Mean Woman Blues

phone. “I don’t need this shit.”
    Unsure what the agent had told him, Skip waited.
    Steve said, “My fuckin’ dog’s dead.” It wasn’t a way he talked at all; neither the profanity nor the pure childishness of the statement sounded anything like him.
    Hoping for a laugh, she said, “Such a lovely animal too.”
    Steve got up and stomped into the house.
    Shocked, she phoned Shellmire back. “What on Earth did you tell him?”
    “First, I said not to call animal control or anything, that we’d send over our own guys to get the dog an autopsy and investigate the scene. After that I did my standard bit about taking the threat seriously, blah-blah-blah and etc.”
    “Oh. Guess that was the part that got him.”
    “I’ve noticed your average macho guy gets a little sideways over that kind of stuff.”
    Skip was silent.
    “See, they hate things they can’t control. So they just pretend it isn’t happening. If you bring it up, they shoot the messenger. That’s how my wife tells it, anyhow. That what’s happening?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “Not good, Skip; that makes him vulnerable. But the good news is, sometimes they sleep on it and get over it.”
    The bad news, in her opinion, was that unless Steve got over it soon, he wasn’t going to be sleeping on it with her. She went inside to wait for the FBI and see what she could do to save the situation.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Mr. Right was pleased as punch with the success of his television show. He was helping people. He was getting to know people, influential people, some of whom he was related to by marriage. Every week he made more of an impact. The show got more and more letters, more and more volunteers to go on camera, more media attention every day.
    Truth to tell, he was a lot more than pleased. He was so excited he could bust as he might have said in the old days, the pre-Henry Higgins days, as Rosemarie called his former life. He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant but he didn’t argue with Rosemarie, for any reason, because some day he might have a reason, and he was damn sure going to pick his battles carefully.
    This thing he was doing, this Mr. Right thing, was snowballing so fast he could see it going all the way. Absolutely all the way to the top. There was really no reason why it couldn’t. Even his fingerprints were different now; aside from dental X-rays, there was no way in hell to connect David Wright with Errol Jacomine.
    He was changing his persona too. In all his previous careers— preacher, politician, and guerrilla fighter for justice— the last thing in the world he’d cared for was material things. Now he relished a well-cut suit, a good cigar. The joy of fine cognac was something he wished he’d discovered years ago, and yet it wouldn’t have been appropriate. Wouldn’t have fit into his lifestyle. It fit into this one just fine. Though he was just thinking that perhaps his littered, cheaply paneled office no longer did. Maybe he could get Karen to come down and work some magic on it. He had a moment to assess it because Bettina was late with her call.
    They had to make dates with each other because it was so difficult for her to get to a phone. Messages didn’t work at all. If he missed her call, he might miss something crucial.
    Mentally, he improved his surroundings while waiting for the ring of his cell phone— an instrument in the name of Cecil Houseman, a man who existed only on paper. By the time it finally pealed, he’d worked up a backlog of resentment.
    “Can’t you do anything right?” he asked by way of greeting.
    “Daddy, I’m sorry. Had to be careful. Fat man follow me the other day.”
    “What the hell you talkin’ about?” He still dropped his g’s when talking to his flock.
    “Pretty sure of it. I seen him twice. After Devil Woman come see me.” Langdon, she meant.
    “He follow you today?”
    “Nooooo, sir. I be sure he ain’ follow me today. Tha’s why I be a little late.”
    “Not a little late, Bettina. Six minutes late.” He switched gears quickly. “Langdon dead yet?” He knew she wasn’t or Bettina would have already told him.
    “Well, Lobo, he…”
    “Goddammit don’t use his name. What the hell ya usin’ his name for?”
    “Oh, it’s okay. See, that’s not his real name. Lobo, he say there was obfus— obcas—”
    “Obstacles. What kind of fool is he? I never want to hear that word. Ya hear me?”
    “He say he can’t get near the bitch ’cause her boyfriend’s