Yes. I heard the question. What’s your point?
My point is this. If someone tried to legally or physically take your wife away from you…
Listen, I said, interrupting him. I don’t know what this is about. But I’m not trying to take your wife or anybody else’s wife away from them. I’m off your case. I signed off on your case. I don’t want your case. Frankly, I don’t need the business. What’s happening to you is between you and your wife. If your wife is leaving you or asking you to leave her then I recommend you take it up with her. Or get your own lawyer to defend you. But frankly, there’s no reason for us to be having this discussion right now. I wish you well. I also wash my hands of all this. Now if you don’t mind, this conversation is over.
But detective. The thing you don’t understand is…
The thing I don’t understand? Are you trying to tell me I don’t understand? Because if you are, I’m going to ask you to lay off. There’s plenty in this world I don’t understand. That being said I don’t need you to clarify anything for me.
But the thing you don’t understand, detective, and the reason why I asked you to come out today is because I want to know something, and you’re not answering me.
I’m leaving. I’m leaving now.
But supposing, detective. Supposing someone out of the blue tried to take your wife away from you, whether by law or by force. How would you feel about that?
Someone did take my wife.
How would you feel if you knew who it was?
Supposing you shut your mouth.
Supposing, detective, you answer me. That’s why we’re here today. That’s why we’re meeting like this. It’s just a simple conversation between friends. How would you feel?
?
Art, promise me one thing.
Yes, Adeleine, anything…
Promise me one thing, is all.
I promise, honey.
Promise me that if I should die before you to bury me in a pine box…
?
Detective. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me? Suppose…
What the hell is all this about?
It was I, detective, who shot your wife.
I’m listening.
This is the gun that killed your wife.
He pulled a gun from his pocket and set it on the table. It was the Glock 26 with the rubberized grip that Cal had given me. I was speechless.
So he went on: You didn’t know it was gone, did you? You didn’t even know it was gone from your closet.
Again I couldn’t talk.
I’m sorry, detective, for killing your wife, but I did it. I killed her. And we can’t go back to fix what has been done, can we? I don’t know what got into me, detective. You got into me, I suppose. You sitting there in your coffee shop trying to steal my wife away from me. I didn’t like your attitude while you sat and asked me those questions and I didn’t like that you recorded me on that recorder of yours without asking me. I didn’t like that you recorded my story without even thinking of asking me if it was OK to record my story. And then later, after we had our little conversation, it occurred to me that I had nothing but a litigious wife, who herself had a lawyer who wanted to do me in, and now a detective who had recorded evidence of our conversation. I couldn’t stand that you stole my voice away from me, detective, on that little recorder of yours, and that once you stole my voice, my voice would be used to steal my wife away from me. What’s more, you got into me so I didn’t feel like myself anymore.
I just sat there and took it all in. I did not know what I was supposed to say to any of this. So he went on.
So I wanted to take out my anger on you, detective. I found out where you work. I looked up your AAAgency. I didn’t know what I was doing. I went up the elevator of your building in the early evening, and when I got off the elevator I saw the door to your office was open. Your door wasn’t even locked! I turned the knob. It opened, so I stepped inside. No one was in it. Your office was immaculately clean. I didn’t know what I was doing, exactly, or why I was in your office, but once I got in there I did have an idea to try and find that recording you made of me. I was pissed off like hell at you and that dirty lawyer of hers. I wanted to show you what it means to lose something. You have a nice office, detective. Your business must pay well for such a nice office on Jewelers Row on Wabash Avenue. And what do you do with such a business? Go to coffee shops and try to steal wives away from men who work all day in the hot sun. I sat in your office chair and I tried to imagine what it must be like to be a detective who does such things. I saw the picture of your wife and daughter framed on your desk. I saw you had an office mate who probably took care of your office. I kicked my feet up on your desk, and the phone rang. When I picked it up, someone on the other end was asking for a plumber. I tried not to laugh. Is this how you make money, waiting to intercept people who are looking for someone who does honest work? Tricking them into inquiring about your services? I still didn’t know what I was doing. But I was a detective. I was you, detective! I said in the calmest voice possible: No, this is the detective agency. Is there something I can do for you? When I said that the phone went dead. I was wearing my dirty work clothes caked in mortar. I wondered what it would be like to work in an air-conditioned office and not have to soil my clothes with mortar. I wondered what it would be like to sit in an air-conditioned office for a living. I noticed there was a small closet in your office with some of your clothes stored there and a shelf where you kept champagne and some glassware. I also saw a gun case, and I opened up, and there it was, your Glock. What the hell? I thought. I put it on the desk and put the case back. I took my clothes off and tried yours on. They looked like a fit. I didn’t have to be a bricklayer. I could be a detective. I could be you! I put on your socks. I found a pair of pants and tried them on. They fit perfectly. I pulled out a flannel shirt, from Farm and Fleet, I think. It was one of the same exact shirts I own, detective. I was surprised to see all the work clothes in your closet! What is it you do that merits a workingman’s clothes? As far as I can tell, detectives like you don’t work for a living. Of course I took your Glock. It was there for the taking. It was loaded. And you didn’t even know it was gone! What kind of detective are you, if you can’t even detect a crime has taken place? But I wanted to be you. I wanted to be more you than you. I combed my hair with a comb you had in your desk drawer—did you notice I took that with me as well? Or did that escape your notice? How many things do you think escape your notice every single day? You go about your business so blithely, but what is it you really notice about your life? What do you really see, detective?