followed by a snuffle and the rattle of toenails as an awkward white dog drifted out of the bathroom and across the moon-bright carpet. Molly came out a moment afterward, barefoot, her hair pulled back and her face scrubbed, wearing an oversized Tulane football jersey, number 69, and sweat pants. The dog curled in the near corner of the room, snoring almost immediately. Molly fixed a drink, then leaned on the rail beside him.
“Pretty stupid, huh?” she said.
“Pretty effective. I nearly fainted.”
“Please forgive me,” Molly giggled, then apologized again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m supposed to be a tough, grown-up lady lawyer, and I should have simply approached you directly, instead of coming to your bar to check you out, then making that stupid pass. I feel like such an idiot.”
“Please don’t,” I said. “Try to remember that I’m the fool it nearly worked on. And I’m beginning to feel like an idiot because I don’t know what the hell this is about.”
She paused long enough to freshen our drinks, then proceeded calmly. “The last time I was in town I was running with a lawyer friend of mine on the trail along the creek in the park,” she said, “and we passed you, and he said he had heard some ugly rumors about you… and the trouble a few years ago, when you and your partner went up against the contrabandistas in West Texas.”
“I’m not too crazy about hearing that. Who the hell told you that?” I asked, serious now. A banker and a woman as lovely as she was greedy had stolen my father’s trust before I could even spend a penny of it, mixed it with drug money in a botched attempt to make a movie. Then my ex-partner and I, with Petey’s help, had stolen it back. But not without considerable bloodshed and bruised law enforcement egos. “What did he say? And who the fuck was he?”
“I won’t tell you his name,” Molly McBride said, calm against my sudden seriousness, “but he told me enough about you to start me digging.”
“And?”
“Mr. Milodragovitch,” she said, turning to face me, “I mostly do criminal work. I know cops. I know crooks. And stories get around.”
“What the hell do you want?” I asked, tired and angry now. What I really wanted even more than an answer to my question was another blast of that pure cocaine.
“I want you to sit down and listen to me for a moment,” she said, her head bowed, then raised into the moonlight. “That’s all. Please just listen to me.”
“So let me get this straight. Let me get this perfectly straight, okay? I don’t get laid, right? I get a bedtime story instead? Wonderful.” But I sat down anyway.
“I don’t blame you for being bitter,” she said, sitting across from me and grabbing my hands. “Just listen, please.”
“What have I got to lose? Except pride, dignity, and my bad reputation?”
“Four years ago,” she said, clutching my hands harder, “my little sister was running down by the creek when she lost her dog —”
“I don’t fucking do lost dogs these days,” I said, perhaps a bit more angrily than I meant. She released my hands, then stood up to lean against the rail, her back to me.
“Ellie is a mutt,” she said into the night, “a nothing dog, but Annette loved her. It had been a bad year. Our Daddy died early that year, and Annette’s boyfriend had — well, white boys shouldn’t smoke crack and hang around topless bars — and her favorite prof in the English Department killed himself. So when she lost Ellie, Annette went crazy.
“She stapled flyers to damn near every tree, took out a half-page ad in the paper, even tried to borrow money from me to rent a billboard …” Molly paused as if exhausted, her sigh full of some grief I didn’t want to understand, then she turned to face me.
“Eventually,” she continued, briskly now, “the man who had Ellie called, and offered to sell her back for a hundred dollars… They were to meet at the overlook above the
“Pretty stupid, huh?” she said.
“Pretty effective. I nearly fainted.”
“Please forgive me,” Molly giggled, then apologized again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m supposed to be a tough, grown-up lady lawyer, and I should have simply approached you directly, instead of coming to your bar to check you out, then making that stupid pass. I feel like such an idiot.”
“Please don’t,” I said. “Try to remember that I’m the fool it nearly worked on. And I’m beginning to feel like an idiot because I don’t know what the hell this is about.”
She paused long enough to freshen our drinks, then proceeded calmly. “The last time I was in town I was running with a lawyer friend of mine on the trail along the creek in the park,” she said, “and we passed you, and he said he had heard some ugly rumors about you… and the trouble a few years ago, when you and your partner went up against the contrabandistas in West Texas.”
“I’m not too crazy about hearing that. Who the hell told you that?” I asked, serious now. A banker and a woman as lovely as she was greedy had stolen my father’s trust before I could even spend a penny of it, mixed it with drug money in a botched attempt to make a movie. Then my ex-partner and I, with Petey’s help, had stolen it back. But not without considerable bloodshed and bruised law enforcement egos. “What did he say? And who the fuck was he?”
“I won’t tell you his name,” Molly McBride said, calm against my sudden seriousness, “but he told me enough about you to start me digging.”
“And?”
“Mr. Milodragovitch,” she said, turning to face me, “I mostly do criminal work. I know cops. I know crooks. And stories get around.”
“What the hell do you want?” I asked, tired and angry now. What I really wanted even more than an answer to my question was another blast of that pure cocaine.
“I want you to sit down and listen to me for a moment,” she said, her head bowed, then raised into the moonlight. “That’s all. Please just listen to me.”
“So let me get this straight. Let me get this perfectly straight, okay? I don’t get laid, right? I get a bedtime story instead? Wonderful.” But I sat down anyway.
“I don’t blame you for being bitter,” she said, sitting across from me and grabbing my hands. “Just listen, please.”
“What have I got to lose? Except pride, dignity, and my bad reputation?”
“Four years ago,” she said, clutching my hands harder, “my little sister was running down by the creek when she lost her dog —”
“I don’t fucking do lost dogs these days,” I said, perhaps a bit more angrily than I meant. She released my hands, then stood up to lean against the rail, her back to me.
“Ellie is a mutt,” she said into the night, “a nothing dog, but Annette loved her. It had been a bad year. Our Daddy died early that year, and Annette’s boyfriend had — well, white boys shouldn’t smoke crack and hang around topless bars — and her favorite prof in the English Department killed himself. So when she lost Ellie, Annette went crazy.
“She stapled flyers to damn near every tree, took out a half-page ad in the paper, even tried to borrow money from me to rent a billboard …” Molly paused as if exhausted, her sigh full of some grief I didn’t want to understand, then she turned to face me.
“Eventually,” she continued, briskly now, “the man who had Ellie called, and offered to sell her back for a hundred dollars… They were to meet at the overlook above the
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