Into the Fire(44)
He armed sweat from his brow. His fake contact was starting to itch. “Not just any olives.”
Seated on the far side, Mia took mercy on him. “Are these different kinds, Evan?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “The Spanish Queens are a classic, though you’ll want to rinse them before you put them in a glass so you don’t brine the vodka.”
“Vodka?” Johnny Middleton said.
“Oh, right.” Evan picked up the bottle, realizing too late that he was displaying it like a servile waiter. “This is a rye-based small-batch. You’ll taste a bit of smoke in it, a toasty charge on the tongue. It’s made in a distillery in northeast Minnesota on a farm built by Swedish immigrants a century ago, so it retains that plainspoken Finnish pedigree. The grain oil hits mid-palate, and if you pay attention, you can grab a hint of orange peel and lavender.…”
Everyone was staring at him in a manner that suggested they were captivated less by what he was saying than by the fact that he was saying it at all.
His voice lost steam. “The Castelvetranos are best with a flavorless vodka, something delicate.…”
Lorilee, evidently the only person worse at reading the room than he was, brightened above even her elevated baseline. “I like olives stuffed with red pepper.”
He suppressed a shudder. “It’s a martini. Not a tapenade.”
For reasons unclear to him, this remark caused a stir. Mia tipped her mouth into her hand in an attempt to hide a smile. Peter flopped onto the table, kicking his legs to propel himself toward the center. He dug his dirty fingers into the nearest glass, retrieving a fistful of Grand Barounis.
“Peter, please,” Mia said. “You look like you’re rooting for truffles.” She grabbed the rear of his belt and slid him back across the table, even as he shoved several olives into his mouth.
Hugh banged his empty coffee mug on the table, a judicial rebuke. “Please don’t make me regret lifting the child-attendance embargo, Ms. Hall.” His patronizing gaze found Evan. “And if you consult Reg 13.8, you’ll see that alcohol is disallowed at these meetings.”
Evan wondered how anyone got through an HOA meeting without alcohol but decided against raising that objection.
Hugh pointed to the sole empty chair at the table. “That spot is held for the snack docent.”
A familiar feeling of unease resurfaced, that Evan was a traveler in a foreign land, observing native customs and rituals without understanding their purpose. Being concussed didn’t exactly clarify matters.
“That’s okay,” Evan said. “Maybe someone else would like to—”
“Please sit down,” Hugh said.
Evan sat.
He looked across the table at Mia, who bit down a grin and rolled her eyes. She surreptitiously pointed at the lonely olive-filled glasses, untouched since Peter’s plundering, and mouthed, Nice nibbles.
“Before you swept in,” Hugh said, “we were about to vote on the new carpet initiative.” Wielding a clicker with lightsaber proficiency, he brought up a PowerPoint presentation comparing pile densities and anti-stain treatments.
As Hugh droned on about estimated HOA assessments, the air conditioner breathed a current of dry air onto Evan’s neck. The room smelled like the cabin of an airplane. There were a jaw-dropping number of incredibly specific questions. Evan found himself wishing that the ringing in his ears was even louder so it could drown out the deliberations.
He stared longingly at the bottle of Syv?, verboten by Regulation 13.8.
It took a moment for him to register that his right thigh was vibrating.
The Turing Phone.
He removed it from his cargo pocket and set it on his knee beneath the table.
A text from the Unidentified Caller he’d spoken to an hour before: I WILL FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE.
The letters blurred and then snapped back into focus. He could practically hear that voice, unrushed and hoarse with age, delivering promises of violence. The cool air at the back of his neck felt suddenly unnerving.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Johnny Middleton held up a hand, stubby fingers splayed. The overhead light illuminated his hair plugs, symmetrically planted like rows of corn. “Does the Emerald Forest Green come Scotchgarded?”
Lorilee cut in, waving a pad on which she was—for some reason known only to herself and God—taking notes. “What’s the tuft-twist rating on the Juniper Bloom?”
Peter tossed an olive into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth, but it bounced off his forehead and skittered across the table.
The Turing Phone vibrated again: I SHOULD WARN YOU, BOY. THIS ISN’T SOME DOGFIGHTING RING YOU CAN WALK INTO LIKE A THIRD-RATE GUNSLINGER. NOW YOU’VE GRADUATED. YOU HAVE MY COMPLETE ATTENTION. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE ON MY AGENDA EXCEPT YOU.
“—need to turn our attention to the most important matter at hand,” Hugh was saying. “I know we’re all enormously concerned about the incident that took place last night when Ida Rosenbaum was brutally assaulted.”
Now Evan’s other pocket vibrated. He tugged out his RoamZone, rested it on his left knee.
It was an alert from the image search he’d run on Ida’s necklace. MATCH FOUND. He thumbed the link, opening up a Los Angeles Craigslist posting. “MINT beatifull silver + purpel necklace. $500. Dont waste my time w/ fake offers. Local only, cash handoff, text now. Jerry Z.”