“Jesus, that last part is still goddamn thin.”
“But it’s where the FBI is at now. I imagine Occam’s Razor has ’em scratching their heads. I doubt that it feels right to them but it’s all they’ve got.”
He sighed. “Hope that’s as far as they ever get.”
“Arlene and Buddie aren’t gonna put their two cents in. And the Feds will want to close this thing out, go home. They’ll take what they can get even if the bullets don’t match the gun.”
A wet washrag tied in a knot missed me by a foot, landed on the grass beside me with a damp plop. I leaned over and picked it up. Behind me, Lucy called down from the upstairs bedroom window, “That’s enough talk, guys. It’s late. You should come on up, Mort. I think there’s a problem with the shower—the water thingie.”
“The water thingie?”
“Like the nozzle or the drain or something. You should come up and help me check it out. Like totally,” she said in her Valley Girl voice.
“Jesus,” Russ sighed.
“Be right there, kiddo.” My shoulder still wasn’t a hundred percent. I levered myself awkwardly out of the lawn chair with one arm. “Duty calls, Russ.”
“I ever tell you I’m in the wrong goddamn line of work?”
“Couple of times. But you probably ought to stick it out on the force, get the brass-and-walnut ‘attaboy’ plaque for your wall, and the damp handshake. Getting shot isn’t for wimps.”
“Wimps. Screw you, Mort.” He got to his feet. “’Night. Oh, the ten minutes are about up so you’re fired again.” He headed for the gate in the fence that would let him out to the street.
“After all this, I think you still owe me, Russ,” I called after him. “So if I ever give you a call, needing some little thing . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
The gate clicked shut behind him. I waited a few seconds, then smiled, listened to the quiet, thought about how good it was to still be alive and finally off the OxyContin, gave the stars one last look, then went inside and hiked upstairs to the second floor to see what I could do about the water thingie.
