O Is for Outlaw

occasion, but maybe that would change. I could feel myself getting in touch with my "inner" mean streak.
    Dixie opened a sliding glass door and we passed out onto a spacious screened-in patio. The floor here was smooth stone, and the area was rimmed with a series of twenty-foot trees in enormous terracotta pots. The branches were filled with goldfinches, all twittering as they hopped from limb to limb. There was a grouping of upholstered patio furniture nearby, in addition to a glass-topped table and four thickly cushioned chairs. Everything looked spotless. I wondered where the little birdies dropped their tiny green and white turds.
    "This is actually a combination greenhouse and aviary. These are specimen plants, proteas and bromeliads. South American," she said.
    I murmured "gorgeous" for lack of anything better. I thought a bromeliad was a remedy for acid indigestion. She gestured toward the conversational grouping of chairs. From somewhere, I could already smell dinner in the making. The scent of sautéed garlic and onion, like a sumptuous perfume, floated in the air. Maybe one of those no-name indentured servants would appear with a tray of eats, little tidbits of something I could fall on and snarf down without using my hands.
    As soon as we sat down, the man reappeared with drinks on his tray. He gave us each a tiny cloth napkin in case we urped something up. Dixie's beverage of choice was a martini straight up in a forties-style glass. Four green olives were lined up on a toothpick like beads on an abacus. We each took a sip of our respective libations. My Chardonnay was delicate, with a long, slow, vanilla finish, probably nothing from a screw-top bottle at the neighborhood Stop 'n' Shop. I watched her hold the gin on her tongue like a communion ritual. She set the glass down with a faint tap and reached into her blazer pocket to extract a pack of cigarettes and a small gold lighter. She lit the cigarette, inhaling with a reverence that suggested smoking was another sacrament. When she caught me observing her, smoke she opened her mouth to emit a thick tongue of smoke that she then sucked up her nose. "You don't smoke these days?"
    I shook my head. "I quit."
    "Good for you. I'll never give it up myself. All this talk about health is fairly tedious. You probably exercise, too." She cocked her head in reflection, striking a bemused pose. "Let's see. What's in fashion at the moment? You lift weights," she said, and pointed a finger in my direction.
    "I jog five days a week, too. Don't forget that," I said, and pointed back at her.
    She took another sip of her drink. "Stephie tells me you're looking for Mickey. Has he disappeared?"
    "Not as far as I know, but I'd like to get in touch with him. The only number I have turns out to be a disconnect. Have you heard from him lately?"
    "Not for years," she said. A smile formed on her lips, and she checked her fingernails. "That's a curious question. I can't believe you'd ask me. I'm sure there are other folks much more likely to know."
    "Such as?"
    "Shack, for one. And who's the other cop? Lit something. They were always thick as thieves."
    "I just talked to Shack, which is how I got to you. Roy Littenberg died. I didn't realize you and Eric were still in town."
    She studied me for a moment through her cigarette smoke. Miss Dixie wasn't dumb, and I could see her analyze the situation. "Where's all this coming from?"
    "All what?"
    "You have something else in mind."
    I reached down for my shoulder bag and removed the letter from the outside pocket. "Got your letter," I said.
    "My letter," she repeated blankly, her gaze fixed on the envelope.
    "The one you sent me in 1974," I said. "Mickey tossed it in a box with some other mail that must have come the same day. He failed to deliver it, so I never read the letter until today." For once, I seemed to have captured her full attention.
    "You're not serious."
    "I am." I held up the letter like a paddle in a silent auction: My bid. "I had no idea you were balling my beloved husband. You want to talk about that?"
    She laughed and then caught herself. Her teeth were now as perfect as white horseshoes hinged together at the rear of her mouth. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I hope you won't take offense, but you're such a boob when it comes to men."
    "Thanks. You know how I value your opinion."
    "Nothing to be ashamed of. Most women don't have the first clue about men."
    "And you do?"
    "Of course." Dixie studied me over the ribbon of