“Lonnie Dodd, but I think he's still in prison.”
“You ever get death threats? How about ex-husbands or ex-boyfriends? You run over anyone recently?”
I had no intention of dignifying that question with a reaction.
“Okay,” he said. “So you think this is associated with the Kulesza murder?”
“Yes.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you'll be careful.” He opened my refrigerator door, pulled out the leftovers my mom had sent home with me, and ate them cold. “You need to be careful when you talk to Dorsey. If he finds out you've been working with me, he could charge you with aiding and abetting.”
“I have this very disturbing suspicion that I've been talked into an alliance that's not in my best interest.”
He cracked a beer open. “The only way you're going to collect that $10,000 is if I allow you to bring me in. And I'm not going to allow you to bring me in if I can't prove myself innocent. Any time you want to call the deal off, just let me know, but you can kiss your money good-by.”
“That's a rotten attitude.”
He shook his head. “Realistic.”
“I could have gassed you any number of times.”
“I don't think so.”
I whipped the spray out, but before I could aim he'd knocked the canister from my hand and sent it flying across the room.
“Doesn't count,” I said. “You were expecting it.”
He finished his sandwich and slid his dish into the dishwasher. “I'm always expecting it.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“We keep do
ing more of the same. Obviously we're hitting a nerve.”
“I don't like being a target.”
“You aren't going to whine about this, are you?” He settled himself in front of the television and starting working the channel changer. He looked tired, sitting with his back against the wall, one leg bent at the knee. He locked in a late night show and closed his eyes. His breathing grew deep and even and his head slumped to his chest.
“I could gas you now,” I whispered.
He raised his head, but he didn't open his eyes. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “It's not your style, Cupcake.”
* * * * *
HE WAS STILL SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR in front of the television when I got up at eight. I tiptoed past him and went out to run. He was reading the paper and drinking coffee when I returned.
“Anything in there about the bombing” I asked.
“Story and pictures on page three. They're calling it an unexplained explosion. Nothing especially interesting.” He looked over the top of the paper at me. “Dorsey left another message on your machine. Maybe you should see what he wants.”
I took a fast shower, dressed in clean clothes, slathered some aloe cream on my blistered face, and followed my scaly nose to the coffeepot. I drank half a cup while I read the funnies, and then I called Dorsey.
“We've got the analysis back from the lab,” he said. “It was definitely a bomb. Professional job. Of course, you can get a book out of any library that will tell you how to do a professional bombing. You could build a fucking nuke if you wanted to. Anyway, I thought you'd want to know.”