Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“All right, Mr. Cranky Pants.” The girl swings herself out of bed, awarding Cooper and me with a generous view of her heart-shaped backside as she struggles into a pair of panties that didn’t make it to the shrubs outside. Clutching a spangly-looking dress to her chest, she simpers as she wriggles past Cooper on her way to the bathroom, but gives me a narrow-eyed glare as she passes.

Well, same to you, sister.

“Who the hell are you?” Doug demands, leaning over and lifting the blind just enough to allow me to see that he’s built like a lightweight wrestler, small, but muscular and compact. In the odd New York College campus fashion of the day, his head is shaved on all sides, but rises in a spiky blond flattop at the crown. He appears to be wearing a St. Christopher medallion and little else.

“Hello, Doug,” I say, and I’m surprised when my voice comes out dripping with animosity. I hadn’t liked the way Doug had treated the girl, but I’d hoped I’d be able to hide it better. Oh, well. “I’m Heather Wells and this is Cooper Cartwright. We’re here to ask you a few questions.”

Doug is fumbling along his bedside table for a pack of cigarettes. His square, stubby fingers close around a pack of Marlboros.

That’s when Cooper takes two long strides forward, seizes the kid’s wrist, and squeezes very hard. The kid yelps and turns a pair of angry pale blue eyes up at the larger man.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he brays.

“Smoking stunts your growth,” Cooper says, reaching down and pocketing the cigarette pack. He doesn’t let go of Doug’s wrist, but subtly begins applying pressure to it, in response to the kid’s trying to pull it away. “And have you ever seen a photograph of a smoker’s lungs?”

“Who the fuck do you guys think you are?” demands Doug Winer.

I think about saying something smart like, Your worst nightmare, but I glance over at Cooper and realize that what we are, really, is an assistant hall director whose BMI is in the overweight range, and a Shetland-sweater-wearing private detective, neither of whom has ever belonged to a fraternity.

Still, Cooper could intimidate by his sheer size alone, and apparently chooses to do so, looming over the kid’s bed like a six-foot-three headboard.

“Who we think we are doesn’t much matter,” Cooper says, in his scariest voice. And that’s when I realize Cooper hadn’t liked the way Doug had treated the girl, either. “I happen to be a detective, and I have few questions I’d like to ask you concerning the nature of your relationship with Lindsay Combs.”

Doug Winer’s eyes widen perceptibly, and he says, in a high voice, “I don’t have to tell the cops shit. My dad’s lawyer said so!”

“Well,” Cooper says, lowering himself onto the pitching water mattress, “that’s not strictly true, Douglas. If you don’t tell the cops shit, they’ll have you arrested for obstruction of justice. And I don’t think either your dad or his lawyer is going to like that.”

I have to hand it to Cooper. He’s scared the living daylights out of the boy, and without even lying to him. He is a detective…and the cops could arrest Doug for obstruction of justice. It’s just that Cooper isn’t a police detective, and wouldn’t be able to do any arresting himself.

Seeing the kid’s truculent expression go suddenly soft with fear, Cooper lets go of his wrist and stands back, folding his arms across his chest and looming quite menacingly. He manages to look as if he feels like breaking Doug Winer’s arm—and might still do it, if provoked.

Doug massages his wrist where Cooper grasped it, and looks up at him resentfully. “You didn’t have to do that, man,” he says. “It’s my room, I can smoke if I want to.”

“Actually,” Cooper says, with the same amiableness that, I’m sure, always misleads his less savory clients into thinking he was secretly on their side, “this room belongs to the Tau Phi Epsilon Association, Douglas, not you. And I think the Tau Phi Epsilon Association might be interested to learn that one of their pledges is conducting a lucrative business in dealing controlled substances from their property.”

“What?” Doug’s jaw drops. In the gray light, I can see now that the kid’s chin is peppered with acne. “What are you talking about, man?”

Cooper chuckles. “Well, let’s leave that aside for a while, shall we? How old are you, Douglas? Tell the truth, now, son.”

To my surprise, the kid doesn’t say, I’m not your son, the way I would have, if I’d been him. Instead, he sticks out his pimpled chin and says, “Twenty.”

“Twenty,” Cooper echoes, looking pointedly about the room. “And are all these beer cans yours, Douglas?”

Doug isn’t quite as stupid as he looks. His face grows dark with suspicion as he lies sullenly, “No.”

“No?” Cooper looks mildly surprised. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I suppose your fraternity brothers, the ones who are over twenty-one, I mean, which is the legal drinking age in this state, drank all these beers and left them in your room as a little joke. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the New York College campus a dry one, Heather?” Cooper asks me, though he knows the answer very well.

“Why, yes, I believe it is, Cooper,” I reply, seeing his game and playing along. “And yet, in this young man’s room, there are many, many empty beer containers. You know what, Cooper?”

Cooper looks interested. “No, what, Heather?”

“I think that Tau Phi Epsilon is perhaps in violation of that dry campus ordinance. I think the Greek Association will be very interested to hear about your room, Mr. Winer.”

Doug props himself up on his elbows, his bare, hairless chest heaving suddenly. “Look, I didn’t kill her, all right? That’s all I’ll tell you. And you guys had better stop harassing me!”

11

The “no” in “annotation”

The “um” in “circumvent”

The “err” in “aberration”

The “con” in “malcontent.”

“Rejection Song”

Written by Heather Wells

Cooper and I exchange astonished glances. The astonishment, anyway, isn’t feigned.

“Did anyone here accuse you of killing anyone, Douglas?” Cooper spreads out his hands innocently.