Free A Fistful of Collars by Spencer Quinn

the door. Jiggs whipped out some tiny device and clicked it. I heard bolts sliding in the walls.
    “Thad?” Nan called. “The manicurist is here, if you’re ready.”
    Bernie and Jiggs looked at each other.
    “Thad?” Nan called through the door.
    “Uh,” said Jiggs, “he’s, um . . .”
    “In the whirlpool,” Bernie said. “His shoulder’s a little sore.” Jiggs nodded vigorously.
    “Oh my God!” Nan said.
    “Nothing to worry about,” Bernie said. “Jiggs is just checking to see if he’s ready.”
    Jiggs did some more vigorous nodding. Then he bent down, picked up Thad like nothing, threw him over his shoulder. He stepped through the ropes, took Thad into a room on the other side of the gym. Before the door closed, I glimpsed a whirlpool bath and a pile of fluffy white towels. I made—what’s that expression of Bernie’s? A mental note? Yes. I made a mental note about those towels. A fluffy white towel can be fun to drag around, maybe something you already know.
    “Jiggs?” Nan called. “Mr. Little?”
    “Call me Bernie,” Bernie said.
    “What’s going on?” Nan said. “The door seems to be locked.”
    “It is?” Bernie said. “I’ll just step into the whirlpool room and . . .”
    Bernie didn’t go anywhere, just stood in the ring. He gave me a smile. So nice. Now I knew that everything was going smoothly.I liked to be in the picture. And hadn’t Bernie said something about that very recently? I tried to remember. But not my hardest, on account of what was the point, with everything going smoothly and all?
    “Nan?” Bernie said after a while. “Thad says for the manicurist to come back tomorrow. He wants to sit in the whirlpool and, quote, that’s that, end quote.”
    “Oh,” said Nan. “Sure. Of course.”
    “And the door’s locked because Thad didn’t want any distraction during his workout,” Bernie said. “He seems to take it very seriously, maybe with filming coming up so soon.”
    “Yes, he does,” Nan said. “For sure. Okay, then—I’ll take care of it.”
    “Thanks,” said Bernie.
    He cocked his head, as though listening for Nan’s departing footsteps. Did he hear them? No idea, but I did. There was a pause of a few moments before she actually started walking away.
    I’d never met Doc Booker before, but his brother Cedric, the DA, was a pal of ours. Cedric had been a basketball star down at the college and could have gone pro, Bernie says, but he couldn’t play with his back to the basket. A puzzler, but basketball was full of puzzlers, starting with the ball, pretty much impossible for me, despite my best efforts.
    Doc Booker, not as tall as his brother, was still the tallest human in the whirlpool room. Then came Jiggs, after him Thad, now on his feet and wearing a robe, and Bernie last, the very shortest! Had that ever happened before?
    “Love your movies,” said Doc Booker.
    “Thanks,” said Thad, only it came out more like “Danks,” what with his nose the way it was.
    “My wife would be thrilled to have your autograph,” Doc Booker said. “How about signing my prescription pad?”
    “Always the wife,” Thad said, taking the pad and pen Doc Booker handed him and writing on it. “Maybe I’ll prescribe myself a whole mess of Oxycontin.”
    Doc Booker laughed. “That’s a good one.” Bernie didn’t laugh, although the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. As for Jiggs, the corners of his mouth—not a very nicely shaped mouth, especially compared to Bernie’s—were way down.
    Doc Booker tucked the prescription pad away. “Thanks a bunch,” he said. “Let’s take a look at this situation.” He peered at Thad’s nose, extended his finger as though to touch it, but didn’t, Thad wincing anyway, said, “Totally fixable. You can either come to the hospital where I’ll get you into the OR and reset you under anesthetic—”
    “Hospital?” said Thad. “What about the goddamn media?”
    “Or,” Doc Booker continued, “if