“No, you’re not.”

I half laughed. “No, I’m not. But you can’t come into my dreams with me, protect me there. So, otherwise, I can handle it.”

She was out of the car now, and she leaned back in and kissed my cheek. “Be well, Skid.”

I watched her climb the stairs to her porch, fumble with her keys, then open the door. Before she got inside, a light went on in the living room and the curtain parted slightly. I waved at Phil, and the curtain fluttered closed again.

Angie entered her home and shut off the light in the hallway and I drove off.

***

The light was on in the belfry. I pulled to the curb in front of the church and walked around to the side door, acutely aware of the fact that my gun was sitting in the police-station evidence room. There was a note on the floor as I entered: “Don’t shoot. Two black men in one day will give you a bad rep.”

Richie.

He was sitting behind my desk when I entered. He had his feet up and a Peter Gabriel tape going on my boom box, a bottle of Glenlivet on the desk and a glass in his hand. I said, “Is that my bottle?”

He looked at it. “I believe so, son.”

“Well, help yourself,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said and poured another shot into his glass. “You need ice.”

I found a glass in my drawer, made a double. I held up the paper. “Seen it?”

“I don’t read that rag,” he said. Then, “Yeah, I saw it.”

Richie is not one of those Hollywood blacks with skin like coffee regular and Billy Dee Williams eyes. He’s black, black as an oil slick, and he’s not what one would call handsome. He’s overweight, always has a five o’clock shadow, and his wife buys his clothes. A lot of times, his ensemble looks like she’s experimenting again. Tonight he was wearing beige cotton trousers, a light blue shirt, and a pastel tie that looked like a poppy field had exploded on it and someone had doused the flame with rum punch. I said, “Sherilynn went shopping again?”

He looked at the tie and sighed. “Sherilynn went shopping again.”

I said. “Where? Miami?”

He lifted the tie for closer inspection. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He sipped his scotch. “Where’s your partner?” “With her husband.”

He nodded, and simultaneously, we said, “The Asshole.” “When’s she going to pump a round into that boy?” he asked.

“I’ve got my fingers crossed.”

“Well, you call me when she does. I got a bottle of Moët sitting at home for the occasion.”

“To that day.” I held up my glass. He met it. “Cheers.” I said, “Tell me about Curtis Moore.”