Page 78 of The Witch's Orchard
I snort.
“I’m glad you have such a high opinion of my standards.”
“Oh, I know you have high standards,” he says. I hear a train station speaker in the background rattling off information in Japanese. “Listen, I’m about to have to go. Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
“Always. I got that information for you. Who says Army intelligence is an oxymoron?”
“All right, spill.” I get a pen and my notebook ready.
“There’s no record of a Bob Ziegler matching your man, but thereisa Brian Robert Ziegler the third.”
“The third, huh?”
“Yeah, but don’t be getting ideas about him having airs. He’s a nobody.That was part of his problem, actually. He hooked up with some chick he met at a hippie party back in ’69. He was eighteen. She was fourteen. They were stoned. Bottom line, they got caught. And her daddy—some bigwig councilman—had him arrested. Ol’ Bob got railroaded. The judge said he could go on to jail and serve down at the state pen or…”
“Or join up with Uncle Sam and wage war on Charlie?”
“Bingo.”
“So he joined the Army to avoid a stat rape charge,” I say, writing down what I can. “Then, while he was in there, he found Jesus or whatever and became a preacher?”
“Sounds like.”
The light, bright female voice chimes out more information over the speakers. It’s followed by a jazzy jingle and then I hear theclicka-whooshof a train pulling into the station.
“That’s me.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
“I’ll be back stateside soon,” he says.
“Okay.”
“When you get done, I’ll take you out for a drink.”
“I think I’m gonna need one.”
“Thought you might.”
We hang up. I finish my water, stretch out, inspect the gauze on my shin.
“You run every morning?”
I look up and see AJ standing in the doorway, his eyes sleepy and a soft smile on his mouth. It’s almost enough to make a woman want to go back to bed.
“Pretty much,” I say. “When I’m away from home. It’s more practical.”
“More practical than what?”
“Hauling around a heavy bag. I live about two doors away from my aunt Tina’s garage and she lets me keep my gym stuff there, including the bag I work.”
“Boxing?”
“Muay Thai. I picked it up.”
He scratches his bare chest as he yawns, looks at the clock above the stove. I tell him the news about Bob Ziegler’s history and AJ lets out a whistle, shakes his head.
