SWEET WAS HALFWAY through his customary breakfast--black coffee and a cigarette--when Ditts turned up on the doorstep of his rundown duplex in a fully loaded Ford Expedition the cops had seized from an unlucky methfreak with a trust fund.
"Hate to have to ask," Ditts said, "but where were you two nights ago?"
"The night Gemstone was murdered," Sweet replied evenly.
"Who said he was murdered?"
"So now I'm a suspect." Sweet took a final drag, tossed the cigarette in the dirt. "Well, I was here. Home. Alone."
"Anyone verify that?"
"No," Sweet pushed past Ditts. "And unless I'm under arrest, this being Sunday, I'm going to treat myself to the best breakfast in town."
"Sam, I had to ask," Ditts called after him. "We talked to Annie. She said she saw Jimbob the night he died. She said he left her to meet with you."
Annie, thought Sweet. Payback.
"We both know she's a scheming greedhead who'd sell her grandmother's grave for a master-planned community." Sweet dropped the red Metro into reverse and spun out of his dirt yard, a cloud of dust swirling behind him. He headed south toward downtown, running a red light by the Giant Lumberjack in hopes of losing the dark pickup he thought might be tailing him.
His head still ached from Willie's wallop. Not even 9 a.m. yet, and he was already a murder suspect.
Ten minutes later, Sweet stopped outside the Dropcloth, a squat brick tavern in a lost, decaying neighborhood somewhere between downtown and the University. It was cool and dark and filthy inside; after his second Bloody Mary and a couple more cigarettes, Sweet's nerves began to settle and he had a chance to think.
"Hey, Jasper," he asked the longhaired bartender, "ever hear of Macho Hombre?"
The question brought a smile from Jasper, whose pharmaceutical knowledge--and personal experience--were legendary in some circles.
"Oh, yeah," Jasper said. "It's got the presidential seal of approval."
Before Sweet could reply, a stunningly gorgeous brunette entered the dark bar against a blinding burst of unwelcome sunlight. She had curves sweeter than a destination resort's golf course, packaged in tight white shorts and a knotted blouse. She was accompanied by a young Mexican hombre, muy guapo, dressed in white slacks and a sport shirt, who hefted what looked like a small sledgehammer.
Sweet turned to face Annie Gemstone. When it came to the real-estate game, Annie was at the top of the heap, a real prodigy--got her real estate license before she could drive, and her broker's license when she was 18. By the time she was 22, she'd landed Jimbob Gemstone, after wife No. 3 left him--with about a half-million dollars less--during a particularly sordid weekend at the Debbie Reynolds Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas.
"What's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?" Sweet asked.
"Hello, Sam," she said with a tight smile. "It's been awhile."
It had been--almost a year, since Gemstone had first hired Sweet, back in the days when he did a little under-the-table investigation to supplement his lousy police salary. Gemstone wanted to know if Annie was fooling around. She was, of course; she was in a precariously balanced menage a trois with high-level staffers at both the treasurer's office and the state land department. Sweet had to hand it to Annie--she'd really hit the quinela, with her hands on both state money and land. Gemstone seemed to admire it, as well--after he'd delivered photos of Annie with the two men, Gemstone had just smiled and said, "Gal's got a real future in politics!" They'd separated soon after. It was the last time he'd seem Gemstone, before he'd called a few weeks ago....
Sweet looked her boy up and down, realizing he was actually carrying an ornate wooden croquet mallet with a brass plaque on the head.
"Nice trophy," he observed, taking a slug of his drink. Not even 11 a.m., and he was already half-drunk.
"Oh, Raul and I are just coming from the association's annual croquet brunch," she said. "We took first place this year."
"You always were a champion, Annie," Sweet said.
"Why don't we get a table?" Annie suggested.
They took a seat in a dim corner by a glowing popcorn machine.
"My condolences on the passing on your husband," Sweet said. "I see it hasn't slowed your social orbit."
"This was a charity event," she sniffed. "Jimbob will certainly be missed...as will you." Annie pulled out her Kokopelli-studded checkbook. "The reason I've found you here is to let you know that I'm tidying up Jimbob's affairs. And, with his death, there's no reason for you to remain in our employ. Now why don't you tell me what we owe you so we can conclude our business together."
"So that's it? Your estranged husband turns up stiff, and you don't even want to know what I was doing for him?"
"Stiff--what an unlikely description for the dearly departed," Annie said with a wry laugh. "That's why Raul makes such a good partner."
"Yeah--I'll bet he's a real macho hombre," Sweet said. "A rare bird."
For half an instant, Sweet thought he saw a wave of concern before Annie put on her perplexed look. "I'm afraid you've lost me. Now, do you have a figure? Or were you just doing this one for kicks?"
Sweet roughly calculated Gemstone's bill, then doubled it. Annie wrote the check without flinching, then held it out to him. "This does end your involvement in my affairs?"
"What if I told you I ain't ready to quit?"
"That would be unwise...wouldn't it, Raul?"
Raul grabbed Sweet's upper arm. He must have hit a nerve, because Sweet felt his arm go numb and his hand began to flop like a fish across the table. Caught off-guard, he could only watch in horror as Annie lifted the brass mallet and brought it down hard just below his wrist. Something splintered.
Not even noon yet, and he was already on his way to the emergency room.
