Molly Brown by B. A. Morton Page B

with the birds, had made a nest of her own with her coat, some discarded newspapers and a couple of dust sheets. He squatted down and flicked through the rest of her drawings, noting the empty candy wrappers and soda can. Alongsid e the book he’d returned to her were at least four more different copies of Oz. Connell smiled; it seemed this little bird was a regular magpie. She’d been making some new bookmarks too. The tin man and the scarecrow peeked out at him from within the pages. He stood slowly, unsure of what to do next. She wasn’t here, but he figured she’d be back, and in the meantime he had stuff to do. He withdrew slowly, careful not to upset the silent birds.
    He was halfway up the basement steps when he slowed to a stop, pulled back by a sudden realization. The pink pajamas , which he’d last seen at Molly’s apartment just prior to his strange encounter with the zapper guy, were now folded neatly alongside her coat. Either Molly had been in the apartment while he’d been laid out on the floor or she was acquainted with his attacker.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    “Tommy, you’re kidding me, right?” Marty took in his buddy’s appearance with a shake of the head. “You got me dressed like I’m going to my own mother’s funeral, and there you are looking like you’ve just stepped off stage with your damned guitar and a harem of fans.”
    Connell peeled himself away from the wall, ran his hand through his hair and gave Marty a wide grin. “I’m in disguise ...”
    “I thought this was a business meeting,” muttered Marty, stepping into the lobby of Frankie’s building and holding the door ajar.
    “Well, yeah, but I’m just not sure yet whose business we’ll be discussing. I figured I’d keep my cunning detective skills under wraps for now.”
    “Ex-detective skills.”
    Connell pressed for the elevator and watched as the light on the panel blinked its way down to meet them. “Private consultant , actually. Get with it, Marty, you’re way behind.”
    Marty stifled a snort. “Sure, buddy. I s that some kind of secret agent shit where you loiter around on street corners for Gerry Gesting, ‘cause, you know, there’s another name for that?”
    “Ha ha, insult me all you like. I’m on a mission, righting wrongs.”
    “Yeah, and I suppose you have the Lord on your side ...”
    “Damn right.”
    Connell maneuvered Marty ahead of him into the elevator, leaned himself against the brushed steel wall and waited till the doors slid together with a swish. “Okay, here’s the deal. All you gotta do is stand around and look official. Kind of good cop, bad cop routine.”
    “Only neither of us are cops ...”
    “Details, Marty, details. In this instance you’re here to add some integrity to the picture. Frankie’s going to take one look at my sorry cowboy ass and think he can pull some shit. Then he’s going to take a look at you and think, Now why has this no good scroat brought his legal eagle with him? It’s going to rattle him a little and I want him rattled, ‘cause he’s up to something and I need to know what that is.”
    “Scroat?”
    “Yeah, it’s one of Lizzie’s Briticisms. It has a certain ring to it.”
    Marty shook his head. “You think I look like a lawyer?”
    “Sure you do. You have that shifty look about you.” Connell reached out and straightened Marty’s tie; cocked his head and nodded his approval.
    “Gee, thanks, buddy. So, tell me again why we’re here exactly.”
    “You know why. Y ou’re the one who dragged Frankie into all of this. I’m snuffling around after bent cops and Frankie’s left his stink all over the place. He knows I’ve got the snout of a bloodhound, and being the curious guy he is, he has a need to know what I know.”
    “And naturally you need to know what he knows?”
    Connell scratched his head and looked at him. “Yeah, it could get complicated. So, like I said, just stand there, look official and let me do the