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stolen?” I said. “And the guy got blown up out on Route Two trying to get it back?”
    “The guy you were bodyguarding?”
    “Yep.”
    “Nice,” Belson said. “Assume I don’t.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    I told my story.
    As I told it, Belson sat perfectly still and listened. Like Epstein, he didn’t take notes. He rarely did. But two years later, he’d be able to give you what I’d said verbatim. Cops.
    When I finished, he said, “Dog saved your ass.”
    I nodded.
    “She did.”
    “You figure it’s connected to the art theft and the murder?”
    “Don’t you?” I said.
    Belson shrugged.
    “You’ve annoyed a lot of people in the last twenty years,” he said.
    “Why limit it?” I said.
    “You’re right, you been good at it all your life.”
    “Everybody gotta be good at something,” I said.
    “But,” Belson said, “it don’t do us much good picking names of people might want you dead.”
    “Too many,” I said.
    “So,” Belson said, “assume it’s connected. Why now?”
    “Don’t know,” I said. “I been poking around at it since it happened. I must have poked something live.”
    “Where you been poking recently,” Belson said.
    “Walford University. Winifred Minor. Her daughter. Couple of her daughter’s classmates.”
    “Most recent?”
    “Missy and Winifred Minor,” I said.
    “Missy Minor,” Belson said.
    “Cute name,” I said.
    “Cute,” Belson said. “You know either of the stiffs?”
    “No,” I said.
    “We’ll see what we can find out,” Belson said.
    “Lemme know,” I said.
    “Might,” Belson said. “You turned your piece over to the crime scene people?”
    “Yep.”
    “You got another one?” Belson said. “People trying to kill you and all.”
    I reached into my desk drawer and took out a .38 Chief’s Special.
    “Loaded,” Belson said. “No trigger lock.”
    “Got a nice holster,” I said.
    “Okay,” Belson said. “In that case, I won’t run you in.”
    “Stern,” I said. “But compassionate.”
    “And if they succeed in killing you next try,” Belson said, “I’ll try to catch them.”
    “That’s encouraging,” I said.

25
    I was halving oranges and squeezing the juice into a glass in my kitchen when Susan appeared, fresh from the shower and the makeup mirror. I took a deep breath. Whenever I saw her I took a deep breath. It was more dignified than yelling “Jehoshaphat!”
    “Isn’t that a lot of trouble?” Susan said. “I like the stuff in a carton fine.”
    “That’s pasteurized,” I said. “I want the authentic experience. Unprocessed. Nothing between me and the orange, you know? Mano a orange-o! ”
    I gave her the glass and squeezed some for myself.
    “You are, as they say in psychotherapeutic circles, a weird dude,” Susan said.
    “And yet you love me,” I said.
    “I know.”
    “It’s all about the sex,” I said. “Isn’t it.”
    “Not all,” Susan said. “You cook a nice breakfast, too.”
    She had on tight black jeans tucked into high cavalier boots, the kind where the top folds over. Her open-collared shirt was white, and over it she wore a small black sweater vest. It set off her black hair and big, dark eyes. She probably knew that.
    “Good sex and a nice breakfast,” I said. “An unbeatable combination.”
    Susan smiled.
    “I don’t recall anyone using the word ‘good,’ ” she said.
    “Seems to me,” I said, “you were singing different lyrics an hour ago.”
    She actually flushed a little bit.
    “Don’t be coarse,” she said.
    “Not even in self-defense?” I said.
    She grinned at me.
    “Well, maybe,” she said. “We were quite lively. Weren’t we.”
    “With good reason,” I said.
    I finished my orange juice and poured us both some coffee. Susan wasn’t anywhere near finishing her orange juice. But she might never finish it. Over the years I’d learned to proceed and let her sort it out.
    Pearl was asleep on her back on the couch, with her head lolling off. She was waiting,