Silver Linings

instantly.
    “So you and my old buddy Hugh, here, are going to tie the knot, huh?” Silk reached for a third helping of salad and bread.
    “Right,” said Hugh.
    “We're thinking about it,” Mattie demurred.
    Hugh scowled at her, but she appeared oblivious. He reached for another bottle of beer, started to drink straight from the bottle, and then remembered his manners and poured it into a glass.
    “More pasta, Silk?” Mattie smiled and held out the bowl.
    “You bet.” Silk reached for the bowl. “This is the fanciest spaghetti I've ever had, although I got to admit I've come across some pretty interesting noodle things in places like Malaysia and Indonesia. I remember one dish of rice noodles and peanuts and hot peppers that—”
    Hugh kicked his friend under the table. Silk gave him a reproachful glance. The problem with Silk was that he usually meant well, but he did not always know when to keep his mouth shut. As far as Hugh was concerned, the less said about Indonesia and other exotic locales from their shared pasts, the better.
    “I think I know the dish you're talking about,” Mattie was saying. “It uses lemon grass and coconut milk, doesn't it?”
    “Uh, yeah,” Silk said, eyeing Hugh with a sidelong glance. “Something like that.”
    “I've made it myself, once or twice. Tell me, how many paintings do you have completed and ready for purchase?” she asked.
    Silk shrugged. “Who knows? Probably a couple dozen or so. I can get some back from Miles at the Hellfire if you want 'em. You really serious about taking 'em back to Seattle?”
    “Deadly serious,” Mattie said.
    “Dang. What makes you think you can sell 'em there? I can't hardly give 'em away around here.”
    “Probably because the general level of artistic taste here on St. Gabriel is pathetically low,” Mattie said dryly. “Most of the art I've come across so far has been the sort one finds on the girlie calendars hanging in the offices of Abbott Charters.”
    “Now, hold on,” Hugh interrupted. “I didn't hang those up. Ray and Derek did that.”
    Mattie gave him a skeptical look and turned back to Silk. “Don't worry, Silk. I can sell your work. Guaranteed.”
    “What makes you think folks back in Seattle will think my work is worth a lot of money?”
    “They'll think it is worth a great deal of money because I will tell them it is worth a great deal of money,” Mattie explained very gently.
    Silk's eyes widened appreciatively. Then he gave a great shout of laughter. “I like your style, Mattie Sharpe. Something tells me you and me were born to do business together.”
    Hugh was about to comment on the unlikely friendship budding before his eyes when the phone rang. He got up reluctantly to answer it. The only calls he ever got were business calls, and he really didn't want to take one right now. The only problem was, he could hardly afford to ignore one.
    “Abbott Charters,” he said automatically, his eyes on Mattie and Silk, who were engaged in an animated discussion on the subject of art gallery contracts.
    “Abbott? That you?” The voice was low, rasping, and familiar.
    Hugh was suddenly paying full attention to his caller. “This is Abbott.”
    “It's me. Rosey. Remember me?”
    “Yeah, Rosey, I remember you.”
    “Remember what you said? About being willing to pay big bucks for some info?”
    “The offer's still open.”
    “Good.” There was gloating satisfaction in Rosey's rasping voice. “I'm here and I got what you want. I think. But it'll cost you, pal. This is dangerous stuff.”
    “You're here? On St. Gabe?”
    “Yeah. Got in this afternoon. I been lyin' low, waiting to see if I was followed. But it looks like I'm in the clear. I've done some checkin' around. Know that old, abandoned warehouse just north of town? Right near the beach?”
    “I know it. Lily Cove.” Hugh realized that the conversation at the table had ceased. He looked across the small room and saw that Mattie and Silk were both watching him intently.
    “Meet me there in half an hour.”
    “All right.”
    “And Abbott?”
    “Yeah, Rosey?”
    “Bring cash. A thousand big ones.”
    “Christ, Rosey, I'm buying information, not a bridge.”
    “This information is worth it. If you don't want it, I can sell it somewheres else.”
    “Come on, Rosey. We both know you're bluffing. Who else would want this kind of information?”
    “I don't know yet, but I got a feeling there's more than one guy who'd pay for what I've