Healthy, Wealthy, and Dead. Gregg Ward Matson

was music playing, a Bach harpsichord piece. Both of them skipped nimbly into the center of the room where they began (resumed) dancing. They would join together, cavort around each other, then part. They moved all over the room, graceful, sensual, slender, strong. I tried desperately to watch without feeling like a voyeur. I failed.

      While I was feeling lust, I was also feeling totally inadequate to express it. Here I was, full of candy, hamburgers, and milkshakes, wearing a ludicrous checkered sports shirt and wrinkled slacks, carrying a damp old overcoat, thinking I had done well just to walk a few blocks. Here they were, healthy and agile, moving gracefully in shimmering, tight outfits that were perfectly legal, yet kept no secrets. Blood rushed down from my brain. I found myself making plans.

      They danced together a little while longer, time I couldn’t keep track of. I wondered why I was getting the privilege of watching. I wondered what gave me the moxie to have the fantasies I was having. I was glad to be having those fantasies.

      When the music stopped they laughingly donned their sweat suits. “Sorry to make you wait, Marvin,” Loralee smiled, her eyes again delving inside.

      If she was fishing she didn’t need much bait. “Keep me waiting like that any time.”

      Still smiling she looked over at Clarissa. They both giggled. “We’re just a couple of old ladies trying to dance like we used to. But I’m glad you liked it. Let’s go downstairs.”

      We sat on the green chairs in the front room. Clarissa disappeared momentarily, then returned with several cold plastic bottles of spring water.

      “We need to stay hydrated,” Loralee said, opening a bottle and lifting it in a toast. “Help yourself.”

      “Nothing for me, thanks.”

      “We’re rehearsing for a dance troupe I underwrite. Since I’m paying, they’re kind enough to let us perform a number.”

      Another fishing expedition? “If you want my opinion, you’re both real pros.”

      Clarissa giggled. “Let’s keep him.”

      Loralee smiled. “Thank you. But you wouldn’t believe how entrancingly--well-trained, young dancers can move."

      “Well, I liked what I saw.”

      “Did you notice the sensual tension?”

      I nodded, weakly.

      “That’s what art looks for. To get us to face up to our inhibitions, to match them with our needs and desires. To take the base instinct of procreation and bring it into focus with the universal drive to unite the yin and the yang, and the recognition that we can only achieve that goal by recognizing the divine beauty we all possess.”

      “You two got it.”

      “Thanks again. But believe me, Marvin—if I didn’t pay, we wouldn’t play.”

      “I learned this morning that Aaron’s file is back in the Hall of Records.”

      “Oh.” She frowned, thought for a moment. “That’s good, right?”

      I shrugged. “I would guess it means that somebody wanted to tamper with Aaron’s record, and got it done. I’m meeting with the coroner who signed the death certificate this evening. He seems to have something to discuss that can’t be said in an official setting.”

      “So we’re getting somewhere?”

      “Let’s say I’m starting to share your hunch. But all we’ve got is still just a hunch. By the way, do you know someone named Boscombe? Len Boscombe?”

      “Perhaps. Clarissa, does that name sound familiar to you?”

      “Did he sell Vita Green for awhile? One of Bobby Waldsten’s people?”

      “Could be.”

      I asked, “Do you have that on file?”

      “Maybe somewhere,” Loralee said, warily. She waved her hand backward. “You know, in all that crap.”

      Clarissa snickered.

      Loralee shot a smirk Clarissa’s way. “All right, Sweetie, that’s enough.” To me she said, “Clarissa finds my organizational skills quite amusing.”

      I said, “Maybe you have A.D.D. too.”

      She shook her head. “Had it checked out. I’m just a scatterbrain. Cultural A.D.D., I could cop to.”

      “Well, how come I don’t have it, then?” Clarissa teased. “I live in the same culture.”

      “Because, Clarissa,” Loralee responded in the same teasing tone, mocking a grown-up talking to a smart aleck child. “You’ve somehow managed over the years to avoid the tensions of living in this culture.”

      “Yay for me!”

      Both laughed, and Clarissa slid off her chair and began tumbling around the floor.

      I said, “This Boscombe is tall, dark-haired, has a mustache. The brooding type.”

      Clarissa sprang to her feet. “Lurch!”

      Loralee’s mouth popped open, her eyes rolled back. “Of course! That was him.” She turned to me. “A very strange character. He didn’t last long.”

      “But his memory lingers.”

      “Bobby Waldsten was never too particular about who he recruited. But to sell our products, or anything, you have to like people at least a little bit. This guy couldn’t even pretend.”

      “Waldsten gets more interesting all the time.”

      “That he is,” Clarissa laughed, tumbling again.

      “Good luck,” said Loralee.

      I stood. “I should get going. If you come up with anything more on Aaron’s research into substance abuse, let me know.”

      “Okay. Clarissa, do you remember anything?”

      “I’ll give it some thought.”

      Loralee laughed. “You do that.”

      “I’ll keep you posted.” I stepped over Clarissa. I went outside, walking in the sunshine, wishing I hadn’t given away all my cigarettes.