One Hot Mess Part 38

"d.i.c.k Clark."

My mind spun lazily, then: "D?"

He stepped sideways so that I could see him through the gauzy fabric of the side window. "I've got enough champagne for us and the dog."

I opened the door. He came inside. I glanced down the walkway, although I'm not sure why, and when I looked up he was staring at me.

"You expecting him?" he said.

"Who?"

He smiled. "It wouldn't hurt to make him jealous, you know," he said, and lifted both hands. There was a bottle in each.

"I'm afraid..." I blinked, still feeling disoriented. "I'm not much of a drinker."

He shrugged. "Practice makes perfect. You got flutes?"

I did. In a couple of minutes we were settled on the couch. He poured the wine.

"Hard to believe even a cop's dumb enough to leave you alone on New Year's Eve," he said.

He handed over a gla.s.s of champagne. It bubbled merrily. I considered saying something equally cheery but wasn't up to the task.

"I a.s.sumed you'd gone back to Chicago."

He shrugged. "Thought I'd take some time to see your fair city."

"Don't you"-I took a sip. It was pretty tasty-"have business back home?"

He laughed. He'd left his alligator boots by the long window near my front door. "I'll let them keep their knees a couple more days."

I was beginning to wake up. "I heard you dealt in livers."

"I don't know how these rumors get started," he said, and finished his drink.

"Wow."

He filled my gla.s.s. "I'm slower at other things," he said, and caught my gaze.

I could already feel the first flush of the champagne cruising through my system like sunshine, but I kept my voice steady, my dialogue serious. "What are you doing here?"

"Question is, why isn't there a queue at your door?"

I glanced away "I'm taking a break."

"From life?"

"From men."

He canted his head a little. "We're not all f.u.c.ktards, you know."

"That's what they tell me." I stifled a sigh and drank again.

"They who?"

"Men."

He chuckled. "Anyone specific?"

I shrugged and settled back against the cushion. "There's a guy in Edmond Park."

"He good-looking?"

"I guess so."

"Tall?"

"Tall enough."

"Not a f.u.c.ktard?"

"Doesn't seem to be."

"But?"

"Sometimes I'm not a very good judge of men."

"Who are your other options?"

"There's a guy in Sespe. I think he might be a bazillionaire."

He clicked his gla.s.s to mine in a kind of salute. "Looks don't matter squat, then."

I shrugged.

"So why are you here? Alone?"

"I keep wondering if they're planning to kill me."

"Bound to put the brakes on a budding relationship," he said, and filled my gla.s.s.

"Are you?"

He finished up his wine and refilled. "What's that?"

"Planning to kill me."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. It seems to be a trend."

"The Edmond Park guy try to kill you?"

"Not yet."

"How about the ugly bazillionaire?"

"I didn't say he was ugly."

"Not as good-looking as me, though, huh?"

I drank again, watching him. Donald Archer wasn't as good-looking. And probably not as rich. Or as powerful. "Do I owe you more money?" I asked.

He laughed. "Sometimes I honestly don't think you know how cute you are."

I drew back a wobbly half inch. "I'm not cute."

"Beautiful, then."

I felt a little dizzy. "Really?"

"Those d.a.m.n cops. Never say what needs saying," he said, and kissed me.

He tasted good, sweet like the wine. I drew back a little and watched his face. His eyes were sparkling. Harley was lying in front of the TV But he lifted his head suddenly and glanced toward the door.

I did the same, heart pounding.

"If he's not here yet, he doesn't deserve you," D said.

I turned back toward him. "I know." I felt a little weepy. Liquor does that to me. Not to mention New Year's. And best friends marrying undersize doofuses.

He kissed me again. "If he shows up, do you want me to beat the c.r.a.p out of him?"

I was feeling a little breathless, a little aroused. "He's got a gun."

"I've got a black belt."

"Really?"

"Want to see?"

"You've got it on?"

"Under my clothes."

"No kidding?"

He chuckled.

"Oh," I said.

By midnight both bottles were empty. He slipped his arm behind my back and kissed me as "Auld Lang Syne" played with nostalgic moodiness on the television. His body felt warm and tight against mine. His lips were firm, his kiss as slow as summer.

"Want to move back to Chicago?" he asked.

"Not tonight."

"Maybe later," he said, and kissed me again.

After that we talked about family and plans and friends who married outside their species.

When I woke in the morning I was lying in my bed, covers tucked snugly up under my chin. I pulled them aside. I was absolutely, startlingly bone-jarringly naked.

30.

Jealousy. It's a terrible thing. Unless it's someone else's.

-D,

who likes to stir up the

hive, just to make sure the

bees are still awake

ESPITE MY LACK OF A SHOWER and screaming uncertainty regarding what I had done with D, I arrived at Rademacher Funeral Home early, signed the registry and watched the people. Rebecca Harris was survived by her husband and her son, but the son seemed to be absent. The husband, looking stoic and stiff in his boxy suit, did his best to meet and greet. I felt like a voyeur, but I had been becoming acquainted with the senators cronies for weeks now and scanned the crowd. Would the murderer feel a need to show his face here? Or was he too savvy for that?