the rug look like I just bought it last week?”
“It doesn’t exist. You’re screwed. Face it. Dog urine on a rug like that isn’t going to come out. It’s powerful stuff. Pull up the carpet and get the floors sanded, if the stain doesn’t go down too far.” Friedman doesn’t pull punches. I could have used a few pulled punches right around then.
“You’re not helping, Mark.”
“Superman couldn’t help you. Face it, the carpet’s a goner. Come on in, Tucker, and I’ll give you a deal.”
“It’s cruel to try and drum up business among friends,” I pointed out.
“Don’t blame me. I didn’t make you go get a dog.” I glared at Abby, who was pretending not to be looking at me. She walked into the living room and started reading my script, which I had left on the coffee table. She must be feeling really guilty if she’s willing to do that, I thought. Wonder what else I can get out of it. . .
“Well, thanks anyway, Friedman,” I said. “I’ll call you if I decide to get another rug.”
“Whatever. Hey, did the Legs thing ever work out? Did you find out about the stain on the carpet?”
“Not yet, but it’s close. That bastard didn’t die the way he was supposed to, writing his killer’s name on the rug in his own blood. Would have made it so much easier to solve.”
Friedman laughed. “He never did have any redeeming social value, Legs,” he said. “No qualities to recommend him.”
“Well, he was taller than me.”
“Not really.” Friedman’s voice had a tease in it.
“What do you mean, ‘not really?’ Legs was at least three inches taller than I am.”
“No, he wasn’t,” said Friedman. “I played basketball with him once, and we changed in the same locker room.”
“So?”
“Didn’t you know?” Friedman asked incredulously. “Legs Gibson always wore lifts. That’s why his legs always looked longer than they should be. It’s the reason we called him ‘Crazy Legs.’”
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Ethan actually got up at six-thirty the next morning to walk Warren, who had miraculously made it through the night without fouling any more of our furnishings, although he did show a preference for our living room sofa over his dog bed. We solved this problem by completely giving in to the dog, and throwing a blanket over the couch in case he shed. So much for my being the alpha dog in his pack.
Now, given three days to come up with five thousand words for ten thousand dollars, I decided to forego the Y Friday morning and concentrate on work. Writing is always the least of the job—it’s gathering the information that takes all the time. And I had gathered information, all right. It just fit together like a jigsaw puzzle put together by a klutzy moose.
What I had was a theory that fit the facts I’d discovered, but no evidence whatsoever that the theory was correct. In fact, the proven information on this story would indicate to any sane person that the theory was ridiculously improbable. Luckily, there were no sane people in my office, only a freelance writer. Our usual motto is: “When the facts don’t fit, make sure you get your money in advance.” Of course, I hadn’t done that, so the facts had to fit.
Preston Burke came by that morning for his check, which I wrote out to “Cash,” and handed to him. Then, somehow Burke managed to convince me that the cast iron railing on my front steps needed to be sanded and painted, and before I knew it, he was back at work, happy as a clam, assuming that clams enjoy physical labor in the presence of the husband of the woman you think you’re in love with. You never can tell with clams.
It occurred to me that the best way to put off worrying about who killed Legs Gibson was to worry about who threw a rock into my since-repaired front window. This would be the same person who called my house periodically to make extremely general threats that were sounding increasingly weak these days. If a threatening phone caller can’t even muster up a good scare in a short Jewish freelance writer, he really should give up the pursuit and take up botany, or something.
I called Barry Dutton to see if the rock-throwing incident was still his Number One crime priority, and amazingly, it had dropped down the list. Barry said a couple of bicycles had been stolen from people’s garages, and there were numerous reports of motorists exceeding