The beach wind through the driver’s window was warm and I could smell car exhaust and seaweed. I was sweating under my clothes, sweating out the beer and last night’s nicotine. I wondered if Lester, in his drunkenness, had come inside me. I felt suddenly close to crying, and I didn’t know if that meant I loved him or not. I didn’t know. I needed badly to take a long shower.

As I drove into downtown Corona, slowly passing the one-or two-story shops, the glare of the sun off their windows making my eyes ache even with the sunglasses on, I thought about renting a motel room for the day just to recoup. But recoup for what? More waiting? More sliding over the dark edge? Instead I drove out to my Colma River residential, the divorced accountant’s house, and let myself in. I showered in the downstairs bathroom, wishing my suitcase was still in the car. Maybe I should have taken all my things from the fish camp, put them back in storage, and just let Les off the hook completely.

I towel-dried my hair and walked naked down the hall into the daughter’s room. Sunlight came through the sliding glass door to her small deck overlooking the river, and her bed was made. Propped against the pillows was a Cabbage Patch doll, a stuffed Garfield cat, and two teddy bears. I walked barefoot over the carpet, opened her top bureau drawer, and pulled out a pair of rolled yellow cotton panties. They were a little tight around my hips, but clean. I snapped on my bra, stepped into my loose khaki work shorts that still smelled like mosquito repellent and wood smoke, and used the blow dryer on her dresser to dry and feather my hair. Then I opened the rest of the drawers, pulled out an oversized turquoise T-shirt from Fisherman’s Wharf, and put it on, telling myself I would return it clean and folded. In the mirror my face looked pale, my eyes tired. There was a purple cosmetics bag on the dresser, and I poked around inside until I found some eyeliner and blush. The blush was too pink for me, so I thumbed away as much as I could, but it still showed. It was a color cheerleaders wore, so bright and instantly cheerful their faces could sometimes look almost fluorescent. It was okay if I looked cheerful, but I didn’t want to look cheap, not for the colonel’s wife. Somewhere between the fish camp and here I’d decided that’s who I had to talk to. If she really didn’t know the situation, then I would tell her. Just drive up there, wait for her husband to leave, and talk. No threats. No men shoving their weight around. Just two women talking out our problem.

I went back to the bathroom, folded the damp towel neatly over the rack near the sink, then opened the medicine cabinet and shook four Anacins out of their bottle, tipping my head back and swallowing them dry one at a time. Outside, a car drove up nearby, the engine shutting off, and I held my breath and didn’t move. The car door slammed, then I heard the door of the next house down open and shut and I let out my breath. I took one last look around the bathroom, put on my sunglasses, and left, thinking this is wrong; it’s so wrong to invade someone else’s home.

IT IS A DAY OF BRIGHT SUN, TOO WARM FOR THE FULL SUIT AND SILK tie I wear as I drive past the large shopping malls and automobile dealerships, the restaurants and clothing boutiques of Redwood City. Since I left the lawyer’s office in Corona, I have allowed myself the relief of air-conditioning, but I feel no other such relief. Over weak American coffee and for another one hundred and fifty dollars, the lawyer with the bow tie confirmed for me my suspicions of our visit from this Joe Gonzalez. He told to me it is highly unlikely any persons at the county tax office would send a police officer to threaten me. And when I informed him the man wore a gold star from the Sheriff’s Department of San Mateo County, but no name badge, which I know to be required in this country, a look of concern passed over the short lawyer’s face and he said to me that Corona was in the jurisdiction of that department. He telephoned them directly, but I was not surprised he discovered there was no such officer of that name. The lawyer passed to me the telephone, and a man who identified himself as a lieutenant asked if I would care to travel to Redwood City to discuss this further.

The Hall of Justice building is eight or nine floors tall, across the street from a courthouse whose roof is a very large dome of stained glass. It momentarily reminds me of a mosque in Qom, its mere sight bringing me a comfort and sense of confidence I have not otherwise been feeling. And it is a comfort being inside the building as well; the ceilings are high, the floor hard and polished, and I am directed by a court officer to the fifth floor where men in the same uniform as the so-called Mr. Gonzalez sit at desks, attending to computer keyboards or telephones. I am reminded of my old life again, my offices at Mehrabad, and I stand erect when I am greeted by the lieutenant with whom I spoke from the lawyer’s office. He is dark-skinned and quite trim, with the very short hair of an American marine or army officer. He announces he is with the Internal Affairs Bureau, and he leads me to his office, where he requires a physical description and I of course mention the man’s tall height and his mustache. The lieutenant asks of any particular pins or badges on the officer’s blouse, and I inform him of the gold star, the badge of two pistol barrels crossed together, and when I tell to him of the gold letters FTO, he regards me quite carefully, then excuses himself from the room only to return very soon with a single sheet of black-and-white photographs of officers’ faces.

“There are only eight field training officers in the whole department,” the lieutenant says, though he does not smile at our good fortune. I immediately point to Mr. Gonzalez’s face, which is in the second row of photos, and I take note of his name: Burdon, Lester V.

“Are you completely confident this is the officer, sir?”

“Yes. That is him. That is the man who threatened me.”

The lieutenant writes something upon a pad of paper. He then asks me additional questions as to why this man, a stranger to me, would want me to leave the property, and so I explain our situation, saying as well that I do not know the reason this man is involved. Perhaps he is a friend of the previous owner? The lieutenant hands me an official complaint form, and I take nearly three-quarters of the hour to record in my neatest writing and my best English grammar what happened the evening before. The lieutenant thanks me, and as he escorts me to the elevator, he assures to me he will pursue the matter and please do not hesitate to call us should there be any more disturbance.

I drive northward upon the Bayshore Freeway. I make loose the tie at my neck and I am thinking and feeling many things. Among those law enforcement officers in that very orderly building, I felt in the manner one does when meeting a distant cousin and seeing one’s own brother or sister in the face of that cousin; even if you have never before met this relative, there is the urge to embrace him simply because you share a measure of the same blood. That is how I instantly felt among all those uniformed men. And I begin to question my desire to find work only with aerospace companies. Perhaps, after selling the bungalow and while searching for the prudent investment opportunity, I might attempt finding a position with a local police department. Chera na? Why not? I am a naturalized citizen. And I would be quite content taking only an office position, answering the telephone, or perhaps watching over prisoners, taking their fingerprints or some such detail. I would be able to work amongst men of duty and discipline.

But meanwhile, I have of course several pressing concerns. In all my military years I witnessed many times what could happen to a soldier who reported the infraction of another soldier to an officer. He is no longer to be trusted; he is shunned and usually beaten by many. One man, a young air soldier named Mehran, was drowned in a toilet at Mehrabad, his killer never proven. And I have no illusions of how this man Burdon may take my reporting of him. As I drive the Buick Regal past the San Carlos airport, the sun bright upon the runways beyond the tall hurricane fence of the freeway, I consider simply selling the bungalow back to the county for what I paid, perhaps even taking a loss for the widow’s walk. We would have nearly as much as we started with and all these troubles would be behind us. But then what must I do? Work upon the highway or at another convenience store or even in a police department while I watch the remains of our savings disappear? No, this I can no longer do. It is evident now that I have discovered a real estate opportunity that can only come about as the result of a bureaucratic mistake. It is unlikely, given the marketplace, that I will triple my money as surely as I can with this bungalow on Bisgrove Street. No, we must stay and sell. Sometimes in this life, only one or two real opportunities are put before us, and we must seize them, no matter the risk.