Free The Juror by George Dawes Green Page B

white stasis whose detachment shines like
     a propeller’s rainbowed radiance, you know what I mean?
    Second ring.
    He lets himself sink down to his chin in the water.
    Or maybe the Caruso Hotel needs me to babysit a postal carrier’s convention. Like that bunch last week. Stuck in the hall
     all night on a folding metal chair. Keeping a sharp eye on the Coke machine, in case maybe it was one of those mass-murdering
     postal workers in disguise.
    By four in the morning he’d sort of hoped it was.
    Third ring.
    Forget it, guys. I don’t need the money that much. I mean, I do need the money, I’ve lost my apartment and soon I’m going
     to be tossed from this rathole office, but still… when I get out of this tub I’m crawling right into beddy-bye.
    His machine picks up.
    He hears his own grungy growl on the tape: “You’ve reached the Czernyk Detective Agency. We’ve stepped out of the office for a moment…”
    He sounds to himself like a cross between an iguana with a hangover and a haunted cellar door.
    He brings the Lucky to his lips, takes a little sip of it, then holds it there between his fingers while he slides his head
     under the water. But he can still hear his grunting from the machine.
    And then some other voice, a liquid and whispery song of a voice, and he lurches up out of the water.
    This angel-voice is leaving her name. Sari Knowles. What a beautiful name. And her number. She says:
    “… I need, um, I may need your help, with something, I mean I guess it’s not an emergency and I know it’s late and I don’t
     know you, really I just got your name out of the Yellow Pages but if you can—”
    “Hello.”
    “Hello? Mr. Sir-nik?”
    “Czernyk. ‘Ch’ as in choo-choo. I, um—wait, I just got out of the tub, I was, I was across the hall, wait—”
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be there, I mean—”
    “It’s OK. It’s OK.”
    Freezing in here. He shuts the door to the hall. He lies down on the mattress on the floor and pulls the covers over him.
     Pulls them over his head, scrunches way down. Yesterday’s newspaper, a box of Oreo cookies, and a forlorn copy of
Penthouse
are down here with him. And the telephone. “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Are you in trouble?”
    “No. Not with the law or anything, I’m, it’s…” She fades off.
    “You married?”
    “Uh-uh, no.”
    “Boyfriend?”
    She takes a breath. “Yeah.”
    “Problem?”
    “Mm.”
    “You don’t know where he is?”
    “But he’s not in any danger, it’s…”
    “You think maybe he’s with someone else?”
    “I don’t know
what
he’s doing.” She’s on the edge of tears. “He doesn’t tell me anymore. I mean, he’s, he’s busy. He manages a commodities fund,
     and, so I don’t know, I guess he’s
busy
. He’s says he’s got this new client? This woman?”
    “And you’re a little jealous.”
    “Oh damn. This isn’t like me. You know? I mean I know how late it is, I should have waited till tomorrow, but I can’t, I can’t
     think about anything else, I can’t sleep. I mean I should handle this better. I’m a businesswoman, I have my own travel agency.
     I’m a responsible—I mean I should—”
    “No, I understand. It’s tough sometimes. Can I ask you something, Ms.—”
    “Sari Knowles. Sari.”
    “Sari. This is kind of private and you don’t have to answer me, but are you seeing a therapist?”
    No answer.
    He tells her, “It’s only that, when you’re going through—”
    “But if he’s seeing somebody else what difference would it make? You know? If I’ve lost him?” A rib of near panic running
     underneath her voice. “Then what difference would it make if I’m sane or not?”
    Slavko knows this tone. When he hears this tone on the telephone he knows he’s got himself a client. Do you feel the walls
     trembling? Do you feel your lovelife starting to cave in all around you? Does it feel as though the walls of your