Free Skinflick by Joseph Hansen Page A

the music trailing after him.
    He’d forgotten to buy a can opener, but one hung off a divider between windows over the sink. Food from who knew what cans it had opened for how many years crusted the blade, but he overlooked that and cranked open a can of chili. He dumped the contents into one of his new supermarket aluminum saucepans and, while it heated, shredded lettuce with a dull, shiny supermarket knife onto a supermarket plate. He chopped up half an onion. There was no place to put the other half. He let it he, shaved strings from a block of creamy Monterey jack cheese, then sat on the floor with his back against loose cabinet doors, drank the martini, listened to the music, and smelled the chili heating.
    “You son of a bitch.” Johnny Delgado stood in the doorway. He needed a shave. His clothes needed changing, had needed changing for some days. With a lot more gray in it than Dave remembered, his hair was shaggy and hung in his eyes. They glittered black in the bad light of the kitchen. He was unsteady on his feet. He hung onto the door frame and swayed. “You fucking vulture, perching in the trees, watching them tear me up, then coming down to feast off—feast off—the fucking carcass.”
    Dave got to his feet. “I can hardly find this place by daylight.” The chili was bubbling. He set down his glass, turned the fire low, and gave the chili a stir with a shiny new perforated cooking spoon. “And sober. What kind of guidance system have you got?” He cranked open coffee, rinsed out the sections of the drip maker he’d also brought from the supermarket, and used a yellow plastic scoop to put coffee into it. He filled a pan with water and set it on a burner. “They didn’t tear you up, Johnny. You tore yourself up.”
    “You took my job,” Delgado said.
    “I didn’t take it,” Dave said. He got the lettuce out of the bin in the bottom of the fridge and shredded another plateful and put the lettuce back. “You gave it back to Sequoia and they didn’t know what to do with it, so they’re handing out pieces of it. The piece I got is what I’m told I do best—a murder case with everything wrong with it.”
    “They never tried to get me.” Delgado found a kitchen stepstool and sat on it. “They’ve got my phone number.”
    “They had one.” Dave poured the chili over the beds of lettuce. “You’d left that place. No forwarding address.” He strewed handfuls of cheese shavings on the chili, where it started to melt right away. “You also hadn’t paid your bill in a while.” He sprinkled on the chopped onion. “They told Sequoia that.” He stripped cellophane off a glossy box that held cheap stainless-steel knives, forks, spoons. Each was in its own soft plastic sheath. He tore the sheaths off two forks, laid one fork on a plate, and held the plate out to Delgado. “It made a poor impression. So did the news that you were drunk all the time.”
    Delgado made a face at the plate. “I don’t want that. What’re you trying to do? Man, that takes balls. Steal somebody’s job, then offer to feed him.”
    “I offer to feed you,” Dave said, “because you’re a friend, you’re a guest in my house, I’ve got the food, and you need something in your stomach besides bourbon. Eat it, Johnny, or I’ll put it in your hair.” He pushed the plate at Delgado and Delgado grunted sourly and took it. He fumbled with the fork.
    “This is a crazy place,” he said.
    “And that fact got it through escrow very fast.” Dave stood at the counter and ate.
    “I went over there.” Delgado tilted his head. “Where the music’s coming from. What is that place?”
    “A man taught fencing there,” Dave said. “Eat.”
    “If I throw up,” Delgado said, “you deserve it.” He filled his mouth. It opened. Chili dribbled down his chin. His eyes got big. “Jesus! Hot!”
    “Cold chili never did much for me,” Dave said.
    Tilting the plate dangerously, Delgado got off the stool, kicked it aside,