Death by Chocolate

a
cold, and I should give it to you, waking me up like that. Why are you here so
early?” She reconsidered. “Why are you here at all?”
    She followed him as he
continued on into the kitchen. “I came over for breakfast,” he said. “Remember,
the other morning? We were gonna have breakfast together and then you made me
go to the bank and—”
    “Boy, you’ve got some
nerve,” she said, sinking onto a chair at the kitchen table. She propped her
elbows on the table and her face in her hands. “I feel like death warmed over,
and you come here expecting me to cook for you. Why I oughta— ach-oo! ”
    “Bless you.”
    “Eh, bite me. What have you
got there?”
    She noticed for the first
time that he was carrying something with him—something pink—and now he was
setting it on the kitchen counter.
    A rustling of paper... and
the smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the room, penetrating even her
stuffed-up nasal passages.
    “You brought me Pastry
Palace cinnamon rolls?” Suddenly the world seemed bright; perhaps life was
worth living, after all. “And coffee? Oh, Dirk, you’re the best.” From the
depths of the hot pink paper bag he pulled two giant Styrofoam cups. With great
aplomb he set one of them in front of her and pulled off the plastic lid. “With
extra cream, not milk, and two sugars, just the way you like it.”
    She took a sip, and the hot
sweetness soothed her angry throat. “Dirk, darlin’, I adore you.”
    He grinned. “And here we
have.... an extra goopy, super cinnamon roll with cream cheese frosting.” He
opened a small cardboard box and waved the pastry under her nose. “For this,
you should volunteer to be my sex slave. After you get over that cold, that is.
I don’t want you givin’ me cooties.”
    “I ain’t giving you
nothing, boy, with or without cooties. But, oh, this is so-o-o-o good! It warms
the cockles of my little heart.”
    He grunted as he plopped
down onto the seat next to hers and unwrapped his own breakfast. “I hate to
think how long it’s been since I had my... ah... cockles... warmed.”
    “Do you mind? Person eating
here.”
    They munched and sipped in
blissful silence for several minutes. Savannah could feel the infusion of sugar
and caffeine jump-starting her groggy system. And along with enhanced
consciousness came suspicion.
    “Why did you really come
over here,” she said, “bearing coffee and goodies? I mean, not that you aren’t
the soul of generosity, but—”
    He gave her a wounded look,
then bit off a mouthful of roll. “You’re sure a cynical old broad, you know
that?”
    “Cynical middle-aged broad.
Let’s just say that I know you. And if you’d just intended to be sweet, you
would have dropped by Joe’s Donuts, gotten a free dozen, and come over with
that. But this—” She waved a hand at the bounty. “You actually opened your
wallet and shelled out cold, hard cash for this spread. You want something. No
doubt about it.”
    His lower lip protruded
like that of a petulant kinder-gartner. The pout looked ridiculous on a
fight-scarred, streetworn, forty-something face. ‘You really know how to hurt a
guy. I was just—”
    “You wanna come over to
watch football tonight on my big screen?”
    “No, geez, you’re—”
    “Is there a fight on HBO?
You’ve really got to get your own cable, you know. Your antenna with the sheets
of tinfoil hanging from it is a disgrace. What do you get, two channels?”
    “Three, and—”
    “Or do you want me to go on
that worthless ATM stroll again with you, wear that stupid old-lady garb
and...”
    He coughed and took a quick
sip of coffee. But she had seen it—the gleam of hope in his eyes.
    She nodded knowingly. ‘Yep,
that’s it. You want me to do the decoy bit with you again. No way, José. It
ain’t happening. This girl’s got a paying gig.”
    “The thing that John set
you up with? That chocolate gal?”
    “The very one. I spent the
day at her mansion yesterday, and I’m going back this afternoon. In fact, I’ll
be living there in the lap of luxury, in the land of milk and chocolate,
earning megabucks, while you—”
    “The gig sucks, huh?”
    “Big time.” She reached
into her robe pocket, pulled out a fresh tissue and dabbed at her nose. “The
so-called ‘Lady’ Eleanor isn’t. She wants to know who’s been sending her hate
mail so that she can blow them away with the shotgun she keeps in her broom
closet.”
    “Do you have anybody you
like for it?”
    “Oh, I