Page 45 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
“I’m fairly certain Michael Jackson was allowed to make an appointment when he turned himself in. And I’m fairly certain you’re not here about child?—”
“You’re not Michael Jackson.”
“Well, no, I’m not. I like older men.”
“I’m on the verge of cuffing you.”
“Okay. Come inside. I can change out of my pajamas, can’t I?”
He signed heavily and stepped into the house. I started toward the stairs but stopped when he asked, “Do you have guns in the house?”
“I don’t think so. You’ve got two of my grandmother’s weapons. You’ll have to ask her if she’s got any more. She’s in the kitchen.” Then, before I went up the stairs, I asked, “Is there going to be a mug shot? Because if there is, I’d like to wash my hair, maybe shave.”
“You have five minutes.”
I rolled my eyes at him and went up the stairs, wondering what I should wear to be arrested. As I stood in front of my closet, I imagined Martha Stewart giving me advice: ‘Comfort is the order of the day whenever one is arrested. Loose-fitting jeans or even sweats are appropriate. A bulky sweater over a simple tee is wise, as holding facilities can vary widely in temperature. No jewelry, of course. The guards will only take it away from you and are likely to share amongst themselves. And definitely nothing constraining around the wrists. Handcuffs are constricting enough.’
I should probably take this more seriously, I thought, as I pulled on a pair of purple sweats. But it was hard to take being arrested seriously when, on the one hand I hadn’t done anything, and on the other if I hadn’t refused to be questioned he wouldn’t have arrested me at all.
I finished dressing: a black-and-pink plaid flannel shirt and my trusty lime-green sweater. When I got downstairs to the kitchen, Detective Lehmann was chatting pleasantly with my grandmother.
“How long have you been up here?” she asked him.
“Three years.”
“Your people in Grand Rapids must miss you.”
“I get down to see them often enough.”
I picked an apple-sauce-covered Emerald out of the high chair and plunked the car seat onto the table so I could put her in there.
“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Nana Cale said. The baby was already getting cranky.
“Yes, I do. Call around and get one of the girls to come over. I’m being arrested and I have no idea how long I’ll be.”
“Arrested? You said you’d stopped doing drugs.”
“I’m being arrested for interfering with their investigation.”
To Lehmann she said, “He never could mind his own business.”
That wasn’t exactly true. I was minding my own business quite well in Los Angeles. It was only when I got—hey wait a minute. No one in Northern Lower Michigan minded their own business. She really was being unfair.
“Call Hamlet for me.”
“What’s his number?”
“Call information in Grand Rapids. Hamlet Gilbody Investigations.”
“They charge for information.”
“Nana, I’m being arrested. Spend the quarter.”
“You’re two seconds away from being cuffed.”
I grabbed my puffer jacket, my piano scarf and my floppy eared hat, and said, “I’m ready, okay?”
We went out the backdoor and walked through the paths I’d shoveled, sloppy but functional, over to a black Ford Explorer with SHERIFF in big gold letters on the side. Detective Lehmann opened the back door and I climbed in. A glowering deputy sat in the driver’s seat. When Lehmann got into the passenger’s seat and shut the door, I said, “They don’t let you drive?”
