* * * * *
I STEPPED OUT of the elevator and saw him sitting on the floor in the hall, next to my door. And I knew he was Mabel's visitor. I stuck my hand in my shoulder bag, searching for my pepper spray. Just in case. I rooted around in the bag for a minute or two, finding lipsticks and hair rollers and my stun gun, but no pepper spray.
'Either you're searching for your keys or your pepper spray,' the guy said, getting to his feet. 'So let me help you out, here.' He reached into his pocket, pulled out a canister of pepper spray, and tossed it to me. 'Be my guest,' he said. And then he pushed my door open.
'How'd you do that? My door was locked.'
'God-given talent,' he said. 'I thought it would save time if I searched your apartment before you got home.'
I shook the spray to make sure it was live.
'Hey, don't get all bent out of shape,' he said. 'I didn't wreck anything. Although, I have to tell you, I did have fun in your panty drawer.'
Instinct said he was playing with me. There was no doubt in my mind he'd gone through my apartment, but I doubted he lingered with my lingerie. Truth is, I didn't have a lot and what I had wasn't especially exotic. I felt violated all the same, and I would have sprayed him on the spot, but I didn't trust the spray in my hand. It was his, after all.
He rocked back on his heels. 'Well, aren't you going to ask me in? Don't you want to know my name? Don't you want to know why I'm here?'
'Talk to me.'
'Not here,' he said. 'I want to go in and sit down. I've had a long day.'
'Forget it. Talk to me here.'
'I don't think so. I want to go inside. It's more civilized. It would be like we were friends.'
'We're not friends. And if you don't talk to me right now, I'm going to gas you.'
He was about my height, five-foot-seven, and built like a fireplug. It was hard to tell his age. Maybe late thirties. His brown hair was receding. His eyebrows looked like they'd been fed steroids. He was wearing ratty running shoes, black Levi's, and a dark gray sweatshirt.
He gave a big sigh and hauled a .38 out from under the sweatshirt. 'Using the pepper spray wouldn't be a good idea,' he said, 'because then I'd have to shoot you.'
My stomach dropped an inch and my heart started banging in my chest. I thought about the pictures and how someone had gotten themselves killed and mutilated. Fred had gotten involved somehow. And now I was involved, too. And there was a reasonable chance that I was being held at gunpoint by a guy who was on a first-name basis with the photographed garbage bag.
'If you shoot me in the hall, my neighbors will be all over you,' I said.
'Fine. Then I'll shoot them, too.'
I didn't like the idea of him shooting someone, especially me, so we both went into my apartment.
'This is much better,' he said, heading for the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and getting a beer.
'Where'd that beer come from?'
'It came from me. Where do you think, the beer fairy? Lady, you need to go food shopping. It's unhealthy to live like this.'
'Who
He shoved the gun under his waistband and stuck his hand out. 'I'm Bunchy.'
'What kind of a name is Bunchy?'
'When I was a kid I had this underwear problem.'
Ugh. 'You have a real name?'
'Yeah, but you don't need to know it. Everybody calls me Bunchy.'
I was feeling better now that the gun wasn't pointed at me. Feeling good enough to be curious. 'So what's this business deal with Fred?'
'Well, the truth is, Fred owes me some money.'
'Uh-huh.'
'And I want it.'
'Good luck.'
He chugged half a bottle of beer. 'Now, see, that's not a good attitude.'
'How did Fred come to owe you money?'
'Fred likes to play the ponies once in a while.'
'Are you telling me you're Fred's bookie?'
'Yeah, that's what I'm telling you.'
'I don't believe you. Fred didn't gamble.'
