“Great.”
Over his shoulder, he said, “I don’t usually drink in the morning.”
“What do you usually do?”
“Read and write.”
“Ah,” I said.
Murphy disappeared into the kitchen.
Unlike Tony’s living room, this one had bookshelves standing against every available wall. They were loaded with hardbounds and paperbacks in a fabulous disarray.
The whole room was in disarray.
Cluttered with books, mostly.
But a lot of other stuff, too.
You couldn’t even see the top of the coffee table. Along with all sorts of mail and magazines and a few pens and pencils, it was cluttered with three Pepsi cans, a couple of wadded napkins, and a paper plate littered with an empty Brie wrapper, a used knife smeared with white cheese, and cracker crumbs.
I moved a couple of pillows aside. As I sat down, I slipped the strap of my purse off my shoulder. I put the purse down between my hip and the end of the couch, where it wouldn’t be in the way.
“What do you write?” I called.
“Crap that nobody wants to publish.”
“That sounds lucrative.”
I heard him laugh.
Then he came walking in with two beer bottles in one hand, two large glass mugs in the other, and a plastic bag of pretzels hanging from his teeth.
He set it all down on the coffee table without moving anything out of the way.
“There we go,” he said. After tossing the pillows aside, he sat on the couch.
Not far away from me, but not very close, either.
He poured beer into the mugs, and handed one of them to me. Then he opened the pretzels and placed the bag on the couch between us.
Turning toward me, he hoisted his mug and said, “Down the hatch.”
We bumped our mugs together.
I took a drink. The beer tasted great.
Murphy drank, too. When he came up for air, he said, “There goes my writing for the day.”
“Not much of a loss, if it’s crap.”
He laughed. “You’re right.”
“
“Oh, sure. I do all right. Not as well as I’d like, but not too badly.”
“What do you write?”
“Crime novels.”
“
“Sort of.”
“Cool.”
“
The sudden shout made me jump. Beer slopped out of my mug and splashed the middle of my chest—like the water, but not as much. And colder!
A moment later, I heard the slap of a newspaper smacking concrete outside.
Turning my head, I looked out the screen door and across the courtyard. A rolled
Murphy, frowning, leaned forward to see past me. “Well,” he said. “That’s odd.”
31
THE OFFER
“Kind of,” I said, and shrugged and changed the subject. “I’m sure klutzy this morning.” I reached out and took a wadded napkin off the coffee table.
Murphy watched me blot the beer off my chest, but he said, “Tony already
“Some sort of mix-up?” I suggested, and slid the damp ball of paper down between my breasts. “They usually just do that if you call.”
“But he
I grinned and pulled out the napkin. “It’s a
He made a face, narrowing one eye and turning down a corner of his mouth. “Well, let me think. Obviously, someone called the
“Wouldn’t make any sense at all,” I agreed.
“So somebody
“But why would anyone want another paper delivered to Tony’s place?” I asked.
“Elementary, my dear Fran.”
“Oh?”
“Sure. It was some sort of a mix-up.”
I laughed and drank some more beer.
“It was delivered to Tony’s
“Sent to the wrong address?”
“Exactly!”
“You’re a genius!”
“You bet,” he said, and laughed. “Somewhere along the way, somebody misunderstood the address, or wrote it down wrong, or hit a wrong computer key…something like that.”
“You’re a regular Travis McGee,” I told him.
He beamed. “You know McGee?”
“Sure.”
“Well, now. I’d give you a beer, but you’ve already got one.”
“Well, I’ll take another when this one’s done. Maybe I’ve read some of
“My own.”
“Murphy Scott?”
Looking pleased that I’d remembered, he said, “That’s it.”
“What are some of your books?”
“There’ve only been two so far. That have gotten published, anyway.
“Neat titles,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“How are the books?”
“Brilliant.”
“I thought you said they’re crap.”
“That was before I found out you’re a reader.”
“That makes a difference?”
“Sure. To someone who isn’t a reader, I might as
I laughed. “You’re weird, you know that?”
