Carcass Trade by Noreen Ayres Read Free Book Online Page A

saying goes, while I filled a cup and put it in the microwave. He said, “I’d like to stop by if you’re going to be home.”
    â€œSure,” I said, an edgy feeling overtaking me. “What brings you out here?”
    â€œI live here.”
    â€œNo shit.”
    â€œIn Sierra Madre. You know where that is?”
    â€œAbove Pasadena. Nate, I just talked to you Christmas. What is this, summer home/winter home?”
    The microwave quit beeping, and I took out the cup and waved a raspberry tea bag over it until it landed and began to bleed into the water. Unraveling the terry dish towel from the oven handle and tossing it on one shoulder, I took my tea and sat down with my feet propped on a chair and wrapped the towel around them. Popsicle toes. There used to be a song. . . .
    I contemplated Nathan living fifty miles away, up against the San Gabriel Mountains near the City of Roses, the parade city we blame for drawing defectors from snow country every sunny January. When would Nathan have moved there, packed up all his cares and woe and come clear across the country to a little enclave of exiled hippies, conservative Catholics, and people with maybe a fifth his yearly income? To make his fortune, Nathan sold second trust deeds, then stocks, then handled home refinancing, all the stuff that bores me silly. I guess he could do that by fax or modem and live anywhere he chose.
    He said, “I asked you a question.”
    â€œOf course you can come by. I’ll give you directions.”
    â€œI’ve been to Aunt Markie’s before.”
    â€œYou have? When?”
    â€œLong time ago. What’s it matter?”
    â€œYou’re happy today.”
    His turn for a pause. “I need to talk to you about something. I think you could help me.”
    It came to me as I listened to him: Miranda, the name on the car registration. As I told my friends at the cowboy club last night, Nathan had a Miranda. But it could not possibly be. . . . “I’m sitting here, Nathan, drinking tea and warming my toes, with nothing else to do in the whole world but listen to my wise, old—very old—big brother.”
    He didn’t laugh. “You’re going to be home, then?”
    â€œI’ll be here.”
    â€œNoon all right?”
    â€œWe’ll do lunch. You have to get used to saying that out here— do lunch.”
    â€œWe say it in the East too,” he said, sounding that far away.
    â€œNothing’s sacred,” I said. “They probably say it in Nebraska. What’s the world coming to?”
    â€œWhat’s the world coming to?” he repeated softly. He must be hunched over the receiver, not standing up, I thought. Nathan stands up for phone calls. It frees the diaphragm. You sound more in control.
    â€œDo I get a hint of what this is about? I mean, you’re not going to ask me to invest money in some scheme I’ll never be able to figure out, are you?”
    â€œI’m not going to ask you to do that.”
    â€œWhat, then?”
    â€œYou remember—?” He stopped himself. I thought I could hear him smoking. “I need to find somebody. Maybe you could help.”
    Swinging my feet down, I asked with great dread, “Who’s the person?”
    â€œI’ll tell you later.”
    â€œJesus, Nathan.”
    â€œI’d just rather wait till I see you.”
    â€œI’m not a cop. I’m a civilian, working with cops. I don’t just go around looking for people.”
    â€œI should just get a private investigator then, is that it?”
    â€œThat might be a better idea,” I said with more irritation than I meant. I walked into the living room, peeling away my bathrobe down to my cutesy magenta underwear, and threw the robe over the back of the couch. The collar hit a vase of drying flowers I’d meant to empty, and the green water spread over my pine table and onto the cream-colored