On the Other Hand, Death

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"Mandelstam" or "Handelschism," which made no sense.

"Hang on a minute," I yelled into the mouthpiece. "I can't make out what you're saying."

"I'll hold, of course, Mr. Strachey."

I set the sweat-slick receiver on my desk, reached around, and whacked the top of the clanking and gurgling air conditioner with a slat from the wooden swivel chair that had collapsed back in January. The only effect was a slight shift by the machine in its rotten moorings. The 200 pound Airtemp now threatened to plummet out the window onto Central Avenue two stories below, crushing the shins of the winos who lounged in my entryway. I reached down and yanked out the plug. A distant thunk was followed by a diminishing whine, a sputtering sound, and then hot wet silence.

"Sorry," I said into the phone again, "but I couldn't hear you over the racket my pilot was making up on the helipad. You were saying …"

"What I've got for you," Crane Trefusis went on, holding no interest in self-deprecating humor,

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