Hell To Pay

next room over, could not hear them making love.

He shot off and kept himself in motion. She was almost soundless when she came, just a short gasp. Strange liked that, too.

Later, he stood in his briefs by the bedroom window, looking through the blinds down to the street. Greco had nosed his way through the door and was sleeping on a throw rug, his muzzle resting between his paws.

“Come to bed, Derek.”

He turned around and admired Janine, her form all woman beneath the blanket on the bed.

“I’m just wondering what’s goin’ on out there. All those kids, still walking around.”

“You’re done working for today. Come to bed.”

He slid under the sheets and rested his thigh against hers.

“You better go to sleep,” said Janine. “You know how you get cranky when you don’t get enough.”

“Oh, I got enough.”

“Stop it.”

“Look, it’s just, at the end of the day, all these things go racing through my mind.”

“Like?”

“Thinkin’ on you, you want the truth. How I don’t tell you enough what a good job you do. And what you mean to me.”

Janine ran her fingers through the short wiry hairs on Strange’s chest. “Thank you, Derek.”

“I mean it.”

“Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Usually, when you start going that way with me, it means you need to unload something off your mind. So what is it?”

“Ain’t nothin’ like that,” said Strange.

“Is it Terry?”

“Well, he’s still a little rough around the edges. But he’s all right.”

“Is it the job you’re doing for George Hastings?”

“Uh-uh. I’m nearly done with that.”

“I’m almost done on my end with it, too,” said Janine. “Got one more thing to check up on. You didn’t find anything, did you?”

“No,” said Strange, and reached over to the nightstand and turned off the lamp.

He wasn’t sure why he had lied to her. So Calhoun Tucker was a player, so what? But something about snitching on a guy about that to a woman didn’t sit right with most men. It was a kind of betrayal, in an odd way. One betrayal too many in the day for Strange.

QUINN was disoriented from sleep when the phone rang by his bed. He reached over and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“You called?” The voice was smooth and baritone. There was music playing in the background against the sound of a car’s engine.

“Who is this?”

“Who’s this? You called me. But you, uh, declined to leave your name.”

Quinn got up on one elbow. “I’m looking for a girl.”

“You done called the right number then, slick. How’d you get it, by the way?”

“I’m looking for one girl in particular,” said Quinn. “Girl named Jennifer, I think.”

“You think?”

“It’s Jennifer.”

“Asked you how you got my number.”

“Why is that important?”

“Let’s just say I like to know if my marketing dollars are well spent. You know, like, do I re-up with the Yellow Pages or do I go back heavy on those full-page ads in the Washington Post?”

The man on the other end of the line laughed then. It was a cut-you-in-the-alley kind of laugh, and the sound of it made Quinn’s blood tick. His hand tightened on the receiver. He looked down at some CDs stacked carelessly on the floor. An old Steve Earle was atop the stack.

“A friend of mine, guy named Steve, recommended I call you. Said you could hook me up.”

“Oh, I can hook you up, all right. Your name is?”

“Earle.”