Preminger said, “that’s what I want.” “That the grandkids come for a visit they don’t scream in the halls and run the elevator all day up and down so you can’t get it when you need it.” “Of course.” “That the bricks don’t come down on our heads when we walk by outside.” “Yes.” “That people park only in the space assigned them and the guy who plays accordion for our dances takes a ten-minute break, ten minutes, no more, every hour on the hour. That the newsprint for the paper comes wholesale from a friend’s cousin and a good chlorine level is maintained in the pool at all times.” “Sure,” Preminger said. “That we got a community here and an investment to protect,” President Salmi said, his eyes fixed narrowly on Preminger, “and that when someone sells he sells to the right sort—no Chinks, no PR’s, no spades.” When they left he put their mimeographed sheets aside, wanting neither to throw them away nor to find a place for them—like his father’s, the dead man’s mail, which continued to come.
