“I’m hungry, and I want beer,” Diesel said. “Where do I go?”
“Pino’s will be open. It’s just off Broad.”
Ten minutes later, we parked on the street several houses down from Pino’s. It was a dark, starless, moonless night that had turned too cold for my sweatshirt. I power-?walked the distance from the car to Pino’s entrance and pushed into the heat and noise of the crowded bar. The place was filled with cops and nurses gone off shift, and my phone rang minutes after Diesel and I took a table and ordered food.
“What’s up?” Morelli asked. “I just got four calls telling me you’re out with a guy who looks like he could kick my ass.”
“It’s Diesel.”
Silence on Morelli’s end. I figured he was counting his fingers and toes, trying to get a grip.
“Diesel,” he finally said. “My life isn’t bad enough, now I have to worry about Diesel.”
“You don’t have to worry.”
“Where’s he sleeping?”
“Wherever he wants. Can we change the subject? How’s Anthony’s ass?”
“He’s in your bed, right? Maybe I should just shoot him and be done with it,” Morelli said.
“I think he might be hard to kill. Anyway, you’re supposed to trust me.”
“Hah!” Diesel said. And he chugged half a bottle of beer.
“I trust you,” Morelli said. “I just don’t trust him.”
“He’ll be gone soon. Hang in there.”
More silence. This wasn’t a good time for Morelli.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” I said. “He’s gay, but he’s only halfway out of the closet.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I’m not his type.”
“He doesn’t look gay,” Morelli said.
“How can someone look gay?”
“They’re usually neat.”
“Well, he’s a gay slob, what can I say? And on top of that, he can’t get it up. Some sort of war injury. Blew his nuts off.”
Diesel had eyebrows raised.
“I have to go,” Morelli said. “Anthony is moaning for pie. I have a Mrs. Smith’s in the oven.”
“You’re a good brother.”
“I’m an idiot.”
And he disconnected.
“That sucks,” Diesel said. “I could have managed gay, but I really hate not having nuts.”
“It’s a temporary thing. Next week, you’ll be in Spain or Malaysia, and you’ll have your nuts back.”