Free The Man on the Washing Machine by Susan Cox Page B

Turlough.” He slid onto the stool next to mine. Great. My new tenant. Director of the shelter. My personal Trojan horse.
    I took a mouthful of my gin and tonic. “How did you know who I was?”
    â€œSomeone told me tall, red hair, standoffish expression.”
    Score one for the guy in the black leather jacket. “How do you do, Mr. Turlough,” I said primly. “I hope the studio is satisfactory.”
    â€œI haven’t seen it yet,” he said. “I flew in this morning from D.C. and went straight to the group home.”
    There was a long pause, which surprised me a little. My limited experience of social worker types is a never-ending stream of self-righteous, activist chatter. He drank his beer and I took another uncomfortable sip of my drink, feeling extremely standoffish.
    The bar mirror reflected us both surrounded by the eerie glow of the Christmas lights. I looked tired, which I was. And I needed a haircut or something. He had a small scar over one eyebrow that looked like a built-in frown. He lifted his head suddenly and saw me checking him out. My reflection looked disconcerted. I’ve always been an easy blusher.
    â€œWe want to be a good neighbor, Ms. Bogart. How did the letter go over?”
    â€œWe didn’t discuss it fully.” No need to expose our skirmishes to a stranger.
    â€œMaybe I could come to one of your meetings to field questions. Not that there’s anything you all can do; our first resident moved in this morning.”
    I turned to him. “I heard.”
    â€œAnd three more this afternoon with their kids. They’re having fun helping to finish the painting—” He paused. “You heard about the accident?”
    I nodded and somehow didn’t say that I had seen Tim fall.
    He shook his head. “At least the kids are having a blast. The women, not so much. One of them grabbed her ten-year-old and ran when her husband wanted to sell him for sex. Another is fresh out of a drug rehab program and wants to stay clean so her kids won’t have to go back to selling drugs for their uncle. You can understand I don’t much care if the people around here are uncomfortable.” He drained his glass and signaled to Joe for another beer. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t inadequate.
    â€œThanks for renting me the apartment,” he said, a little less forcefully.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said. I could take credit for it, even if I had no idea at the time that’s what I was doing. Besides, I’d told all my neighbors I was in favor of the group home; maybe they’d see my blunder as putting my money where my mouth was.
    â€œConsidering how your neighbors probably feel, it was a brave thing to do. Can I buy you a drink?” I shook my head. “By the way—” He reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out a wallet, and slid a ten-dollar bill toward Joe.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThere’s some boxes and furniture the property managers say belongs to people renting storage space. No one’s paid anything for some time, and the stuff’s in the way, so—”
    â€œThey’ve been told to get it out by Saturday.”
    â€œOkay. Thanks.”
    â€œThere is one thing,” I said, and he paused. “I don’t know much about how to run a women’s shelter, but aren’t the locations usually secret?”
    â€œIt’s more like a transitional group home, although we inevitably have women there who need a safe haven. The guy who rented us the building thought he was helping us by enlisting the locals on our side. You can see how well that idea worked out. First our cover’s blown, then our painter falls out a window. What was the name of the captain of the Titanic ?” He rubbed one hand over his jaw. “I guess I shouldn’t make light of it. I ought to get in touch with the painter’s family. Do you know him?”
    â€œHe