I told Paul. Instead of his usual routine of pacing and stroking his goatee, Paul had his hand up with the palm extended and was holding it near the ceiling fan in my new movie room. I had given up on the whole investigating thing for the rest of the day and was stripping the last of the paint off the paneling, so I wasn’t paying much attention to what new energy games he was playing. “That doesn’t make sense,” he answered after a moment. “There was no reason for him to be that upset. Unless . . .” Neither one of us wanted to finish the sentence. Indeed, Mom had been thrown enough by our lack of success at Ferry’s apartment that she’d just picked up Dad and left for home, saying she’d call the next day. Paul seemed to be thinking something over as I got the remainder of the white paint off the last plank in the paneling and sat back, the bandana around my neck and the sweatband around my forehead more conceptual than helpful now.
