When Monty finally got his breath back, he started whining again about Blue doing something with “it,” which Dean finally figured out was an apparently valuable bootleg CD of the original press of Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks that Monty had accidentally left behind at the rooming house.

“There are only a thousand in existence!” he cried.

“Nine hundred and ninety-nine,” the Beav retorted. “Your copy went out with the trash the minute I finished reading your letter.”

Monty was pretty much a broken man after that, but Dean couldn’t resist twisting the knife. As Poetry Man and Sally began climbing in their car, he turned back to the Beav and spoke just loudly enough for his words to drift in their direction. “Come on, sweet pea. Let’s head for the city so we can get a start on buying that two-carat diamond you’ve got your heart set on.”

He swore he heard Monty whimper.

The Beav’s triumph was short-lived. The Focus had barely made it out of the driveway before the front door of the ranch house flew open and a heavyset woman with dyed black hair, painted eyebrows, and a doughy face lumbered onto the porch. “What’s going on out here?”

The Beav stared at the dust cloud on the road, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “Domestic altercation.”

The woman crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “I knew the minute I seen you that you was trouble. I never should have let you stay here.” She started lambasting the Beav, which gave Dean enough information to piece a few facts together. It seemed that Monty had been living in the rooming house up until ten days ago, when he’d taken off with Sally. The Beav had arrived a day later, found his kiss-off letter, and decided to stay put until she figured out what to do next.

Sweat beads broke out on the landlady’s forehead. “I don’t want you in my house.”

The Beav couldn’t seem to regain her fighting spirit. “I’ll be out of here first thing tomorrow.”

“You’d better have the eighty-two dollars you owe me.”

“Of course I have—” The Beav’s head shot up. With a muttered oath, she pushed past her landlady and rushed inside.

The woman turned her attention to Dean and then to his car. Generally, the entire population of North America lined up to kiss his butt, but she didn’t seem to watch a lot of football. “You a drug dealer? If you got drugs in that car, I’m calling the sheriff.”

“Some Extra Strength Tylenol.” Plus a few bottles of prescription pain relievers he decided not to mention.

“You’re a real wise guy.” The landlady shot him a dark look and turned back into the house. Dean regarded her disappearance with regret. Apparently the fun was over.