who developed Plymouth Willows."

As with Lana Stepanian, I wanted to ease slowly
toward the Andrew Dees questions, hiding them among the others. "One
of your neighbors told me about the problems he had."

"Which neighbor was that?"

I couldn't see it did any harm, but . . . "I'm
telling everybody I talk to that their answers will stay
confidential?

"Doesn't matter. Lana's the only one here long
enough to really fill you in. She's a nice girl, only kind of uptight
about life. You know, a place for everything and everything in its
place? I don't see how you can live that way, myself."

Explained his living room. "I understand the
Hendrix company was brought in by the C.W. Realty Trust."

"If that's the name of the people who bailed out
Quentin's estate, yeah."

"Quentin?"

"Yale Quentin, the guy who built Plymouth
Willows."

"And he's dead now?"

"Four, five years. There was some kind of stink
about fraud, him supposedly making up dummy buyers to fool the banks
he borrowed off. I even remember him coming to the paper I worked
for, checking me out with the editor so he could show the banks he
was legit. Guess he wasn't, though."

"How come?"

"Well, he killed himself over the mess."

Lana Stepanian would probably classify suicide as
"gossip."

"That's too bad."

"Yeah, brand-new Caddy, too."

"I'm sorry?"

"Quentin. He took his car over that ocean bluff
you pass on the left just before our turn. Smashed the Caddy and
himself on the rocks down by the water."

I nodded, bringing Elmendorf back to the form. "Any
FAMILY MEMBERS visit you here?"

Elmendorf looked up from his copy. "If you mean
overnighters, no. I got a brother comes by for dinner once in a blue
moon."

"Has he always been treated well by the Hendrix
people?"

"I doubt he's met any, except for maybe running
into Paulie. He's the retarded kid does the lawns and all."

"How about your DEALINGS WITH THE HENDRIX
COMPANY?"

"They've been fine, only they want to be paid."

"Paid?"

"Yeah. After I couldn't work at the paper
anymore, I got unemployment. You ever had to live on that?"

"Years ago."

"Well, let me tell you, it still isn't much. I
can barely cover the mortgage, bread, and water. I'm in hock up to my
ears, and I don't know how long we can hold on."

Elmendorf said it awfully matter-of-factly.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, well, for your form and all, the Hendrix
guy has been pretty good, considering how much Kira and me owe. He
hasn't been pounding on the door with the sheriff, anyway, and all
his letters and calls are pretty decent."

That didn't square with my impression of him, but you
never know where people's hearts lie.

"Have they been helpful in accommodating your
disability?"

"I can't get the VA to recognize I'm disabled, I
don't see Hendrix having to, but I've never asked them, other than to
explain how come we're not current on the bills."

"Ever visited the Hendrix offices?"

"No."

"How does Hendrix handle COMPLAINTS?"

"You mean, like from me if there's a leak or
something?"

"Yes."

"We haven't called him recently. I mean, we're
so far behind in our monthly maintenance, I figure, don't kick the
sleeping dog, right?"

I could see his point.

"NEIGHBORS is the next entry, and, as I said,
I'll keep whatever you say confidential."

"Look, buddy, I worked on a newspaper, okay? I
know how the reporters I'd go out with felt about confidential
sources and all. Even if you're as good about it as they were, I got
to tell you, I could care less what my neighbors think of me or think
I said to you. They want to sue me, they can sue me. I got diddly
squat for them to come after."

Good. Work toward Andrew Dees gradually. "How
about the Stepanians?"

"Nice, like I said. The husband, Steve, he's
kind of uptight too, but it seems to me they try to be good citizens.
School committee, condo board, and Lana spells Kira once in a while
so the poor kid can have something resembling a life for herself
instead of having to look after me all the time." .

Glancing toward the braces, I said, "Can you
make it up and down stairs?"

"Barely. And I try it more than twice a day, I'm
dogshit the next morning. Like I'm not puppy shit now, you know?"

"How about Andrew Dees?"

"Christ, you'd just about have to describe him
to me. I mean, these windows look out the back, but I can't see his
deck, and I haven't been out front for months. I shook hands with him
once, saw him another time with a good looking woman, something
foreign about her. But I can't see where that helps you with your
condo association any."

It wouldn't.

"So you don't know HOMETOWN?"

