'Hey, I didn't ask.'
'That came out wrong.' Latham touched my cheek. 'Look, Jack, I really want to be with you. This whole I- sleep- over- at- your- place, you- sleep- over- at- my- place thing, we're too old for that, you know what I mean?'
'I know, Latham. I wish there was some way.'
'Is there? Some way, I mean?'
I didn't like where this was going, but I baited him anyway.
'What do you mean?'
'How about she stays here, at your place? It's only a twenty-minute drive away.'
'She needs someone around her at all times.'
'Okay, fine. There are facilities. Good ones. Your mother could get the assistance she needs, the medical care, and we could visit her every--'
'I'm going to say good night now, Latham.'
I took him by the crook of the arm and escorted him to the front door.
'Jack, all that I'm saying is that taking care of an elderly parent is a lot of work. I don't want you wasting your life--'
I opened the door.
'Caring for my mother is not wasting my life.'
'I didn't mean it like that. Look, Jack, it's been an awful night and I'm not thinking clearly.'
'Apparently not.'
Latham's eyes got hard. I'd never really seen him angry before, and I didn't like the preview.
'I may be tooting my own horn here, Jack, but I think I'm a pretty decent guy.'
'You're right,' I told him. 'You're tooting your own horn.'
I felt terrible the moment it left my lips, but before I could apologize, Latham was halfway down the hall.
'Latham . . .'
He disappeared through the stairwell door, not giving me a backward glance.
Nice one, Jack. You just screwed up a relationship with the last decent guy in the Midwest.
From the bathroom, Mr. Friskers howled in agreement.
I walked back into my apartment, finished my drink, Latham's drink, and one more on top of that. Pleasantly tipsy, I let the screaming cat out of the john, took off my makeup, curled up on my sheetless bed, and slept for forty-five wonderful minutes before jerking awake.
For the next three hours, sleep was a stop-and-go affair, short stretches interspersed with bouts of anxiety, nagging questions, and doubt.
When I finally got up for work, the mirror was not kind.
I forced myself through some push-ups and sit-ups, took a cool shower, and dressed in a tan Perry Ellis blazer, matching skirt, and a striped blouse.
Venturing into my living room, I discovered I wasn't the only one who had a busy night. To my endless amusement, Mr. Friskers had clawed most of the paint off my grandmother's antique rocking chair. He perched on the sofa, staring, while I inspected the damage.
'Now I understand why so many people own dogs.'
He didn't reply.
I cleaned up the kitty litter as best I could, poured him another bowl of food, forced down some Frosted Flakes, and went out to face the day.
Chicago was a furnace, hot enough to make my eyeliner run. Stopping for coffee seemed absurd, but I needed the caffeine. I bought an extra for Herb.
The district house still had an air-conditioning problem, which felt great for about two minutes, and then became painful.
Herb wasn't in his office, which was unusual. He always beat me to work. I set his coffee on his desk, then returned to my office and did some follow-up calls about the incident last night.
The gut-shot bouncer had stabilized, and the perp, defying all expectations, still clung to life. I left word with the doctor to call when toxicology finished the blood work, but she said it wasn't necessary.
'I'm ninety-nine percent sure he was high on Hydro.'
'Water?'
'No. Hydro is the nickname for a new street drug. It's a mean mix of phencyclidene hydrochloride, phentermine hydrochloride, and oxycodone hydrochloride; basically angel dust, speed, and codeine. Why anyone would want to mix those is beyond me. Plus, someone is cutting the drug with mephyton phyonadione.'
'Which is?'
'Vitamin K. It's commonly given to patients before surgery because of its ability to aid in blood coagulation.'
