Chapter 17

The next morning I didn't make it a big point to get up early – gangsters don't get up and about early, so there was no need for me to do it. I got up when I woke up, and followed the sound of an intermittent buzzing to the sewing room. Cecelia was there behind her sewing table, facing the door, running something through the machine ... I think they call the part the fabric passes under the foot, though for all I could swear to it might as well be the gooflegangle. I'd call it a foot, though, if I were naming it, since that's what it resembles. Darlia was there too, sitting in Cecelia's desk chair, with her feet on the seat, her knees sticking up, and a book propped on her thighs.

Cecelia – what I could see of her – was wearing a white t-shirt with shorter sleeves than normal which showed off her biceps. She had her hair back in its ponytail, exposing her face which once again was pure and unadorned. It was as though yesterday had never happened, that she'd never even thought of putting on all that makeup. Darlia was wearing jeans and bare feet, and what looked, behind the book, like a sleeveless blouse of some sort.

Cecelia was busy at that moment, but Darlia looked up at me. "Hi, Daddy. How you doin'?"

"I'm cool, 'Lia. How 'bout you?"

"I'm cool too," she said, and giggled. She knows as well as I do that Cecelia might tolerate our very casual speech, but doesn't necessarily like it.

Cecelia just then must have finished the seam she was on, for the machine stopped and she spoke. "If you two are too cool, I could arrange to get the heater working."

"We are too cool, ain't we, Weightlifter?"

"You bet, Daddy!"

Cecelia heaved a theatrical sigh. "I despair of ever forming my family in my image. I suppose I'll just have to settle for what I can get ... however puny that may be."

"Puny, C?" I asked. "You may not be makin' us over in your image, but I think we're startin' to have an effect on you."

"If you are, it is a tragedy." She looked at her handiwork with a critical eye. "At least the clothing I make conforms to my wishes, and if it doesn't I simply rip out the seams and start over." She looked up at me. "You don't possess rippable seams, do you, Darvin?"

I grinned. "Not hardly. With me what you see is what you get."

"I think I shall return to my labors." And she did.

I shrugged, grinned at Darlia before she returned to her book, and headed for the kitchen. The clock there said it was just shy of 9 in the morning, so it was still way too early for lunch. It wasn't, though, too early for a snack, and I could use one.

In the refrigerator I found a pitcher of orange juice, and butter. I got a loaf of Cecelia's raisin bread out of the cabinet that she uses for a bread box, and put a couple of slices into the toaster – after I cut them with the bread knife I found in the proper drawer. When they popped up I spread butter on them, and then cinnamon sugar. I sat down at the counter with my plate and my book – Bleeding Hearts just then, one of the China Bayles mysteries. Some people might wonder about me reading mysteries when I'm a PI, but I'd just finished an SF novel and wasn't really in the mood for the sequel just yet.

I ate several slices of cinnamon toast, and then made a decision. If Dog could get snotty because I happen to have a life, I could call him even if he was still asleep. At worst I'd get his voice mail – I think I'm the only man on earth who still insists on an answering machine – and at best I'd get him.

I put my plate and knife in the sink, and the butter back in the refrigerator, and grabbed the kitchen phone off the charger. We've got phones in the living room, kitchen, our bedroom, Cecelia's sewing room, and even one out in her weight shed, all on the same line. We all hate having to sprint five miles just to get to the phone before the answering machine gets it or the caller gives up.

I looked through the list of incoming calls, and found the number that had to be Dog's. I hit the button to dial it, and listened to it ring. Just when I was thinking it would go to voice mail, someone answered in a sleepy voice. "Yo."

"Is this Dog?"

"Yeah, bro, who's this?"

"It's Darvin Carpenter. You called yesterday."

"Hey, you wasn't home, bro. How I supposed to talk to you if you not there?" Cecelia would really have a fit at this guy's English.

"Well, maybe you could remember that not everybody lives to answer the phone when you call. But that's not the point. I need to talk to you. When can I?"

"Man, what time is it?" It sounded like he took the phone away for his ear – no doubt it was a cell phone, for these days a cell phone does everything for you but cook. "Hey, bro, you know what time it is?"

"I don't much care what time it is, Dog." Letting him run over me at the beginning wouldn't do me any good at all. "Just tell me when and where, and I'll be there. And then you can go back to sleep."

He didn't say anything for a moment, and I suspected he was trying to figure it out. People don't become criminals because they're smarter than everyone else, and Dog probably wasn't real good at seeing the painfully obvious – such as the fact that I was right. Finally he said, "Yeah, sure. Tomorrow, bro, anytime in the afternoon." And he gave me an address. I didn't know what it was, but I could look it up on MapQuest, and if that didn't tell me anything I had Porfirio Aragón's number still. He'd know what was there.