The last offer is a gamble. If the former Mrs. Strauss is proud, she’ll slam the door in my face. As it is, the money talk seems to melt whatever resolve she has. She gestures for me to come inside. The house reeks of overpowering deodorizer and kitty litter. Beer cans cover what passes for a coffee table.
Moved by some vestigial sense of decorum, she grabs a handful of cans, spiriting them away. On the TV, the volume down, improbably happy contestants jump ecstatically as a peroxide blonde in a tight dress flashes numbers on a screen.
Tammy returns, apparently satisfied with her efforts at tidying up. Scanning the room, I notice a faded photo: a younger and less sour Tammy with two boys who could not have been more than ten or twelve at the time.
“Your boys?” I ask, as she sits across
