Cat on a Cold Tin Roof by Mike Resnick

as the waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee and a cup. “You got a cheese Danish back there in the kitchen, honey?”
    â€œThis is Bob Evans,” she said harshly. “Read the menu.” She began walking away, then stopped and turned. “And my name is Matilda.”
    â€œFigures,” said Sorrentino as she vanished into the kitchen. He took a sip of his coffee. “Damned good stuff,” he said approvingly. “What the hell have they got to go with it?”
    I shoved the menu across to him. He read it quickly, then signaled a man who was cleaning a nearby table. “Hey, kid, bring me a sweet roll. Any kind you got, as long as it’s got frosting on it.”
    The man, who was in his midthirties, nodded and went off without a word.
    â€œYou were saying?” I began.
    â€œAbout cheese Danish?” he replied. “Nothing goes better with a cup of coffee before noon.”
    â€œAbout Big Jim Palanto.”
    â€œPoor bastard.”
    â€œAnd why you’re still here?”
    He nodded, then placed a forefinger to his lips as Matilda arrived with his sweet roll, glared at him, and walked off.
    â€œBig Jim had a talent, and so did that bitch he married,” said Sorrentino. “His was making money, hers was spending it.”
    â€œSounds like my former marriage,” I said. “Except for the making money part.”
    â€œWell, about eight or ten years ago he decided he needed a serious source of income, so he went back into the same business. Not for my employers, of course. They’d long since replaced him.”
    I frowned. “I don’t know quite where this is leading,” I said, “but Cincinnati doesn’t have a mob.”
    â€œLook south.”
    â€œSouth is Kentucky,” I replied. “South that makes sense is Mexico.”
    â€œ Farther south.”
    I just stared at him.
    â€œBolivia,” he said at last.
    â€œOkay, Bolivia,” I said. “So what?”
    â€œThey saw what Colombia and Mexico were making from drugs, and they went into the business themselves. Now, Big Jim had nothing to do with the marketing, or any of the rough stuff that went along with it, but he made his expertise available to the Bolivians.”
    â€œHe invested their drug money,” I said.
    â€œRight.”
    â€œIf he was as good as you say, they should be happy as clams,” I said. Not that I’ve ever seen a happy clam, or even a live one.
    â€œWell, it appears that Big Jim decided he was getting up in years, and that he wanted to feather his nest a little faster than certain parties were happy about.”
    I just stared at him for a moment. “He stole from South American drug lords?”
    â€œI’m sure he didn’t look at it that way,” answered Sorrentino. “As near as we can tell, he made them about fifty million dollars.” He paused. “Problem is, he only gave them maybe forty million of it.”
    â€œSo you think they killed him?”
    â€œHe was the salt of the earth, and he parted clean and fair with my employers,” said Sorrentino. “Who else would have done it?”
    â€œOh, come on,” I said. “How about anybody who knew he was loaded and thought they could pull off a robbery?”
    â€œNothing was missing,” answered Sorrentino. Then he gave me a huge grin. “Well, almost nothing.”
    I stared at him, considered what I’d heard, then thought back to the little scene with the grieving widow in the Pepperidge house that resulted in my being jailed, and suddenly it became clear as crystal.
    â€œShit!” I said so loud that diners from two and three tables away turned to stare—and frown—at me.
    He grinned again. “You got it.”
    â€œThe collar!” I exclaimed.
    He nodded. “The collar.”
    â€œWhat makes a collar worth ten million dollars?”
    â€œMaybe only eight million,” he corrected