Free Changes by Charles Colyott

information is one more piece of the puzzle."
    "Thank you, Charlie-fucking-Chan," he said.
    "You’re grumpy." I said.  "See if I call you next time I find a witness to one of your damned crimes."
    He was not amused. 
    After Knox took down all of Tracy’s information, we left.
    When we were outside, I said, "Do you have a pen?"
    She checked her purse and found one.
    I didn’t have a piece of paper, so I scribbled a few notes to myself on the skin of my inner forearm.  Just in case.
    I looked up from my arm to see Tracy watching me curiously.
    "Still want to catch that movie?" I said.
    Tracy reminded me that she was still wearing an old pair of my practice pants, cinched and held with safety pins, and my trusty black t-shirt.  She asked if we could swing by her place first so she could change.
    She lived in a loft in Soulard, ten or fifteen minutes from the club.  I parked the car, and we hiked up the four flights of stairs to her apartment.  Neither of us huffed or puffed, probably due to all the cardiovascular exercise we’d gotten lately. 
    She’d painted the huge windows with a translucent paint to mimic stained glass.  One scene depicted a group of happy skeletons dancing in a cemetery.  Another showed impossibly thin vampires in capes and party masks at some sort of ball.  Still another showed a pumpkin patch in a full moon, but all the pumpkins were leering jack-o-lanterns. 
    She must’ve seen me staring.   She said, "I did those for Halloween a couple years ago, but they turned out so good I decided to keep them."
    "They’re pretty amazing," I said.
    "Thanks," she said.
    She flitted off to the bedroom to change, and told me to feel free to look around.
    Framed prints of Edward Gorey’s Alphabet hung here and there, in no discernable order, along with other prints by Gahan Wilson and Charles Addams.
    She had more CD’s than most music stores I’ve been to, and they filled numerous racks throughout the apartment and spilled over onto the nearest available flat surfaces.  The dining table and chairs stood out, painted as they were to match the night sky.  The stars, arranged into constellations, were done in glow in the dark paint.
    I heard a rasping snuffle noise and turned to see a horribly ugly creature staring at me.
    "Jesus Christ," I said.
    The thing was perched atop a cinder-block-and-two-by-four bookshelf like a wrinkly miniature gargoyle and glared down at me with yellow eyes.  Tracy appeared at my side, wearing a black tank top and baggy black cargo pants.  I felt a sorrowful twinge that those legs were covered, but I’d get over it. 
    Eventually.
    "It’s alright, baby.  He’s a friend.  C’mon," she said, patting her chest.  The horrific greyish thing jumped down onto her shoulder and situated itself.  It never stopped glaring at me.
    "Will you be offended if I ask you what the hell that thing is?"  I said.
    She gave a playful glare and said, "Randall, this is Titus Andronicus, Tito for short.  Tito, baby, forgive Randall, for he knows not what he says."
    She kissed the thing on its nose.
    Ew.
    "Okay, but what is it?" I asked.
    "Randall!  You’re going to hurt his feelings.  Tito is a cat, silly."  I could tell that on some level she was enjoying this.
    "Cats are hairy.  Where is Tito’s hair?" I said.
    "He’s a sphynx.  They’re a hairless breed."
    "Of course they are." I said.
    I normally had no problem with cats, but this thing looked like Satan.
    Tracy cocked her head, narrowed her eyes, and said with a grin, "If you want to spend any time with me, you’re going to have to get along with Tito… he’s my schmoopikens."
    "Isn’t he just everybody’s?" I said, reaching out to pet him.
    Tito inclined his head slightly, as if he had deemed me worthy to touch him.  I scratched the top of his head lightly; he felt like a warm, dry peach.
    Funky.
     
     
    18
     
     
    We went to a local pub for dinner.  Burgers and beer – maybe not the most romantic of meals, but