Free The Fame Thief by Timothy Hallinan

to reinforce my words. “It would be better for all of us if you didn’t know about it. It would be best of all if you poured water on your temper and sat the fuck down.”
    Ronnie opened her mouth, closed it, and sat.
    “You let him talk to you like that?” Debbie asked.
    Sitting again, I said, “She’ll get me later.”
    Debbie tilted her head to one side, evaluating it. “And you know that, but you talked to her that way anyhow. It’s enough to make a girl envious.” She took her hand out of the purse, empty, and waved it at me. “Now, why don’t we all take three or four deep breaths and start over? Ronnie, honey, can you do that? Really, none of this has anything to do with you.”
    “I have a question,” I said before Ronnie could reply. “Why don’t we let Ronnie leave? That way, you and I can talk without worrying about what she does or doesn’t know.”
    “I’ll make a counterproposal.” Debbie smiled a smile cute enough to be on a Japanese T-shirt. “Since I have some sensitivity about people leaving my sight this early in a relationship, to do who-knows-what, why don’t I tell you why I’m here, being a weensy bit careful, and if it seems to me that we’re getting into territory that it wouldn’t be safe for Ronnie to explore, I’ll raise a hand and she can step out of the room for a minute or two.”
    I said, “Ronnie?”
    “This is stupid,” Ronnie said. “I mean, what could be that awful?”
    There was a silence long enough to learn a new language in. Then Ronnie said, “Oh.”
    Debbie lifted both hands, palms out. “I’m harmless,” she said. “You’re safe as milk. It’s a profession, not a hobby.” She looked back to me. “Are you strapped?”
    “No.” I patted my shirt and pants to demonstrate the absence of a gun-bulge. I hit the little bottles of Lunesta but kept going. “And there’s nothing in the apartment.”
    “Where
is
the gun?” Debbie asked Ronnie. She leaned over. “Whisper it to me.”
    Ronnie gave me a look that should have peeled the skin off my face, and whispered something into Debbie’s ear.
    Debbie leaned back and said, “Junior? Where did she tell me you’ve put your gun?”
    “In storage compartments. She doesn’t know where.”
    “Compartments, plural? You have more than one gun?”
    “I lead a rich and varied life.”
    “That’s why I’m here.” She put the carpetbag on the floor beside her feet, and I relaxed a little bit. “I have a problem, and I’m told you can solve problems.”
    “Who told you? In fact, who told you where I was?”
    “Do I have to say?”
    “Not unless you want help.”
    She chewed at the left corner of her mouth for a moment, and said, “Louie the Lost.”
    I said, “That fucker.”
    “I thought you were friends,” Debbie said.
    “We are. That’s why I’m pissed. Nothing personal, but most people wouldn’t be grateful to someone who handed you their address.”
    “I guess not.”
    “It’s like giving directions to the Grim Reaper.”
    She nodded. “I get a lot of that.”
    “And he didn’t even call to warn me.”
    “Well,” Debbie said, “I’m afraid that was my fault. I told him I’d—you know—”
    “Kill him,” Ronnie said. “Let’s just say it out loud, so we can finish in time for Craig Ferguson.”
    “Exactly,” Debbie said, looking grateful. “I told him I’d kill him.”
    “Okay,” I said. “So now we’re all friends. What can I do for you?”
    “Someone is looking for me,” Debbie said. “She says she’s my daughter.”
    “That’s sweet,” Ronnie said. “How long since you’ve seen her?”
    I said, to Debbie, “And what?”
    Debbie grabbed a breath, puffed her cheeks out, and then blew. “And two things. One, I need to know whether she really is my daughter. And, two, if she is, I need to know whether she wants to kill me.”

I said, “Twenty-five hundred up front, before you even tell me about it.”
    Ronnie said, “You don’t look old enough to