Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

can both use some food.”
    She sat on one of the folding chairs, the metal cold on her thighs. “Any coffee?”
    He put two cups in the microwave. “Coming up.”
    “Stale Starbucks, huh?”
    His eyes were on the door. “Someone’s out there. Go back to the bedroom.” Out came the gun again.
    She took the half-eaten bagel with her and closed the bedroom door. Izz whined and scratched, pushing at the closed door. She picked up the dog and waited. But Izz wriggled and when set down, squeezed out the door.
    “I told you she was okay.” Silvestri sounded exasperated.
    “I had to see for myself.” Izz barked. “Hello, little darling.”
    “How’d you get up without buzzing?”
    “A babe named Patrice. Said she’s your bosom buddy, Silvestri. Some bosom.”
    The voice. She recognized it. She really did. She threw open the door. “Carlos!”
    “Oh, Birdie, Birdie.” He wrapped her in an enormous hug, held her at arm’s length, covered her face with kisses. He was dark haired, and slim, her height, but with the build and musculature of a dancer. “You scared the shit out of us, my love.”
    “So I’ve been told.” Carlos being here made it right. She was utterly safe with him.
    “How come you know him and don’t know me?” Silvestri took the half-eaten bagel from her and dropped it on the paper plate.
    Carlos grinned. He said, with a mincing lisp, “No excess sexual baggage with me, Silvestri.”
    She laughed.
    “What happened to your hand?” Carlos said, touching the bandage.
    “Blisters from the on-tap handle.” When he looked confused, she added, “I got a job bar tending.”
    “You?” He was convulsed.
    “My God, what day is this?”
    “Saturday.”
    “I have to go in at six o’clock tonight.”
    “No way,” Silvestri said.
    “I have to. Wally’s all alone there. On a Saturday night. I can’t do that to him. Don’t argue with me, either of you.”
    “She’s back,” Carlos said.
    “I guess I’ll be sitting on a bar stool most of the night,” Silvestri said.
    A buzzer sounded. She caught the look between Silvestri and Carlos.
    Carlos steered her back to the bedroom while Silvestri flattened himself against the window frame and looked down at the street. “It’s Metzger.” He pressed the button releasing the downstairs lock.
    The spicy smell of Jewish deli preceded Metzger into the room.
    He handed Silvestri a fat shopping bag and set the other on the floor near the door along with the roll of newspapers he’d wedged under his arm. “Leslie,” he said, his basset hound eyes brimming. “You are a joy to behold.”
    Silvestri squinted at his former partner.
    Moved by Metzger’s reaction, Leslie stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.” She looked back at Silvestri. “If I had, maybe Zoey would still be alive.”
    “Carlos Prince,” Carlos said, putting out his hand.
    “Artie Metzger,” Metzger said, “You’re the choreographer. My wife’s a big fan.”
    “Right. Birdie and I started out as gypsies together.”
    “Gypsies, yes.” She felt overwhelmed. “I have to sit down.” She sank onto the folding chair.
    Metzger sent an inquiring look to Silvestri, who said, “Carlos is okay.”
    “Damn straight. Well, not really.” Carlos gave Leslie a wink and looked around, seeing the apartment for the first time. “You need a decorator, Silvestri.”
    “From Katz’s, pastrami, corn beef.” Metzger began unloading the shopping bags onto the card table. “And a couple of pounds of coffee, milk, cigarettes. In for the long haul.”
    They settled down at the table brimming with corn beef and pastrami sandwiches on rye, mustard, sour pickles, kraut, potato salad. Silvestri had made coffee, but they were drinking beer and the coffee would come later.
    She remembered the newspapers, but they weren’t near the door where she’d last seen them.
    “So what do we have?” Metzger asked.
    “The girl, Zoey, is dead, murdered last night.”
    “Because of me.” Izz was a warm weight in her lap, her nose twitching over the food odors. “They’re looking for me. She had epilepsy. They beat her up and maybe caused a seizure. They think I have something and they want it.”
    “Probably thought she was Les. Same size and coloring,” Silvestri said.
    “What do they think you have?” Carlos mumbled through his corn beef.
    “I don’t know.”
    “And why’d you dye your hair?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t even know I was a