The dead neighbor was a guy I talked to from time to time. He’d recently bought the condo next to mine, moved in with a herd of people, so many I couldn’t figure out who went with whom. There were seven adults in the house—three men, four women—all between twenty-five and forty-five. One time Ng said they were relatives; another time he said they were coworkers in his nail salons. He said he had salons in Kemah, Seabrook, Texas City, Beaumont, Sugar Land, and Waikiki.
Waikiki? I said.
Kid you not, he said. From the novel There Must Be Some Mistake by Frederick Barthelme, published fall 2014 by Little, Brown & Co. (via fbarthelme)