Cat on a Cold Tin Roof by Mike Resnick Page B

“This has something to do with the Bolivian who spotted you!”
    â€œRight,” I said.
    â€œYou want him to see you again, and that’s why you’re walking the dog. OK, I got that much. But then what? You’re sure as hell not looking to get into a shootout with him. Hell, he might have both his stablemates with him.”
    â€œI leave the shootouts to John Wayne and Clint Eastwood,” I said. “Once I know he’s following me, I’m going to walk to my car, toss Marlowe in it—”
    â€œMarlowe?” he interrupted me.
    â€œMy dog. Then I’m going to drive downtown.”
    â€œAnd then what?”
    â€œAnd then I’m going to report him to the cops, who are looking for him anyway.”
    â€œHe’ll just drive off.”
    I smiled at him. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œYou know something I don’t know,” he said.
    â€œHell, if push comes to shove, I probably know three or four things you don’t know.”
    â€œJust the same, I’d better ride shotgun.”
    â€œI told you: I don’t want a shootout,” I said. “Val, I know what I’m doing. If he didn’t shoot me when he saw me walking Marlowe before, he’s not going to shoot me now. He’s just keeping an eye on me, and maybe trying to make sure I know he’s willing to shoot me under the right circumstances . . . but those circumstances aren’t tonight.”
    â€œYou’re sure?” he asked.
    â€œI’m sure.”
    â€œSo what do I do while you’re pulling off whatever the hell it is you’re pulling off?”
    â€œMeet me at police headquarters.” I told him how to get there, then checked my watch again and did the math. “Meet me there in an hour.”
    â€œAt the police station?” he said, frowning.
    I nodded. “Just walk in the door. I’ll be waiting for you.”
    The waiter came by with the check, and Sorrentino grabbed it before I could (not that I tried very hard).
    â€œI make a lot more money busting heads than you do saving ’em,” he said. “I’m paying for any meals we eat together until we find the money or give up looking for it.”
    I decided to not even pretend to protest.
    â€œI hope you know what you’re doing, Eli,” he said as the waiter made change. “Keep it, son,” he said, waving the fortyish waiter off. “How long do I wait if you’re not there?”
    â€œIf I’m not there by eleven, go to bed and get some sleep, because it means our Bolivian friend wasn’t as interested in me as we think.”
    We got up and walked to the door.
    â€œTake care of yourself,” he said, walking off to his car.
    I went over to the Ford, started it up, and headed the four miles home. Marlowe wasn’t thrilled to see me, and he was even less thrilled to be dragged out into the cold, especially since we were being visited with a freezing drizzle.
    I walked him to his favorite urinal—Mrs. Garabaldi’s petunias—but she must have been busy watching television, because for a change there was no cursing. I looked around, hoping to see a car tracking me, but there was no traffic on the street.
    â€œShow up, damn it!” I muttered. “I’m freezing my ass off.”
    So was Marlowe, who tried to pull me back to the apartment. He turned to growl his displeasure at me, got tangled in the leash, and as I squatted down to unwrap him I spotted it, parked about twenty yards away. Same BMW as before, and I could see now that it had a man—doubtless my Bolivian, or one of his partners, seated behind the wheel, just keeping a watchful eye on me.
    Marlowe saw the front door to the apartment and began tugging for all he was worth.
    â€œHey, pal,” I said, pulling him toward the car. “Wanna go for a ride?”
    He gave me a look that said, Are you crazy? and pulled back as hard as he could. Finally I just