“Dino, just once more, what are you doing here?”
Dino shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, and sank into an armchair. “What the fuck are they doing?” he asked, pointing at the TV.
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“They’re playing cricket,” Stone replied. “It’s been going on for at least six hours.”
“What are the rules?”
“Nobody knows. What are you doing here?”
“Well, you’re in trouble; somebody had to come over here and pull your ass out of the shit.”
“I’m not in trouble.”
“Oh? I hear you’re looking good for a double murder.”
“Oh, that; Throckmorton called you.”
“Yep.” He was still gazing, rapt, at the TV. “What kind of pitching is that?” he asked.
“They call it bowling.”
“That’s not what they call bowling in my neighborhood,” Dino said.
“What did Throckmorton tell you?”
“Just that they found a couple of stiffs in a car trunk, and one of them was wearing your raincoat.”
“That was an accident,” Stone said.
“An accident? With two pops each in the head?”
“I mean the raincoat.”
“An accidental raincoat? Hey, look at that; they don’t run to first, they run to the pitcher’s mound and back again. This is completely nuts!”
“I grabbed somebody’s raincoat, and he apparently grabbed mine. Or rather, whoever shot him grabbed it and put it on him.”
“Didn’t want him to get rained on, I guess,” Dino said. “Do you really expect anybody to believe a story like that?”
“Throckmorton doesn’t believe it?”
“Of course not; who would?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly tell him everything.”
“I figured. You want to tell me?”
The waiter arrived with the drinks, and they sat down.
Dino raised his glass. “To your eventual freedom,” he said, and took a long pull on his Scotch.
“I’m not under arrest,” Stone said.
“No? Stick around. Now, you want to tell me what the fuck happened?”
“All right, but Throckmorton never hears this, okay?”