Page 42 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Road Kill

from slightly out-of-date cassette tapes and raucous laughter mixed
with the clinking of bottles and glasses.
About a dozen people, mostly male, milled about the sparsely-
furnished rooms of the house. I could see outlines on the walls where
paintings (oblongs) and local sculpture (odd ovals and arcs) had
hung. The interior would have to be painted before the next
occupant moved in, and my mind wandered to the logistics and cost
of renovating this type of housing every two or three years. Our
government owns the chairs, tables, sofas and lamps, as well as the
generators, stoves, refrigerators and air conditioners, in every
dwelling it rents for its employees overseas; everything else comes
and goes in a half-ton shipment. Durer had evidently already packed
up everything personal. I didn’t know if he had another post or was
heading back for the States. He greeted me at the door and quickly let
me know.
“Well, look who’s here!” he brayed. “Old man Tate! Come down
to see how the rest of us have a good time, eh? God, I can’t wait to
get home and see an unfamiliar face! Have a Jolibrew, Tate old
buddy. Next week I’ll be drinking Budweiser.”
Durer, a pudgy ill-kempt man with sandy hair and a blond
mustache, lurched past me into the kitchen. The place fairly reeked of
the local beer. Other smells assailed me as I got my bearings and
scanned the crowd for my mysterious contact.
“Hello, Dick. Have a chip? I’ve got plenty, from my own personal
stock.” It was Harry Hofbrauer, Peace Corps director, breathing a
potent mix of beer, garlic and onions into my face. He was not a tall
man, but seemed to take up a lot of space: bristling red beard, arms in
motion, swaying on his feet. I recalled his addiction to a certain brand
of American potato chips, an addiction so great he always brought a
bag or two with him to parties. Few shared his taste for that brand of
beer snack, however, so he usually wound up eating them all himself.
I suspected his supply was going stale, but it was irreplaceable in
Jolibana.
“No thanks, Harry. Listen, I’m here on business. One of your
people, Sally Furth, has been in a traffic accident. We just got a report
that she was killed.”
His animation ceased, arms mid-wave, jaws mid-crunch. “Sally?
No, that can’t be right.” He shook his head, scattering crumbs from

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