Deadly Dues by Linda Kupecek Page A

redolent of sardines, cat food and a brewery, an occurrence which further inhibited any conversation we might have been foolish enough to initiate.
    Once on the street, Bent turned to me, “Where is he?”
    â€œGet a grip,” I hissed into his face. “Lorraine is probably watching us from the window. Be cool.”
    â€œWhy would she bother? And could you stop shouting? It’s not very subtle.”
    â€œI was hissing. That is much more subtle than shouting.”
    I then stalked away, but in the opposite direction to the car.
    We both knew we were at each other’s throats because of shock. After a few more moments of stress, including an unfortunate argument around a fire hydrant, witnessed by two teenage boys with skateboards, attitude and more earrings than I thought possible for a human body to carry, we headed for my car.
    I felt my face flush and wondered if it was from hormones or high blood pressure. Hormones, what hormones? I couldn’t remember having any hormones since that lean and lanky stunt guy on the Land Rover commercial I had shot over a year ago. Then I had hormones galore. So maybe it was high blood pressure, and I was about to keel over. I tried to assess the likelihood of my passing out, which was an excellent diversion from addressing what we had just not seen in Stan’s office.
    Bent crawled into the passenger seat and looked at me suspiciously as I collapsed behind the wheel.
    â€œYou look sort of funny,” he said. “Sort of pink.”
    I looked over my shoulder into the traffic, before easing into the street. A Toyota honked at me in annoyance, and I realized I had nearly clipped it. So much for my peripheral vision in moments of stress.
    â€œI am not pink,” I said firmly. “I am white with shock.”
    â€œHmm, if that’s your version of white, I sure don’t want to see what you would call rosy plum,” he said, cracking his knuckles. It was hard to tell, but his skin wasn’t quite its normal shade of black either.
    I pulled around the corner into an empty parking spot, out of range of the HAMS windows, and turned off the motor.
    Bent and I looked at each other for a good minute and then screamed as quietly as we could without getting arrested. After that, we both started talking at once, which didn’t help.
    â€œWhere was he—?”
    â€œWhat happened—?
    â€œDid Lorraine—?”
    â€œDid Sylvia—?”
    Then we lapsed into silence.
    I took a deep breath, trying to be sensible.
    â€œThere is no way Sylvia would have cleaned up that mess. She’s like Pigpen,” I said.
    â€œUnless she did it while she was loaded,” said Bent.
    â€œAnd came back later when she was sober? Why not get rid of him right after the deed?”
    â€œMaybe,” said Bent, eyes narrowed, staring out the window at the dumpster lurking appealingly at the end of the alley half a block away. “Maybe Lorraine and Sylvia killed him together, then Lorraine cleaned up the mess while Sylvia dragged his body away. Lorraine loves to clean. And Sylvia loves to get outdoors for a smoke.”
    â€œLorraine would never do that.”
    We didn’t bother to say, but Sylvia would .
    We both stared out the window, deep in thought.
    â€œBut where would they put the body?”
    A banged-up old Firebird that must have been a great car twenty years ago before it was caked in rust and graffiti roared out of the alley, two scrawny kids in the front seat. It skidded slightly to avoid the dumpster, but still managed to give it a good bang, ricocheted off and disappeared down the street after a hairpin turn. The dumpster gave a little shudder and shifted position slightly.
    â€œFriendly neighbourhood drug dealers,” I said. “Where are the cops when you need them?”
    Bent was still staring out the windshield. He was really thinking hard, because his eyes were sort of glazed.
    â€œBent?” Oh no,