"Another what?"
"Call from this same party that keeps bugging me."
"Which party?"
His eyebrows went up in half-moons.
"The Spanish broad. Or Mexican. Or whatever she is."
I opened the memo and looked at it. It read, Dave, why don't you return my calls ? I'm still waiting at the same place. Have I done wrong in some way? It was signed "Amber."
"Amber?" I said.
"You got eight or nine of them in your mailbox," he said. "Her last name sounded Spanish."
"Who is she?"
"How should I know? You're the guy she's calling."
"All right, thanks, Wally," I said.
I took all my mail out of my box, then shuffled through the pink memo slips one at a time.
The ones from "Amber" were truly an enigma. A few examples:
I've done what you asked. Please call.
Dave, leave a message on my answering machine.
It's me again. Am I supposed to drop dead?
You 're starting to piss me off. If you don't want me to bother you again, say so. I'm getting tired of this shit.
I'm sorry, Dave. I was hurt when I said those things. But don't close doors on me.
I walked back to the dispatcher's cage.
"There's no telephone number on any of these," I said.
"She didn't leave one."
"Did you ask her for one?"
"No, I got the impression y'all were buddies or something. Hey, don't look at me like that. What is she, a snitch or something?"
"I don't have any idea."
"She sounds like she's ready to bump uglies, though."
"Why don't you give some thought to your language, Wally?"
"Sorry."
"If she calls again, get her telephone number. If she doesn't want to give it to you, tell her to stop calling here."
"Whatever you say."
I wadded up the memo slips, dropped them into a tobacco-streaked brass cuspidor, and walked into the sheriff's office.