Spanish Disco

“What about Gussbaum?”

“Okay. Except for Holloway and Gussbaum—”

“And Daisy Jones…”

“Look, trust me, he’s nice enough. I can get along with Roland Riggs.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“You want to hear something else weird?”

“Of course.”

“His housekeeper is from Mexico. She cooks all this food. I mean for lunch she cooked enough enchiladas to feed Mazatlan. And spicy. Burn your mouth out, eyes water, nose-running spicy. I was afraid my nose was going to drip right in my food, for God’s sake.”

“A little less detail, please.”

“But get this. Roland Riggs hates hot food. He carries Tums with him around the house. Isn’t that weird? Why not tell her to cook something else?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. Remember how your dad used to hate those German dishes what’s-her-name cooked?”

“Mrs. Honish?”

“Yeah. He hated all that shit.”

“Me, too.”

“But she was a good housekeeper except for the food.”

“Yeah. Maybe. She’s beautiful by the way. The housekeeper. She is take-your-breath-away beautiful. Anyway, let me get going. I have to check my e-mail. Anything earth-shattering on your end?”

“Nothing. It’s Saturday. I didn’t even go in to the office.”

“Okay. Well, I’m just going to take in my view here. Make some coffee.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“Or later if I have something to tell you.”

“Later, kid.”

“Later.”

I hung up and unzipped my huge carry-on bag, pulling out my coffeemaker. I plugged it in and set it on my desk and went about preparing a pot. My chest burned. I unwrapped a Tums and chewed on it. Next I plugged in my laptop and dialed up my e-mail.