Hot Six

'Well, yeah, sure,' Mitchell said. 'It's a threat.'

Habib was behind the wheel, wearing a large foam whiplash collar. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

'We're professionals,' Mitchell said. 'You don't want to be fooled by our pleasant demeanor.'

'Just so,' Habib said.

'Are you going to follow me around today?' I asked.

'That's the plan,' Mitchell said. 'I hope you're gonna do something interesting. I don't feel like spending the day at the mall lookin' at ladies' shoes. Like we said, our boss is getting antsy.'

'Why does your boss want Ranger?'

'Ranger has something that belongs to him, and he'd like to discuss the matter. You could tell him that.'

I suspected that discussing the matter might involve a fatal accident. 'I'll pass it along if I happen to hear from him.'

'You tell him he just gives back what he's got and everyone's gonna be happy. Bygones will be bygones. No hard feelings.'

'Uh-huh. Well, I've got to be running along now. I'll see you guys later.'

'When you come back to the parking lot I would appreciate your bringing me an aspirin,' Habib said. 'I am suffering with this neck whiplashing.'

'I don't know about you,' I said to Bob when we got in the elevator, 'but I'm sort of freaked out.'

Grandma was reading the comics to Rex when I came in. Bob sidled up to join in the fun, and I took the phone into the living room to call Brian Simon.

Simon answered on the third ring. ' 'Lo.'

'That was a short trip,' I said.

'Who's this?'

'It's Stephanie.'

'How'd you get my number? I have an unlisted number.'

'It's printed on your dog's collar.'

'Oh.'

'So I imagine now that you're home, you're going to be around to get Bob.'

'I'm kind of busy today-'

'No problem. I'll drop him off. Where do you live?'

A moment of silence. 'Okay, here's the thing,' Simon said. 'I don't actually want Bob back.'

'He's your dog!'

'Not anymore. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. You have the food. You have the pooper-scooper. You have the dog. Listen, he's a nice dog, but I don't have time for him. And he makes my nose run. I think I'm allergic.'

'I think you're a jerk.'

Simon sighed. 'You're not the first woman to tell me that.'

'I can't keep him here. He howls when I leave.'

'Don't I know it. And if you leave him alone he eats the furniture.'

'What? What do you mean, he eats the furniture?'

'Forget I said that. I didn't mean to say that. He doesn't actually eat the furniture. I mean, chewing isn't really eating. And not that he even chews. Oh, shit,' Simon said. 'Good luck.' And he hung up. I redialed, but he wouldn't answer.

I returned the phone to the kitchen and gave Bob his breakfast bowl of dog crunchies. I poured a cup of coffee and ate a chunk of pie. There was one piece of pie left so I gave it to Bob. 'You don't eat furniture, do you?' I asked.

Grandma was hunkered down in front of the television, watching the Weather Channel. 'Don't worry about supper tonight,' she said. 'We can have leftover balls.'

I gave her a thumbs-up, but she was concentrating on the weather in Cleveland and didn't see me.

'Well, I guess I'll go out now,' I said.

Grandma nodded.

Grandma looked all rested. And I felt all done in. I wasn't getting enough sleep. The late-night visits and the snoring were taking a toll on me. I dragged myself out of the apartment and down the hall. My eyes drooped closed while I waited for the elevator.

'I'm exhausted,' I said to Bob. 'I need more sleep.'

I drove to my parents' house and Bob and I trooped in. My mother was in the kitchen, humming as she put together an apple pie.

'This must be Bob,' she said. 'Your grandmother told me you had a dog.'

Bob ran over to my mother.

'No!' I yelled. 'Don't you dare!'

Bob stopped two feet from my mother and looked back at me.

'You know what I'm talking about,' I said to Bob.

'What a well-mannered dog,' my mother said.

I stole a chunk of apple from the pie. 'Did Grandma also tell you she snores, and she's up at the crack of dawn, and she watches the Weather Channel for hours on end?' I poured myself a cup of coffee. 'Help,' I said to the coffee.

'She's probably taking a couple nips before bed,' my mother said. 'She always snores after she's belted back a few.'

'That can't be it. I don't have any liquor in the house.'

'Look in the closet. That's where she usually keeps it. I clean bottles out of her closet all the time.'

'You mean she buys it herself and hides it in the closet?'

'It's not hidden in the closet. That's just where she keeps it.'

'Are you telling me Grandma's an alcoholic?'

'No, of course not. She just tipples a little. She says it helps get her to sleep.'

Maybe that was my problem. Maybe I should be tippling. Trouble is, I throw up when I tipple too much. And once I start tippling it's hard to tell when it's too much until it's too late. One tipple always seems to lead to another.

The kitchen heat washed over me and soaked into the flannel shirt, and I felt like the pie, sitting in the oven, steaming. I struggled out of the flannel shirt, put my head down on the table, and fell asleep. I had a dream that it was summer, and I was baking on the beach in Point Pleasant. Hot sand under me, and hot sun above me. And my skin all brown and crispy like pie crust. When I woke up the pie was out of the oven, and the house smelled like heaven. And my mother had ironed my shirt.

'Do you ever eat the dessert first?' I asked my mother.

She looked at me dumbfounded. As if I'd asked whether she ritually sacrificed cats every Wednesday at the stroke of midnight.

'Suppose you were home alone,' I said, 'and there was a strawberry shortcake in the refrigerator and a meatloaf in the oven. Which would you eat first?'

My mother thought about it for a minute, her eyes wide. 'I can't remember ever eating dinner alone. I can't even imagine it.'

I buttoned myself into the shirt and slipped into my denim jacket. 'I have to go. I have work to do.'

'You could come to dinner tomorrow night,' my mother said. 'You could bring your grandmother and Joseph. I'm making a pork roast and mashed potatoes.'

'Okay, but I don't know about Joe.'

I got to the front door and saw that the carpet car was parked behind the Buick.

'Now what?' my mother asked. 'Who are those men in that weird car?'

'Habib and Mitchell.'

'Why are they parked here?'

'They're following me, but don't worry about it. They're okay.'

'What do you mean, 'Don't worry about it'? What kind of thing is that to say to a mother. Of course, I'll worry about it. They look like thugs.' My mother pushed past me, walked up to the car, and rapped on the window.