“I?m sorry to bother you,” I said. “DeeDee gave me your number. I need to talk to the Stick. It?s very
important.”
“Who?”
“Mickey.”
“You could have waited just about two minutes more, you know,” she said, “just two little minutes.”
“This?ll take about thirty seconds.”
“Trash. The spell is broken.”
A moment later Stick?s whiskey tenor rasped its hello.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but there?s something I didn?t tell you back there.”
“Yeah?” His interest was lukewarm.
“I got a good look at the shooter in the car. It was Turk Nance.”
“Is that supposed to be a surprise?” he replied.
“Just thought you?d like to know,” I said.
“Breakfast,” he said. “I?ll meet you at the hotel at nine. We?ll grab some groceries and go hunting.”
“You sound out of breath. Have you been jogging?”
“Fuck off, Kilmer.”
Click.
DeeDee returned with the coffee. We sat on matching high-back deacon?s benches, facing each other
across a rock maple serving table.
“Okay,” I said. “Where were we?”
She stirred cream into her coffee and tasted it before she answered my question.
“I haven?t seen or heard from Tony since Saturday. It?s really uncommon for him to go more than a
day or two without a call.”
“Maybe he?s out of town,” I suggested.
“He said he?d be back Sunday night or early Monday.”
“That?s only a couple of days.”
“I have this dreadful feeling something?s wrong,” she said, then after a moment of thought, added,
“Maybe I should start from the beginning.”
“That would help.”
“Tony?s been in trouble before.”
“Oh?”
“Three years ago. He and this friend of his, who?s a shrimper, were caught smuggling marijuana.”
“How much?”
