know, so I was wil ing to take her word for it.
She took another hit. “I’m trying to get off menthol, and it’s a real bitch. I swear, I’m just inches away from trying one of those electronic things.”
“You wanted to see me about Richard Crick?”
“Yeah. Poor Ritchy. It’s so sad.” She squinted at me through the smoke haze. “The worst part is he was bringing me a picture. He said it was a special present for me, but they didn’t find it when they dug him out of the garbage can. So I was wondering if you knew anything about it, because it would be real sentimental for me. It would help with the pain of losing Ritchy.”
“What kind of picture are we talking about?”
“A picture of a person.”
“Man or woman?”
“This is sort of embarrassing, but poor Ritchy didn’t say.”
“And it’s important, why?”
“Because Ritchy took the photo. And it was, like, his last wish that I have it. And now he’s dead.” She sniffed and contorted her face like she might cry. “I just want something to remember Ritchy. Something he did for me, you know?”
“Ritchy must have been a sweet guy.”
“Yeah, and he liked photography. He was always taking pictures.”
“I’d love to help you out,” I said, “but I don’t have the photograph.”
“Maybe you have it stuffed somewhere, and you don’t even know it. Like, have you emptied al your suitcases and bags?”
“Yes. I don’t have it.”
“Okay, here’s the thing. Ritchy cal ed me from LAX, and he said he might have misplaced the photo, and he was sitting next to you, and he was pretty sure he might have accidental y put it in your bag.”
“Why didn’t Ritchy just get back on the plane?”
“He wasn’t feeling good. And then he was … you know, dead.”
“Jeez.”
“Shit happens,” Brenda said. “So where’s the photograph?”
“Don’t know. Don’t have it.”
Her lips compressed. “You want money, right?
How much?”
“I don’t want money. I don’t have the stupid photograph.”
Brenda stuck her hand into her hobo bag and pul ed out a little silver gun. “I want the photograph.
We al know you have it. So get smart and hand it over.”
I looked down at the gun. “Is that real?”
“You bet it’s real. It’s pretty, right? And it’s light. I bet you carry some piece of shit like a Glock or a Smith and Wesson. Those guns ruin your whole look.
You get a neck spasm, right?”
“Yeah, I have a Smith and Wesson.”
“They’re dinosaurs.”
“Who are you?”
“Boy, you don’t listen. I already told you. I’m Brenda Schwartz. And I want the photograph.”
“Shooting me isn’t going to get it.”
“I could shoot you in the knee for starters. Just so you know I’m serious. It hurts a lot to get shot in the knee.”
Lula swung through the coffee shop door and came over to us. “Is that a gun?”
“Oh, for Crissake, who’s this?” Brenda said.
“I’m Lula. Who the heck are you?”
“This is a private conversation,” Brenda said.
“Yeah, but I want to take a look at your little peashooter. It’s kinda cute.”
“It’s a gun, ” Brenda said.
Lula pul ed her Glock out of her bag and aimed it at Brenda. “Bitch, this is a gun. It could put a hole in you big enough to drive a truck through.”
“Honestly,” Brenda said, “this is just so boring.” And she huffed off to her car and drove away.
“She was kinda snippy, being I just wanted to see her gun,” Lula said.
Snippy was the least of it. She was a perfect addition to my growing col ection of homicidal misfits.
“She’s in mourning,” I told Lula. “Thanks for stepping in.”
“She didn’t look like she was in mourning,” Lula said. “And she didn’t look like no doctor’s fiancée.” Lula and I returned to Connie, and I cal ed Bil Berger.
“I’ve got a third party interested in the photograph,” I told him. “Do you care?”
“Who’ve you got?” Berger asked.
“Brenda Schwartz. Says she was
She took another hit. “I’m trying to get off menthol, and it’s a real bitch. I swear, I’m just inches away from trying one of those electronic things.”
“You wanted to see me about Richard Crick?”
“Yeah. Poor Ritchy. It’s so sad.” She squinted at me through the smoke haze. “The worst part is he was bringing me a picture. He said it was a special present for me, but they didn’t find it when they dug him out of the garbage can. So I was wondering if you knew anything about it, because it would be real sentimental for me. It would help with the pain of losing Ritchy.”
“What kind of picture are we talking about?”
“A picture of a person.”
“Man or woman?”
“This is sort of embarrassing, but poor Ritchy didn’t say.”
“And it’s important, why?”
“Because Ritchy took the photo. And it was, like, his last wish that I have it. And now he’s dead.” She sniffed and contorted her face like she might cry. “I just want something to remember Ritchy. Something he did for me, you know?”
“Ritchy must have been a sweet guy.”
“Yeah, and he liked photography. He was always taking pictures.”
“I’d love to help you out,” I said, “but I don’t have the photograph.”
“Maybe you have it stuffed somewhere, and you don’t even know it. Like, have you emptied al your suitcases and bags?”
“Yes. I don’t have it.”
“Okay, here’s the thing. Ritchy cal ed me from LAX, and he said he might have misplaced the photo, and he was sitting next to you, and he was pretty sure he might have accidental y put it in your bag.”
“Why didn’t Ritchy just get back on the plane?”
“He wasn’t feeling good. And then he was … you know, dead.”
“Jeez.”
“Shit happens,” Brenda said. “So where’s the photograph?”
“Don’t know. Don’t have it.”
Her lips compressed. “You want money, right?
How much?”
“I don’t want money. I don’t have the stupid photograph.”
Brenda stuck her hand into her hobo bag and pul ed out a little silver gun. “I want the photograph.
We al know you have it. So get smart and hand it over.”
I looked down at the gun. “Is that real?”
“You bet it’s real. It’s pretty, right? And it’s light. I bet you carry some piece of shit like a Glock or a Smith and Wesson. Those guns ruin your whole look.
You get a neck spasm, right?”
“Yeah, I have a Smith and Wesson.”
“They’re dinosaurs.”
“Who are you?”
“Boy, you don’t listen. I already told you. I’m Brenda Schwartz. And I want the photograph.”
“Shooting me isn’t going to get it.”
“I could shoot you in the knee for starters. Just so you know I’m serious. It hurts a lot to get shot in the knee.”
Lula swung through the coffee shop door and came over to us. “Is that a gun?”
“Oh, for Crissake, who’s this?” Brenda said.
“I’m Lula. Who the heck are you?”
“This is a private conversation,” Brenda said.
“Yeah, but I want to take a look at your little peashooter. It’s kinda cute.”
“It’s a gun, ” Brenda said.
Lula pul ed her Glock out of her bag and aimed it at Brenda. “Bitch, this is a gun. It could put a hole in you big enough to drive a truck through.”
“Honestly,” Brenda said, “this is just so boring.” And she huffed off to her car and drove away.
“She was kinda snippy, being I just wanted to see her gun,” Lula said.
Snippy was the least of it. She was a perfect addition to my growing col ection of homicidal misfits.
“She’s in mourning,” I told Lula. “Thanks for stepping in.”
“She didn’t look like she was in mourning,” Lula said. “And she didn’t look like no doctor’s fiancée.” Lula and I returned to Connie, and I cal ed Bil Berger.
“I’ve got a third party interested in the photograph,” I told him. “Do you care?”
“Who’ve you got?” Berger asked.
“Brenda Schwartz. Says she was
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