Earl sat down, alternating puffs of cigarette and swigs of beer. “You hit him in the head.”

“When he came to my house, and Angie came home. It was a kind of self-defense thing, although I think, under other circumstances, he might have liked me. He read my book and really liked it.”

“That must have made you feel good. You never know when you’re going to run into a fan. I’ve been meaning to read it someday myself.”

“You kind of left out the most important part,” Trixie said.

“Huh?”

“This Stefanie Knight chick, she’s dead,” said Trixie.

“I was getting to that,” I said. “I’m having a hard time keeping it all straight. Maybe hanging off the roof of that house has made me forgetful.” Earl took a long drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke over our heads, and I continued. “That’s kind of why I’ve been on the run all night. She was murdered, and I’ve got her purse, well, I had her purse, and I’ve still got her car, and I think it’s going to take a long time to explain all this to the authorities. But I’m thinking maybe it’s time to go see them anyway.”

Earl said nothing for a moment. He was thinking. Trixie looked at me and shrugged. Finally, Earl said, “You need more than a gun, my friend. You need muscle.”

I smiled. “You have someone in mind?”

He returned the smile. “I might. Seems to me you need to pay another visit to this Greenway guy and Carpington and find out just what happened. We might have ways of getting the information out of them that the police aren’t really supposed to use. And if this Rick character shows up, we’ll have to deal with him as well.”

I felt a renewed sense of confidence.

“You know what might come in handy?” I said. “Some handcuffs.”

Trixie brightened. “How many pairs you need?”

I held up three fingers.

“I’ll get you two regular sets,” Trixie said, “and one fur-lined. Don Greenway always liked the soft kind.”

Earl and I looked at each other and then at Trixie.

“So he was a client.” She shrugged. “But he was a lousy tipper. Fuck him.”

Chapter 25

25

earl said he had to get dressed and do a couple of things before we headed out. First, I heard him go into the garage, do something with his truck, slam a tailgate, then he wandered past the kitchen door on his way upstairs to put on some clothes. In his absence, I gazed, tiredly, across the table at Trixie and thought how fortunate I was, in my time of trouble, to have a dominatrix and a pot grower to bail me out.

“Thanks for not judging,” Trixie said.

“What?”