I looked him over. Smallish; fish-belly pale; eyes a little out of focus. Close up, he was younger than I'd thought, too young to be drinking in the Creekside in the early afternoon.
'Tell you what, Junior,' I said. 'You tell me where Frank is, and I'll tell him my secret, and afterwards, if you're good, he'll tell you.'
'Sonuvabitch,' he growled. He hefted the pool cue, moved closer.
I slipped off the barstool toward him, took a quick step in, too close for him to swing the cue. I socked him in the stomach, fast but not all that hard; but his eyes had told me he'd drunk enough that I didn't need to hit him hard. He made a small noise, doubled over, was quietly sick.
'Hey!' came from his friend on the other side of the pool table. He headed for me.
'Mike!' said the bartender sharply. 'Hold it!'
The second pool player halted, his hands rolled into fists. He glanced from the bartender to me, back again.
'You're not going to break up my place,' the bartender said. 'You,' he turned to me, 'get the hell out.'
Standing, I realized that the beer was hitting me harder than it usually did. The room wasn't as still or solid as I liked rooms to be. Getting out didn't seem like a bad idea.
I dropped my card on the bar. 'Tell Frank I know about Ginny Sanderson, and the truck,' I said to them all. 'Tell him he'll have to deal with me. I'll be at Antonelli's tonight. Tell him that.'
And I left the Creekside, my clothes still carrying that stale, sour smell as I drove, slowly and carefully, back to my cabin, to sleep.
The hot water faded to warm, lukewarm, cold. After a few minutes of cold I gave it up. I dried, dressed, built a fire in the stove, put the kettle on. Four twenty-five. I sat at the piano, worked at slow, even scales until I heard a car crunch down the driveway. Four-forty. I closed the piano, opened the front door in time to see a Ford Escort roll to a stop next to my Acura.
I crossed to the car as Lydia got out. I hesitated, then kissed her cheek, caught the scent of freesia in her hair.
'Don't squeeze,' she said. 'Where's your bathroom?'
I pointed to the cabin door. 'Just inside, on the left. I'll bring your things.'
She scuttled up the porch steps, disappeared inside.
I reached into the car, brought out a zippered, snapped, strapped, and buckled carry-on of soft black leather. I followed her inside, dropped the bag on the couch. The bathroom door opened and she came out, combing her hair back from her face with her fingers.
'Didn't you stop?' I grinned.
'I wouldn't have made it by four-thirty if I'd stopped.'
'I always stop,' I told her. 'Twice.'
She made a rude noise.
'That's just what your mother always says to me.'
'I'm not surprised. What happened to your face?'
I’ll tell you all about it. Do you want some tea? It's only Lipton's, in a bag,' I apologized. 'It was all I could get.
'When in Rome,' she sighed. I took that as a yes.
Lydia shook off her leather jacket, unclipped her holster from her belt. The lamplight was gold on her smooth skin; it caught highlights in her hair, which was black and asymmetrical, like her clothes. While I made her tea, and coffee for myself, she wandered around the room, investigating my drawings, photographs, books. She stopped at the small silver-framed photo. She picked it up in both hands, looked at it silently, then looked over at me; but I was busy with cups, spoons, and teabags, and I let her look pass.
'It's just the way I thought it would be up here,' she finally said, coming over to the counter, collecting her tea.
'I didn't know you ever thought about it.'
'Don't play dumb.' She settled onto the couch, drew her legs up. The cushions molded themselves to her as if they'd been expecting her, as if they were already used to her being here.
'I'm not,' I said. 'Playing, anyway. I'll tell you the whole story.'
'That's only part of it.'
'Part of what?'
'What I'm mad about.'
'I thought the problem was I wouldn't tell you who the client was, why the paintings were here.'
'The other part is there's a client at all.'
'I don't get you.'
A log shifted on the fire. I could see sparks through the stove grate; then everything was still again.
'I thought you came up here,' Lydia said, 'to get away from work.'
'I always have, before this.'
