I followed her through the side gate and into her backyard. Yellow “Do Not Cross” police tape encircled what little was left of the garage Kiddiot and I once called home. All four walls, though scorched, were still standing. The roof was caved in. What was left of the rafters jutted skyward at crazy angles like spars from some giant broken umbrella. Fortunately, the firefighters had kept the flames from spreading to Mrs. Schmulowitz’s house.

“A feier zol im trefen,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said. “He should burn up, whoever did this, the Nazi gonif.”

From the alley, I looked in through the shattered window of the garage door, through which a makeshift bomb had obviously been tossed. There was nothing I could see inside that the fire hadn’t blackened. The stench of burnt wet wood crawled into my head and for a moment I was transported back to a dank Central American jungle. In a monsoonal rain, we’d chased a high-level cocaine kingpin into a small village. He’d taken refuge in the village church and refused to come out. Echevarria pumped in an incendiary rifle grenade, hoping to get him to rethink his position. The church went up like a tiki torch and the kingpin came out firing. I shot him in the neck. He was the first man I ever killed close enough to see his face.

Mrs. Schmulowitz handed me the business card of a Detective Ostrow from the Rancho Bonita PD.

“He wanted you to call him as soon as you came home,” she said. “They think it was arson.”

“You haven’t asked me who I think did it,” I said.

Mrs. Schmulowitz shrugged. “If I thought it was any of my business, Bubeleh, I would’ve asked. What’s important is, nobody got hurt.”

I put my arm around her bony shoulder. I told her I was sorry for bringing trouble into her life. Not to worry, she said. Insurance would replace the garage. My personal possessions were another matter.

“Please tell me you didn’t have anything valuable in there.”

“It’s only stuff, Mrs. Schmulowitz.” I gave her a wink to let her know that stuff really didn’t matter.

If you’re a Buddhist, you believe greed and dependence on material possessions are the basis for most human suffering. The more simply you live, the more enlightened you become. I felt very enlightened at that moment. My home was gone along with all my clothes except those I was wearing. What few sentimental touchstones I’d kept over the years — a photo of my biological parents, my degree from the Air Force Academy, the first pilot wings I ever pinned on my uniform, my marriage certificate to Savannah— were all gone. All I had left was the Duck, a truck with 176,000 miles on it, and a cat that showed me about as much loyalty as a hooker at a Shriners’ convention. Mrs. Schmulowitz offered to let me stay rent-free in her house for as long as I wanted, but the thought of spending even one night on her mohair sofa gave me hives. I thanked her for her kindness and said I’d make other arrangements.

A news van from one of the local TV stations turned down the alley as we were talking and stopped in front of us. An on-air reporter less than half my age hopped out in a suit coat and tie, cargo shorts and running shoes. The top half of him looked like he was on Wall Street; the bottom half, like he was heading off to play beach volleyball. He spewed his words like a high-velocity assault weapon.

“What’s up folks Chip Pfeiffer Action News can you tell us what happened do you live here we’re doing a story for the five o’clock broadcast we heard it might be arson do you know why anybody would want to burn down this garage you mind if we get a few shots Heather do me a favor and start us off over there with a two-shot of me interviewing these people.”

Chip’s videographer, Heather, was already roaming the backyard like she owned the place. She had close-cropped brown hair and thighs like a short-track speed skater. The firefighters had somehow managed to avoid Mrs. Schmulowitz’s precious geraniums while dousing her burning garage; peering through her viewfinder, Heather seemed to trample every one of them. Mrs. Schmulowitz seemed not to notice or care, dazzled as she was by the sudden presence of the news media.

I was less than dazzled.

“You’re on private property,” I said.

“We’re just doing our job trying to report the news, sir,” Chip said.

“What you’re doing is invading this nice lady’s privacy. And I’m about to invade your rectum with my foot because a) I don’t care for your attitude and b) you presume that microphone gives you the right to do whatever you want. I’ve got news for you. This just in: it doesn’t.”

“It’s OK, Cordell,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, making goo-goo eyes at Chip. “These sweet young people can film all they want.”

“The first thing these sweet young people are going to do is apologize for nuking your flowers,” I said. “Then they’re going to courteously ask your permission to access your property.”

Heather looked at me indignantly. Chip tried to stare me down, then realized I wasn’t screwing around. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, sufficiently cowed, and said deferentially to Mrs. Schmulowitz, “We’re very sorry for messing up your flowers, ma’am. My station will be happy to replace them. Would it be possible for us to get a few shots of your garage from inside your yard? We’d also like to interview you on-camera — if that’s OK with you.”

“You want to put me on television?”

Mrs. Schmulowitz beamed like Mr. DeMille had just called for her close-up. She said she needed to go put on something more appropriate if she was going to appear on camera, and breathlessly hurried inside.

I waited in the hallway outside her bedroom while she changed out of her sports bra. She told me how she long ago dreamed of a career as a stage actress, but shelved her budding Broadway ambitions when she married and became a mother. Now, seven decades later, here she was again, standing at the precipice of fame.

“I’m sorry all your stuff got charbroiled,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, “but that cockamamie garage burning down could be the best thing that’s happened to me in years. It just goes to show you, Bubeleh, there’s a reason for everything.”

The number of rungs on the ladder of celebrity between the Great White Way and an appearance on Rancho Bonita’s local five o’clock news could be measured in light-years, but who was I to burst an old lady’s bubble? I asked her for a favor. The reporter, I said, would likely inquire as to why anyone would’ve wanted to burn down the garage. Did it have something to do with her tenant? What did he do for a living? Who did he know who might’ve done such a horrible thing? It was the reporter’s job to ask questions. The best thing to do, I suggested, was to be polite in response but vague, to tell Action News that she wasn’t really at liberty to discuss specifics, and to refer the reporter instead to the police.

Mrs. Schmulowitz emerged from her closet in shiny white boots and a sparkly red leotard with a matching sparkly skirt, like something a baton twirler might’ve worn during halftime at the Rose Bowl, circa 1950.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Bubeleh,” she said, admiring herself in a full-length mirror hanging from the back of her bedroom door, “but don’t you worry, your secret, whatever it is, is safe with me. Loose lips sink ships. You sure you don’t want to sleep on my sofa until you can find somewhere else?”

“That’s Plan B. I’ll let you know if Plan A doesn’t fly. But thanks, in any case, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”

A sad thought came to her. She turned slowly from the mirror to face me. “If you go, who will I watch football with on Monday nights? Who will I cook brisket for?”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy. You’ll still see me on Mondays. Giants, baby, all the way.”

Mrs. Schmulowitz patted me on the cheek, relieved, then turned back to the mirror.