Chapter 11

My outburst is on deaf ears, though, I know. Ira will become invisible for the next two days, and then he’ll be back at his old tricks again, using my place as his: showering, eating my food, napping on the sofa—everything he does to survive as a mooch.

Three taps sound on my driver’s side window: crisp, sharp, loud. I jump in my seat and spin my head to the left, thinking I’m going to see a Russian there with the short barrel of Colt .45 pointed at my skull through the glass. It’s not a Russian, though. It’s a city cop. Southmore is loaded with them. They’re like roaches.

This roach is cute, though: black hair, Italian-dark skin, somewhat green eyes, cleft in his chin, broad shoulders, and narrow waist. I place him at twenty-nine, possibly thirty, but no older. Maybe he should frisk me and throw me up against his cruiser, rough me up a bit. Hmmmmm.

My heart settles. I lower the window.