“Call me if you have a problem,” I said.
Burlew did some vigorous head nodding. “Yes, ma'am.”
“Before we go I need to buy some pork chops,” Lula said. “I have a taste for pork chops.”
Diesel was on the couch watching television when Bob and I got home. There was a six-pack of beer and a pizza box on the coffee table in front of him. Some of the beer and pizza were missing.
“I brought dinner,” Diesel said. “How'd it go today?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I'm living here.”
“No, you're not.”
“Sure I am. I have my shoes off and everything.”
“Okay but I'm not sleeping with you.”
“No problemo. You're not my type anyway” Diesel said.
“What's your type?”
“Easy”
I rolled my eyes.
“I'm a jerk,” Diesel said, “but I'm lovable.”
This was true.
I dragged Bob off to the kitchen, gave him fresh water, and filled his dog bowl with dog crunchies. I returned to the living room, helped myself to a piece of pizza, and joined Diesel on the couch.
“Eat up,” Diesel said. “We need to work tonight. I've got a line on Beaner.”
“No way. I'm the relationship person. I'm not the find-the-crazy- Unmentionable-nutcase person.”
“I need cover. You're all I've got,” Diesel said.
“What makes Beaner special? Can he whip up a tornado? Can he levitate a Hummer? Can he catch a bullet in his teeth?”
“No, he can't do any of those things.”
“Well, what can he do?”
“I'm not telling you. Just try not to get too close to him.”
Bob padded in from the kitchen and stood looking at the leftover pizza. I gave him a piece; he ate it in three gulps and put his head on Diesel's leg, leaving a smear of tomato sauce. Diesel scratched Bob behind the ear, the tomato sauce not worthy of registering on Diesel's slob-o-meter.
It was eight o'clock when I parked my yellow Ford Escape in the small lot attached to Ernie's Bar and Grill. I'd been to Ernie's before, and I knew it was more bar than grill. The grill was mostly wasabi peas and pretzels. The bar was mostly middle-aged white guys who drank too much. It was just one block from the government complex, so it was a convenient watering hole for enslaved bureaucrats who were putting in their hours, waiting for death or retirement, whichever came first. At eightj o'clock the bar had emptied out the merely desperate and was left to console the truly hopeless.
“Beaner's been here for two nights running,” Diesel said. “He's in there now. I can sense it. Problem is, I can't approach him in a public place. I know he's holed up somewhere nearby, but I can't get a fix on it. I want you to try to get him to talk to you. See if you can find out where he lives. Just don't let him touch you. And don't get too close.”
“How close is too close?”
“If you can feel his breath on your neck, it's too close. He's five feet, eight inches tall, weighs 180 pounds, and looks late forties. He has brown hair, cut short, blue eyes, and he's got a raspberry birthmark on his forehead that extends into his left eyebrow.”
“Why don't you follow him when he leaves the bar?”