“I knew about Mario’s Sub Shop!”
“Oh.”
“Are you telling me you wrote a poem about me on the stadium wall? A poem detailing what transpired behind the eclair case?”
“Would it help any if I told you the poem was flattering?”
I wanted to smack him, but he was on his feet and moving before I could get out of my rubber tube.
“It was years ago,” he said, dancing away from me. “Shit, Stephanie, it’s unattractive to hold a grudge.”
“You are scum, Morelli. Scum.”
“Probably,” Morelli said, “but I give good… pizza.”
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