O Is for Outlaw

to his apartment, but he was gone."
    "Couldn't Scottie have followed you? He could have hung out in town. Once you got in your car, all he had to do was tail you to Mickey's."
    She stared at me. "He wouldn't have done that. I know you don't like him, but that doesn't make him bad."
    "Really. You told me he'd kill you if he ever found out. "
    "When I said he'd kill me it was, what do you call it –"
    "Figurative.
    "Figurative," she repeated. "Scottie wouldn't actually shoot anyone."
    "Maybe his motive was something more serious."
    "Like what?"
    "A scam."
    Thea's face underwent a shift. "I don't want to talk about this."
    "Then let's change the subject. The first time I came in, Thursday of this week, Tim was pissed off at you. What was that about?"
    "That's none of your business."
    "Are Tim and Scottie partners?"
    "You'd have to ask them."
    "What kind of business?"
    "I don't have a comment."
    "Why? Are you involved in it too?"
    "I gotta go," she said abruptly. I watched as she gathered up her jacket and her purse. She studiously avoided looking at me as she slid out of the booth.
    It was:45 when I finally crawled into bed. I woke at 6 A.M. from long habit, nearly rolling out for my jog until I remembered it was Sunday. I lay for a moment, looking up at the skylight. The sun must have been close to rising because the sky was growing lighter as though a dimmer were being turned up. I felt oddly hungover for someone who'd drunk so little. It had to be the smoky bar, the conversation with Duffy, and tension between me and Thea, not to mention the late-night theorizing and driving around at all hours. I got up and brushed my teeth, took two aspirin with a big glass of water, and then returned to bed. In less than a minute, I was sleeping again. My bladder woke me at ten. I did an inner-body survey, checking for symptoms of headache, nausea, and weariness. Nothing seemed to be amiss and I decided I could face life, but only with the promise of a nap later on.
    I went through my usual morning routine: showered, donned my sweats, and made a pot of coffee. I read most of the Sunday paper, then wrapped myself in a quilt and settled on the couch with my book. Turned out to be nap time at 1 P.M. and I slept until five. I climbed up the spiral stairs and checked myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair, as I suspected, was mashed flat on one side and sticking up in clumps on the other like dried palm fronds. I stuck my head under running water and emerged moments later with a more refined arrangement. I stripped off my sweats and pulled on a turtleneck and jeans, gym socks, my Sauconys, and Mickey's jacket. I picked up my shoulder bag, locked the door behind me, and crossed the patio to Henry's, where I tapped on his back door. There was no immediate response, but I realized the bathroom window was open a few inches, and I could hear sounds of a shower. Steam wafted out scented with soap and shampoo. I knocked on the window a familiar rat-a-tat-tat.
    From inside, Henry yelled, "Yo!"
    "Hey, Henry. It's me. I'm on my way to Rosie's for supper. Want to come?"
    "I'll be there in a jiffy. Soon as I'm done in here."
    I walked the half block to Rosie's, arriving at five-thirty, just as she was opening for business. We exchanged pleasantries, which in her case consisted of abrasive comments about my weight, my hair, and my marital status. I suppose Rosie's a mother figure, but only if you favor the sort that appear in Grimm's fairy tales. It was her avowed intention to fatten me up, get me a decent haircut, and a spouse. She knows perfectly well I've never met with success in that department, but she says eventually (meaning when I'm old and dotty, demented, and infirm) I'll need someone to look after me. I suggested a visiting nurse, but she didn't think that was funny. Then again, why should she? I was serious.
    I sat down in my usual booth with a glass of puckery white wine. It's hellish to learn the difference between good wine and bad. Henry wandered in soon after, and we let Rosie browbeat us into a Sunday night supper that consisted of savanyu marhahus (hot pickled beef to you, pal) and kirantott karfiol tejfolos martassal, which is deep-fried cauliflower smothered in sour cream. While we mopped up our plates with some of Henry's homemade bread, I filled him in on the events of the past few days. I must say, the situation didn't seem any clearer when I'd laid it out to him.
    "If Mickey and Mrs. Hightower are having an affair, her