The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
“Turkey on a roll, mustard, no mayo. One of those low-fat things like you
always ask for. I told them to put extra tofu and granola on top. Side of wheatberry
and grass juice.”
The man smiled and reached for a bottle of water on the desk. “Make fun
if you want to, Fat Person, but when we’re fifty years old, I’ll be visiting you in
the hospital on my way home from summer league.”
Joe dragged a chair over from an empty desk. “Don’t mind him,” he said,
motioning me to sit down. “He just hasn’t had his spirulina today.”
The sharp-dressed man grinned and raised a middle finger. “I’m Sal
Gomes,” he said, pronouncing the last name with one syllable. He walked
over to me and extended his hand. “Joey usually rides with me when he’s not
on time-out for playing Mike Tyson with some friend of the mayor’s. I’ve
been helping him with your dead Estonian.”
“Paul Tomm. I appreciate the help.”
“Nothing to it. Anything to get a hopped-up Jadid off my back.”
“Paulie here is a graduate of your favorite university,” said Joe, looking
over at me.
Gomes laughed shyly and waved him away.
“You don’t like Wickenden?” I asked.
“I got nothing against Wickenden people as long as they behave just like
anyone else.” He looked down at me. “Where’d you live when you were a student
here?”
“St. Clair Point. Gano Street.”
“Oh, see, now we might have problems. You throw a lot of parties?”
“Not a one.”
“Okay. You take out the trash?”
“Yeah, sure. Twice a week.”
“And did you use those strange metallic objects some students refer to as
trash cans, or did you simply eject said trash onto the street?”
“Cans.”
“Not bad again. Kid shows promise. Who’d you rent from?”
“Steve Terzidian.”
“Oh, I know Steve,” said Gomes, smiling wryly. “Yeah, I’ve run across
him a few times, buying up old people’s houses in the neighborhood, turning
199