Shock to the system

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The voice was a combination of Locust Valley lockjaw and Marge Schott, by way of the Albany Gardening Club and the Mary Lou Whitney Lounge at the airport Americana.

"I'm not gonna bullshit around," Phyllis Haig said, a little louder than was necessary even amid the lunch-hour din at Le Briquet. "Bullshitting around is not my style, you can ask anybody who knows me. I'm telling you, Don, I'm telling you straight out, no bullshit, that I am convinced Larry Bierly killed my son, Paul, for his money and then covered up the dastardly deed by trying to make it look like suicide. Do you get what I'm saying? Am I making myself clear? Larry Bierly is a murderer, and the police are not doing beans about it, and I want to pay you whatever your rate is-if it's in reason, of course-to put that little pissant Larry Bierly in the caboose where he belongs." She peered at me unsteadily across her uneaten arugula with Gorgonzola vinaigrette and corrected herself. "Calaboose."

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