Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [16]
I opened the carton of lo mein. It was as pretty as a picture. “What did he mean by he’s not buying it?”
“Maybe he’s making me something.”
I fished out a noodle and tasted it. Asian ambrosia. “Or renting you a slave.”
“Can you do that?”
I shrugged one shoulder. The other was on sabbatical. “I’d rent myself out for the right price.”
“I’m going to have to think about that. Tell me about last night,” she said, and sat down at the table.
I did the same, then scowled as I dished up the lo mein and passed it to her.
She only took some lo.
“A client called,” I said, beginning slow.
“Here?”
I nodded and tasted the sauce. It made chocolate pale by comparison. I swear to you, I wasn’t drunk.
“How’d he get this number? You didn’t give him your home phone, did you?” she asked, and taste-tested an onion as I slurped down a skein of noodles.
“I’m not brain-dead.”
“I was wondering but I thought it would be rude to ask,” she said. “What did he want?”
I gave her a look, but the meal was singing its siren song, pulling my attention away. “He wanted me to take his son.”
She raised one brow. “Take his son or have his son?”
“Take him. Which seemed like enough of a commitment.”
“He must be pretty good-looking if you’d even consider the possibility of procreating.”
“Think Don Cheadle face, Matthew McConaughey body.”
“Wow,” she said, then, “Did I tell you I might be doing a movie with McConaughey?”
The fork dropped from my hand as the image of McConaughey jumped into my psyche. And voilà … suddenly I remembered what was better than chocolate. We’d been McConaughey fans ever since he’d played David Wooderson in Dazed and Confused. In fact, Laney and I had spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in the dark watching everything from bad sitcoms to award-winning feature films. It had eventually made her a star. It had only made me pale.
“A movie with Matthew McConaughey! Are you serious?” I asked.
“No,” she said, and stabbed a mushroom. “I just wanted to see your reaction. So when did Micky call?”
“I didn’t say … what makes you think it was Micky?” I asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. She was busy masticating. A sesame seed can take her half an hour. It could be morning before she finished up with the mushroom.
“How do you even know Micky?” I asked.
“When did he call?”
“Maybe it wasn’t Micky,” I said, and she laughed.
“You’ve got fourteen black clients. Three of them are under the child-bearing age. One is a grandfather, and nine are women. I don’t know a lot of women with McConaughey’s pecs.”
“You’ve been talking to Shirley.”
“Someone’s got to keep you from getting yourself killed. And seriously, Mac, I don’t think it’s ever going to be you. What were you thinking, galloping out there at midnight?”
Galloping? “Have you been talking to Rivera, too?”
“Should I?”
“No!”
She grinned. “Then tell me what’s going on.”
I succumbed. Not that I wouldn’t have anyway. But the idea of her and Rivera comparing notes made it easier to capitulate. Of course I swore her to secrecy first.
Fifteen minutes later I had consumed enough noodles to feed Cambodia. Laney’s meal could have fit in my molar.
“So you think this Jackson guy was high?”
“I think so. He had just been shot and he acted as if he was floating on cloud nine. Crooning about rosewood and retribution.”
“Retribution.”
“It sounds better than revenge, doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“It’s all so sad,” I said, and sighed. “From what Micky’s said in the past he’s got everything—brains, education, money. He looks like a forty-year-old Jimmy Trivette.”
“From Walker, Texas Ranger?”
“Yeah.”
“You have a Texas Ranger swearing revenge?”
“I have a nutcase seeking retribution.”
“Why don’t I feel better?” I shrugged.
“I think you’re a natural pessimist.”
She gave me a look. “What makes him a nutcase?”
“According to Micky, it’s mostly stuff he’s done to past girlfriends.”
“Physical stuff?”
“That, too,” I said, scraping the last bit of sauce from my plate. “But probably more