The Man on the Washing Machine by Susan Cox Read Free Book Online Page A

various kimonos against his reflection in our long mirror.
    The bell over the door jangled and Haruto stuck his head in, ponytail swinging, his arms full of garden tools. In between his days at Aromas he was installing a Japanese garden on the next block. I didn’t know when he did his computer hacking and I was careful never to ask.
    â€œHi, Theo. Do you know anything about this ecumenical shelter or whatever going in at number twenty-three?”
    â€œIt’s an ecological center attached to a halfway house.”
    â€œOur favorite surgeon says the shelter is for drug addicts,” Haruto said. “They’ve started moving in, did you know?”
    â€œKurt is a pain. He’s so worried about his damn property values—” I took a breath. “It’s for a handful of women and children,” I said firmly.
    â€œThey didn’t waste any time moving in,” he grumbled.
    I laughed unkindly as he dropped a rake and a couple of machete-like choppers. “What are you up to, anyway?”
    He stood everything against the open doorway and wiped his brow with his jacket sleeve. “I’m supposed to install moon bridges and waterfalls in a yard the size of a Kleenex with old shrubs taking all the space. I’ve borrowed every tool in the toolshed. If axes and machetes don’t do it, I’ll hire a backhoe.”
    I helped him rearrange his load until it made a neat pile across both of his arms. “You’re sure about this shelter thing?” he said. “Homeless drug addicts won’t be pissing in the flower beds and sleeping on the benches back in the garden?”
    â€œTrust me,” I said, and waved him on his way. He staggered down the block with his precarious burden, looking like a cartoon character.
    His half-assed concerns about the shelter had me worried. I hoped it wasn’t going to raise its ugly head at the association meeting that night. I didn’t want Haruto—or anyone—stirring things up again, even a little.
    I heard a clatter and banging from outside that could only be hoes and rakes and machetes hitting the ground. “Haruto!” I said aloud.
    â€œHuh?” said my kimono customer, following me out the door. I was in time to see Nicole sail past Haruto without looking at him. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him. After a brief exchange of not-very-friendly words, she twisted away from him, and after a frustrated moment he gathered up his ungainly burden and stalked away.
    Nicole came toward us, rubbing her upper arm. Her curly brown hair was wild around her shoulders. She was wearing jeans, a flashy gold-and-blue-sequined bustier, and last night’s makeup. She brushed her hair back from her forehead with a would-be casual gesture. But her face was pale.
    â€œYou okay?” the kimono guy said gruffly to Nicole.
    She smiled at him automatically. “Sure, sweetie. Boyfriend trouble.”
    Nicole followed me inside. The man went back to the kimonos, looking dissatisfied.
    â€œWhat the hell was that about?” I whispered.
    She chose not to hear. “Did you find the Gibney Brothers stuff?” she said.
    I waved a hand at the carton, still open on the floor.
    â€œGreat. Look, I’ve got to pay my rent, can you lend me fifty?” The scene with Haruto was apparently forgotten.
    â€œYou’re not staying?” I said.
    She gave her sequins an ironic downward glance. “Does it look like it?” I must have visibly bitten my tongue because she held up a hand. I jerked my head toward the office and she went there ahead of me, tossing her curls and impatiently snapping her fingers.
    â€œAll I need is fifty,” she said as soon as I closed the door. “You’d already done the bank drop when I got here last night, or I wouldn’t—” She stopped short at my expression. “Dammit, it’s my money, too. Come on, Theo. I’ve got the rest of what I