Chapter 2

That's another benefit of being rich – you have leisure time in which to get introspective. I'm not good at introspection, though, so I shook off the mood. I drank a slug of Coke and looked at the prints on my walls. I change 'em periodically, and just the month before I'd replaced the Monets and Renoirs and van Goghs with stuff by R.C. Gorman. Usually I don't put just one artist on the walls, but I'd been in a Gorman mood, and I still was. His paintings aren't exactly "Indian art," though he was a Navajo – Diné they call themselves, "the People" – but they're certainly not what you'd expect a white man to produce. Certainly they're paintings which depict Indians and settings that Indians – at least some Indians – would care about.

One of these days I needed to get some photos of Lahtkwa art, and make 'em into prints, and put 'em on my walls. My dad was a blood – 100% Lahtkwa from the reservation in Washington – and though I look pure white, and grew up white and have a white culture and speak just a word here and there of my dad's language, I'm Indian enough that I usually like Indian art. I could also, I thought, get a portrait of my brother Memphis and hang it on the wall. Though Cecelia doesn't like Memphis' Korean wife, for reasons that neither woman can articulate, she loves him and in fact is closer to him than I've ever been. We went to separate aunts and uncles after our parents died when I was four, and he grew up on the rez and, after he got out of the Air Force, became very traditional. He looks as Indian as I do white.

Well, that's family. I finished my Coke and tossed the bottle at the trash can, where it bounced off the far rim and fell in. My part-time secretary, Marla, was coming in after lunch to make sure either everything was paid up, or the signed checks were available, before I headed west. She's been working for me since 2004 – I hired her just a month before our desert vacation that year, come to think of it. She'll finish her classes at UNM next year, and apply to the Albuquerque Police Department, and I'll miss her. She does good work, and doesn't mind being just part-time since that lets her carry a heavier schedule at the University of New Mexico, and she's turned into a friend besides. But she'll make a good cop.

I turned to my computer and checked my e-mail. There wasn't much in the business mail box – and most of that was spam. I reported it all. Sometimes I'll report all of it, and sometimes some of it, and sometimes none, depending on what sort of mood I'm in. Just then I wasn't ready to treat spammers with charity – I was in too good a mood for that. It didn't make sense to me that when I'm in a good mood I'm least tolerant of junk e-mail, but no one ever said I was terribly sensical.

In my personal e-mail box there was more stuff. I reported the spam there too, and replied to a message from Letty Ramirez. She and I had developed a friendship while I was hunting for her husband back in 2005, and we e-mail each other every week or so. Her husband turned out to be a psychopathic jerk who'd never really loved her, and once she got over that she began to enjoy life. This time she said she was thinking about joining a health club. I told her that Cecelia could help her out, and for free – Cecelia's the most muscular woman I've ever known, and could get Letty started with weights or running or exercises or whatever.

I chuckled to myself as I clicked the send button. Letty knew all that – but probably hadn't thought of it. Human beings are very good at seeing everything except the blindingly obvious. I know I'm real good at missing what's right in front of me.

I replied to a few other messages, and was just closing the program when I heard the connecting door open. I swiveled in my chair and there was Marla grinning at me. "What, no Coke, Darv?" she asked me.

"Not just this minute, but I'll have one here directly."

She giggled and pulled her head back, leaving the door open. I set Windows to shutting down, and got up and grabbed a Coke, and went to sit by Marla's desk while she wrote out checks and handed 'em to me for my signature.

When Marla and I had everything wrapped up, I looked at my watch and saw that it was getting towards late afternoon. It was early for supper, but planning is a nice thing, so I planned. I reached across Marla's desk to her phone, and dialed the house.

"Yes, Darvin," Cecelia said when she answered, having of course checked the caller ID, the only truly useful feature I can see that has come along since the telephone itself.

"I was wondering," I said, "whether y'all would like to eat supper with me."

I heard Cecelia chuckle before she answered. "I had actually purposed eating with a lover..."

"Ah, then you were planning on supper with me."

Now she laughed out loud, a reaction that I'm not often able to get from her, partly because my jokes don't usually get more than medium amusing, and partly because her laugh is less common than her smile. "It is not often, my husband, that you best me in a battle of wits. Were I cynical, I might believe that you had outside aid in this exchange."

"Well, Marla's sitting here, but she didn't have nan thing to do with it."

"Darvin, why must you say 'wif, ' as though you were me at five years old? You're white, and educated."

"Yeah, and I'm me too." I laughed now. "So what's the verdict, C?"

"The verdict, after due consideration, is that Harry's Eats is a place we haven't been to recently, and therefore it would be enjoyable to take our custom there this evening."

"Harry's it is, then. Y'all wanna meet me there, or meet up at the house and go together?"