Cat on a Cold Tin Roof by Mike Resnick Page A

coal-black hair, dark eyes, a black mustache, and a deep tan, either natural or from the sun.
    Suddenly he smiled, pointed his finger at me, and fired an imaginary shot between my eyes.
    â€œMarlowe,” I said as he raced off, “I think I’ve just seen my first Bolivian.”

10.
    â€œNow this is a real dinner!” enthused Sorrentino as we were eating at Carrabba’s. “Reminds me of the old country!”
    â€œCome on, Val,” I said. “When were you in the old country?”
    â€œThree, four years ago,” he said. “And to tell you the truth, their shrimp scampi doesn’t compare to this.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know why all Italians talk about the old country. If it was so damned good, we wouldn’t have come here, would we?”
    â€œI don’t know where the hell the Paxtons came from,” I said. “If they didn’t change the name at Ellis Island, I suspect we were British peasants.”
    â€œHow many generations ago?”
    â€œBeats the hell out of me,” I replied.
    â€œYou never asked?” he said, surprised.
    I shook my head. “It never interested me. Wherever we came from a century or two ago, I’m not going back.”
    â€œA man’s gotta know where he came from,” said Sorrentino.
    â€œI’m more concerned with where I’m going.” I took a swallow of my beer. “And who’s trying to stop me.”
    He stared at me and frowned. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œI’m pretty sure I saw one of the Bolivians a couple of hours ago, when I was walking my dog.”
    â€œWhat was he doing?”
    â€œJust driving his car, at maybe five miles an hour, pacing me as I walked.”
    â€œCould have been anyone,” said Sorrentino.
    â€œCould have,” I said.
    â€œBut you don’t think so?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOkay, why?”
    I aimed my finger at him and fired an imaginary shot.
    â€œHe did that?” asked Sorrentino.
    â€œRight,” I said.
    He frowned. “Doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œIt made perfect sense to me,” I said. “He’s warning me off the case.”
    He shook his head vigorously. “If he knows where you live, he knows you’re private, and that means you’re not after the killer, you’re after the money. Why the hell would he warn you off? He ought to be explaining to you that he’ll ride shotgun while you hunt for it and let you keep one-third of it. Of course, if you agreed and found it, he’d kill you, but why threaten you before you find it?”
    â€œI think he was just letting me know he’s here, and that he and his friends are going to be mighty pissed off if I find the money and don’t offer to share with them, maybe ninety-ten in their favor.”
    â€œMaybe,” he said, unconvinced. “But if he’s keeping an eye on you, why didn’t he follow you to the restaurant?”
    â€œThere are three of them. Maybe one of the others did. All I was looking for in my rearview was his BMW.”
    â€œMakes sense,” he said.
    I finished my veal parmesan, washed it down with the rest of the beer, considered having my first smoke of the day, couldn’t see an ashtray anywhere in the place, suddenly remembered that you can’t smoke in restaurants in Cincinnati, and settled for watching Sorrentino finish his shrimp.
    â€œSo what’s our next move, Mr. Detective?” he said when he was done eating.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about it,” I said. I checked my watch. “Quarter after seven. I think I can start in a few minutes.”
    â€œDoing what?”
    â€œI’m going to take my dog for a walk.”
    He stared at me. “Enough with the jokes.”
    â€œI’m not joking.”
    â€œThen what the hell are you doing, Eli?” he demanded.
    â€œLaying the groundwork,” I said.
    Suddenly his face lit up.