"No. Wait a minute . . . No, I got the feeling
Midwest somewheres, but that's probably from his accent."

"What about EDUCATION?"

"We never got to talking about that. Like I
said, it was just a handshake kind of thing. 'Welcome to the
Wi1lows,' you know?"

"And other than the woman, nobody visiting him?"

Elmendorf seemed taken aback.

"What does that have to do with how Hendrix
manages the complex?"

"Just toward the FAMILY VISITING angle."

"Well, I don't see it, but you'd have to ask
him."

I didn't want Elmendorf thinking I was focusing on
Dees.

"How about the Robinettes?"

"Depends on whether you like rap music."

"I'm sorry?"

"The Afro music Jamey plays on his ghetto
blaster. Account of my nerves, Kira uses that Walkman thing so I
can't hear it, but she's always having to go next door, pound on the
door to get him to turn his shit the fuck down."

I didn't like the racist undertones from Elmendorf.
"You don't know anything more about them?"

"The woman doesn't seem to work, but they've got
a pretty new car, so maybe she's figured out a way for the government
to recognize some disability of hers. What do you think?"

"Haven't met her yet," I said quietly. "I
wonder if you'd mind signing this."

"What is it?"

I gave him my filled-in form. "The questionnaire
we've been going over. Just so I can show I spoke to you."

"Sure, sure. I'm kind of shaky, though, so you
might not be able to read my signature."

"That's okay."

Scratching along the dotted line, Elmendorf said,
"Her kid goes to some private school on top of it."

"Jamey Robinette?"

“
Who else? He'll have my job someday."

"Your job?"

"Yeah. He'll be a
photographer or better, the degree he'll have." Norman Elmendorf
gave me back the form and my pen. " 'Upwardly mobile,' they call
it."

* * *

Coming back down the stairs, I saw Kira catch my
movement from the corner of her eye. She sat up and slid the
earphones onto her neck again. "You get what you wanted?"

"Yes," stretching the truth some. "I
wonder if I could talk to you for a while?"

A shrug that made her hands flap a little on the
wrists. "Sure. Let me, like, clear away the junk first."

Kira Elmendorf gathered up the magazines that covered
an old easy chair. Instead of carrying them off somewhere, she just
dropped them onto the floor. The carpet looked to be original
equipment, but unlike the Stepanians', this one showed dirt and
stains.

I sat as Kira took the couch again and, despite the
combat boots, did a yoga crossover with her ankles.

"So," she said, "what do you want to
know?"

I gave her a questionnaire and waited while she read
through it.

"What's this for?"

"It would help me with my clients if I could ask
you some of the stuff on there. I already got most of it from your
dad."

Another shrug, the form in her hand flapping. "So,
sure."

"How do you feel the Hendrix company does in
managing the place'?"

"Oh, wow." A hand went through the platinum
hair, causing neither damage nor improvement. "They do what
they're supposed to, I guess. The heat's on, the road's plowed in
winter, the grass is cut in spring—thanks to Paulie, anyway, he's
just so extremely cute in his little uniform—and he does the pool
right in summer, no bugs or leaves or other disgusting uck in it."

"You never had any trouble with Mr. Hendrix,
then?"

"No. Wait." Kira ran her hand through her
hair again. "Do you mean like, did Boyce ever hit on me?”

Boyce. "Any kind of trouble at all."

"No. I mean, he's cute too, in a sort of older
mode, with good buns."

"Buns?"

"For sure. Whenever he's over checking in with
Lana—that's Mrs. Stepanian."

Boyce and Lana. "I've met her."

"Yeah, well, she's like one of the presidents of
the condo somehow, and when he visits her, Boyce is always dressed
real cazh."

"Hendrix dresses real casual."

"So you can scope the buns."

Scope the . . . "Kira, have you ever heard any
complaints from the other neighbors about Mr. Hendrix?"

"No. Just does a totally line job, I guess."

"Nothing from Mr. Dees, either?"

The shrug. "He's kind of a quiet dude. I guess
staring at a machine that makes copies kind of flattens the brain
waves."

I sat forward. "How do you mean?"

"Wel1, like, the man doesn't ever get to do
anything creative, right? All day long, it's just put the original
in, push the button, take the original out. I mean, a chimp could do
that and stay ecstatic, maybe, but a real human person? Give it up."