looking at Clarice.
“She won’t be any trouble.” Clarice’s eyes went all funny. “Please, Matt.”
I had always envied the way Sam Spade could stand up to the femme fatales who tried to play him. I had given that skill to my fictional detective, but no one had given it to me.
“All right,” I said, hoping I sounded less defeated than I felt. “Asta can stay with me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure of almost nothing. But, yes, Asta can stay with me.” I put my fingers against her lips and headed for her bedroom where I found no deck shoes with zigzag soles. I quickly looked in the bathroom, the kitchen, and the laundry room and found no zigzags there either. Fidge had likely already done this. He was a solid detective so I had to assume he had seen the shoe print on the deck and the partially open glass door in Garson’s bedroom.
Back in the living room, I asked, “When did Garson start with the cornflakes?”
“Tally went all crazy after that call. He started carrying his gun around in his waistband, sleeping with it on the night stand. He kept insisting I go get six boxes of cornflakes. We fought about that. We fought about everything, about nothing. Day before yesterday, I stopped at the post office to mail a few house bills and something Tally wanted mailed to his attorney. On the way back I bought the damn cornflakes. Guess what? We still fought.” She leaned closer and whispered. “He scared me real bad. I wish I hadn’t—”
I grabbed her shoulders. “Save it for your attorney, you have no legal privilege over what you tell me.” But she kept talking anyway.
“Damn it, I didn’t shoot him. I was trying to say I wish I hadn’t gotten mad at him so much those last few days.” She stood clutching the dog, breathing slowly. Her eyes shut. Then she put down Asta and said, “Go with Uncle Matt.”
The hair ball leaped into my arms.
“She’ll sleep on the foot of your bed. You’ll need to get her a new pillow. Her pink one has a … hole in it. Take a few of her toys. She’ll be fine.”
Fidge again filled the bedroom doorway, “Just the mutt.”
“But Asta needs her toys. She—”
“Lady. Just the mutt or we call the pound. None of this is up for negotiation.”
I put my fingers under Clarice’s chin, raising her head. “Get your mind off this damn dog. You’re in a real mess. Do what Sergeant Fidgery tells you but don’t talk about this to anyone until you get an attorney. A criminal attorney. A good one.”
Fidge came out of the bedroom wearing a grin wider than his flat nose. “I hope you and Asta will live happily ever after.” His eyes sort of twinkled, which is hard to imagine on the face genetics had passed down to Fidge.
“Now,” he said, “for the last time, Matthew, get lost.”
I lowered the dog to stop it from licking me on the mouth and walked out with Asta scrambling up my front, watching Clarice over my shoulder.
Chapter 2
Like yesterday, today started way too early. After a shower, three cups of coffee, a scan of the sports section, and four words in the crossword puzzle, I pulled my Chrysler 300 out of my building’s underground parking and pointed it toward town. The veil of salty wetness that had sneaked in while the city slept still coated everything that had spent the night outdoors. I turned on the windshield wipers, hit the defroster button, and headed for the city jail. Clarice had been temporarily held at the smaller Long Beach jail inside the police department. After her arraignment, she had been moved to the larger main jail on Pacific Avenue near Twentieth Street.
Last spring, my ex-wife and I started sharing dinners, movies, and what was now her bed a few nights a week. We still cared, but she couldn’t get past the anger and betrayal she felt over my having gunned down the thug outside the courthouse. After nearly a month of our running in place, I put a stop to the experiment. The ending of most relationships
“She won’t be any trouble.” Clarice’s eyes went all funny. “Please, Matt.”
I had always envied the way Sam Spade could stand up to the femme fatales who tried to play him. I had given that skill to my fictional detective, but no one had given it to me.
“All right,” I said, hoping I sounded less defeated than I felt. “Asta can stay with me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure of almost nothing. But, yes, Asta can stay with me.” I put my fingers against her lips and headed for her bedroom where I found no deck shoes with zigzag soles. I quickly looked in the bathroom, the kitchen, and the laundry room and found no zigzags there either. Fidge had likely already done this. He was a solid detective so I had to assume he had seen the shoe print on the deck and the partially open glass door in Garson’s bedroom.
Back in the living room, I asked, “When did Garson start with the cornflakes?”
“Tally went all crazy after that call. He started carrying his gun around in his waistband, sleeping with it on the night stand. He kept insisting I go get six boxes of cornflakes. We fought about that. We fought about everything, about nothing. Day before yesterday, I stopped at the post office to mail a few house bills and something Tally wanted mailed to his attorney. On the way back I bought the damn cornflakes. Guess what? We still fought.” She leaned closer and whispered. “He scared me real bad. I wish I hadn’t—”
I grabbed her shoulders. “Save it for your attorney, you have no legal privilege over what you tell me.” But she kept talking anyway.
“Damn it, I didn’t shoot him. I was trying to say I wish I hadn’t gotten mad at him so much those last few days.” She stood clutching the dog, breathing slowly. Her eyes shut. Then she put down Asta and said, “Go with Uncle Matt.”
The hair ball leaped into my arms.
“She’ll sleep on the foot of your bed. You’ll need to get her a new pillow. Her pink one has a … hole in it. Take a few of her toys. She’ll be fine.”
Fidge again filled the bedroom doorway, “Just the mutt.”
“But Asta needs her toys. She—”
“Lady. Just the mutt or we call the pound. None of this is up for negotiation.”
I put my fingers under Clarice’s chin, raising her head. “Get your mind off this damn dog. You’re in a real mess. Do what Sergeant Fidgery tells you but don’t talk about this to anyone until you get an attorney. A criminal attorney. A good one.”
Fidge came out of the bedroom wearing a grin wider than his flat nose. “I hope you and Asta will live happily ever after.” His eyes sort of twinkled, which is hard to imagine on the face genetics had passed down to Fidge.
“Now,” he said, “for the last time, Matthew, get lost.”
I lowered the dog to stop it from licking me on the mouth and walked out with Asta scrambling up my front, watching Clarice over my shoulder.
Chapter 2
Like yesterday, today started way too early. After a shower, three cups of coffee, a scan of the sports section, and four words in the crossword puzzle, I pulled my Chrysler 300 out of my building’s underground parking and pointed it toward town. The veil of salty wetness that had sneaked in while the city slept still coated everything that had spent the night outdoors. I turned on the windshield wipers, hit the defroster button, and headed for the city jail. Clarice had been temporarily held at the smaller Long Beach jail inside the police department. After her arraignment, she had been moved to the larger main jail on Pacific Avenue near Twentieth Street.
Last spring, my ex-wife and I started sharing dinners, movies, and what was now her bed a few nights a week. We still cared, but she couldn’t get past the anger and betrayal she felt over my having gunned down the thug outside the courthouse. After nearly a month of our running in place, I put a stop to the experiment. The ending of most relationships
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