“But—I was scared, too.” She stirred against me, and I looked into her eyes. They were dark, made even larger than usual by the dim city light that filtered into the room.
“Of what?” I asked.
“Him.”
“Jonnie? How come? He ever hit you?” A sudden protective urge rose up in me even though he was dead.
“No, nothing like that. It was…I don’t know, maybe scared is too strong a word. I just felt there was a part of him I didn’t know. That he wouldn’t let me know.”
“Everyone has parts no one else’ll ever know.”
“Maybe.”
She didn’t sound convinced. She didn’t follow up with more, either, so I didn’t press her. Whatever it was, it had been between her and Jonnie. And it was over and done with now, so what did it matter? Which shows how little I knew.
I started to nod off again.
Dallas thumbed the waistband of my Jockeys. “Are these necessary, Mort?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why are you wearing them?”
“That could take a while to explain.”
“It’s that damned chivalry thing, isn’t it?”
“I’d throw a cloak across a puddle for you,” I said, and I meant it, but if I were ever caught wearing a cloak I’d throw it in front of her just to get rid of it, which is another matter entirely.
“Well, don’t, okay?”
So, hell, I took the Jockeys off. Because Dallas was not resistible, and I was still in love.
* * *
When she came, she muffled her cry by pressing her mouth tightly against mine. I felt her climax right down to my toes.
Same old Dallas.
But even then I knew I didn’t have her back. She wasn’t mine again. Nor was I a mere convenience to her, a throwaway. It was more complicated than that, reaching back in time, but I didn’t want to destroy it by picking it apart, separating the good from the bad, even if it wasn’t going to last beyond the dawn.
Sometimes love isn’t all there is. Sometimes it isn’t enough.
* * *
I hadn’t made love to Dallas in over three years. I hadn’t made love to anyone for ten months, in fact. Working for the IRS is like having visible body lice when it comes to meeting women. They find out what you do, think it over for two seconds, three if they’re drunk, and that’s the end of it. I felt a nice glow that morning. I was probably smiling too much, foolishly no doubt, but Dallas was too much a lady to mention it although her mouth was twitching.
“I want to hire you, Mort,” she said over breakfast. For her, that was half a grapefruit for $3.75 and two slices of toast for $2.80. I was working my way through a double stack of blueberry pancakes, a side of scrambled, an English muffin with strawberry jam, and orange juice, for which I would’ve had to get a weekend job at a 7-Eleven if I were picking up the tab.
“I was that good, huh?” I asked.
She gave me the look she’d given me the other day. I told her I was sorry.
“No, don’t apologize. You can’t help it.”
“Hire me how?”
“As a private investigator.”
“Yeah?”
“You are an investigator now, aren’t you?”
And a damn fine one, I thought. In all this great nation, in all the world, in fact, I was the one who’d found Jonnie Sjorgen. “What do you want me to do, Dal?”
“Find out who killed Jonnie.”
I shook my head. “It’s an active case. Real active, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’d be bumping into RPD detectives all day long. And probably FBI. My no-fault insurance would skyrocket, kiddo. I’d have to sell the screaming Toyota.”
“I’m serious, Mort.”
“So’m I.”
She pushed her lower lip into a pout. “With your vast experience as a PI, I can see why you’d be reluctant.”
“Christ, Dal—”
“Okay, fine. If you don’t want the job—”
“I don’t want the job.”
“—I’ll hire someone who does.”
“C’mon, Dallas. Let the police do what they do.”
“I thought you worked for Gregory.”
“Gregory Westergaard Rudd. Maybe. I’m not sure. I haven’t checked with him since yesterday.”
“I would think he’d have some say about what cases you do or don’t take, since it’s his business.”
I relaxed a notch. This wasn’t Greg’s kind of deal. He wouldn’t touch this gremlin with rubber gloves, wearing a hazmat suit. Which gave me my next brilliant idea. I phoned him.
Dale answered with, “Carson & Rudd Investigative Services. Dale Larkin speaking.”
Stiff, very stiff. She sounded recorded. “It’s Mort. Greg in yet?”
“Uh, yes. Hold on.” Sound came through Dale’s palm for a few seconds, then Greg came on the line. “Uncle Mortimer…”
He made it that far, then ran out of steam. I figured he’d caught our act on TV, Dallas’s and mine. Who in this hemisphere hadn’t?
“Yeah,” I said. “How’s business, kid?”
“Mr. Skulstad phoned—”
Hell. Three little bean counters had also caught our act. I was busted. “What’d he want?”
“He let us go.” Greg sounded wounded. “He wants his retainer back. Dale’s cutting a check for him right now. For God’s sake, Uncle Mortimer, you were on every TV station in Reno—”
“Exposure like that costs a bundle. You oughta do a whale of a business now that Carson & Rudd is on the map. Not sure about the name, though. Angel & Rudd might be more—”
“Your cover’s been blown—”
“Call Skulstad back, tell him I’ll fix it. How much was the retainer?”
“Five…five hundred. Didn’t you hear what I said? We’ve been fired, terminated.”
“I told you, I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
“Call him, Gregory.”
Something in my voice got through. Or maybe he remembered I’d once changed his diapers and was afraid I might remind him of that fact. “Okay,” he said.
“Good news,” I told him. “I’ve got us a job offer.” I glanced over at Dallas. She smiled back at me.
“Oh?”
“Hot stuff. Dallas wants us—your firm, that is—to try to find out who killed Jonnie.”
Dead air. I tried not to smile. The effort made my face feel waxen. I could see him there, staring at the phone in disbelief.
“Well…yeah,” my idiot nephew said. “Okay.”
“What!”
“I’ve been thinking about tackling new things. Bigger projects.
