Yes. A nice set of 11-inch-long needle-nose pliers.
I went back to the bathroom, struggled, swore, dropped the pliers four times, but by the time I was breathing hard and sweating, I had gotten the bladder out, drained, washed, and put back in place.
Then I blundered my way out of the bathroom and fell on the bed.
The smell of coffee and a woman’s voice woke me up, and I got out of bed, made my way downstairs with Uncle Paulie’s cane in hand to see a pretty sight indeed: Paula Quinn sitting at my kitchen counter, working on her laptop, cup of coffee at her elbow. I poured myself a cup and sat across from her, as she typed furiously along, her blonde hair cascading, her cute ears sticking out. I just sipped and watched her work and admired the way … well, the way everything was just working for her.
Paula looked up, smiled. “Have a good nap?”
“I did. And you?”
“Very much so,” she said. “Nice cane you got there. What horror movie set did you get that from?”
“From Felix Tinios’s long-departed uncle.” I held it up. “See the wolf head? I’m told it can scare off vampires, or zombies, or bookies.”
“I’m sure.”
“According to Felix, it also has a secret inside.”
“Probably a vial of brandy.”
“Probably,” I said. “How goes your work?”
“Oh, it goes well,” she said. “I’m getting ready for the 11:00 A.M. press conference, and I’m trying to get a follow-up piece for the Chronicle’s website done before then.” She picked up her coffee and gave a slow glance around the place. “You’re making progress.”
“Not enough.”
“Enough for me to have a good sleep, refresh myself,” she said. A little sip and she said, “Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary.”
“I came in, pretty wired up, scared … and I woke up feeling a hundred percent better. I’d feel a hundred and ten percent if I had time to slip into the shower.”
“We could save time if I volunteered to wash your back.”
A sly smile. “Knowing you, you’d feel compelled to wash my front as well.”
“Never leave a job half-done,” I said.
“Hah.”
She went back to her keyboard and I said, “Hey, if you’re up and running, can you do me a favor? What’s the number for the Tyler Historical Society?”
“Hold on,” and her fingers went tap-tap-tap and she gave me the number. “Who do you want to call over there?”
“Whoever answers the phone, or whoever runs the joint.”
“I thought you knew who—”
Her cell phone rang, and she picked it up. “What?” she said. “For real? Thanks for the heads-up.”
She clicked off, shut down her laptop, got up, and said, “Sorry, Lewis. For some reason the assistant attorney general has taken over the press conference, and he’s moved it up fifteen minutes.”
“Why would he do that?”
Paula gathered up her knapsack, coat, and put her laptop into a carry-on bag. “Because by starting the press conference earlier, he’s pointing out that he’s running the show, that’s why.”
A knock on the door caught our attention. Paula said, “Is your secret lover Greta returning from shopping or something?”
“Let’s find out,” I said, thinking it better not be the genealogical couple from the other day. I didn’t have the patience. I went to the door, opened it up, and there was Felix Tinios, standing on my granite doorstep. He nodded in our direction, stood there rather stiff and formally, with his jacket over his left arm, although it didn’t seem that warm.
“Lewis … and the ever-charming Paula Quinn,” he said, brown eyes twinkling. “Have I interrupted anything?”
“Just me leaving, Felix,” Paula said. “Hey, you do anything illegal lately?”
Felix just smiled a bit. “Depends on your definition of illegal, I guess, and since you’re a journalist, and not a lawyer, why don’t we just leave it at that.”
“I guess so,” she said, and she turned for a kiss goodbye before starting up my rough dirt driveway. I watched her slim form go up to the parking lot that belonged to the Lafayette House from across the street, and Felix said, “Paula … reasonably attractive, reasonably smart … but you’re a man of the world, Lewis. What more do you see in her?”
“More than you can imagine, Felix. Come on in. Up for a cup of coffee?”
He grimaced as he came in. “What you call coffee … not at the moment, thanks. But I was hoping you could do me a favor.”
I closed the door and followed him into my cluttered living room. Felix was moving slow, hesitant.
“What do you need?” I said.
He turned and dropped his jacket from his left arm. A bloody bandage made of paper napkins and kept in place by gray duct tape covered his forearm.
“I’ve been shot,” he said.
CHAPTER SIX
On the couch, now,” I said.
He went to the couch. “Turn around. Lay down. Legs up,” I instructed.
Felix settled in and rested his wounded arm on his chest, then he raised his legs over the far armrest. I had lots of questions to ask and no time to ask them. I went upstairs as fast as I could—not fast enough, not fast enough, my mind was screaming at me—and from the bedroom closet, I tugged out a thick black zippered bag. Back downstairs I pulled a chair and the coffee table close to the couch, and opened the bag.
“Is the bullet still in you?”
“No,” he said. “Looked like a clean hit before I bandaged it up … with what I had on hand.”
“Why didn’t you go to any ER in the area?”
He shifted his arm, frowned. “You know the rules, son. Anything that appears to be a gunshot is reported to the authorities. Need I say more?”
“Nope,” I said. “Hold still.”
I went to the kitchen and took out a plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the refrigerator. I gave my hands a good wash, dried them off with a paper towel, went back to Felix. From the
