Free Play Dead by David Rosenfelt Page B

back with a sack of doughnuts, jelly and cream filled, and three packages of chocolate Neccos, which she holds up triumphantly. I could send Edna out this afternoon, give her until a year from August, and she would not manage such a feat.
    “Kid,” I say to Karen, “I think you’ve got a future in this business.”

I STOP AT home to feed and walk Tara and Reggie.
    Tara really seems to like having him around, and it makes me far less guilty when I have to spend long hours away from the house. This morning I even saw them playfully tugging at opposite ends of a toy. I’m not sure how Tara will react if I get Richard Evans out of jail, so Reggie can go back to him. Of course, right now that is not exactly an imminent danger.
    As we leave the house, Willie Miller pulls up in his car. I feel an instant pang of guilt on seeing him; I have recently been of no help whatsoever in our dog rescue operation. Willie and Sondra have been doing all the work.
    I apologize for my uselessness, but Willie characteristically will hear none of it. “Forget it, man. You got another job to do; I don’t. And Sondra and I love it. You know that.”
    He has come by to update me on the weekly events, and he does so as he walks with us. Our foundation—or, more accurately, Willie and Sondra—has placed twenty-one dogs in homes this week. We average about fifteen, so this has been a very good week.
    “You did good saving Reggie,” he says.
    “Thanks.”
    “I hear you got shot at the other day.”
    “Who told you?” I ask.
    “Laurie. She’s worried about you. Getting out of the way of bullets wouldn’t be one of your strong points, you know? I told her I’d look out for you.”
    “She knows I have Marcus.”
    Willie nods. “And you have me if you need me. Just pick up the damn phone, and I’m there.”
    “Thanks, Willie. I will.”
    Willie goes off to have dinner with Sondra, and I drop off Tara and Reggie at home. I then head down to Charlie’s to meet Pete and Vince Sanders. Charlie’s is a sports bar / restaurant that is truly my home away from home. Everything about it is perfect, from the large-screen TVs to the well-done french fries, to the ice-cold beer.
    When people successfully make it through a terribly difficult emotional experience, they will sometimes credit their faith, their work, or their family for getting them through. When Laurie and I split up, Charlie’s was my crutch.
    Vince and Pete are at our regular table when I arrive. This particular table was chosen because of its proximity to four different TV screens, and it’s large enough to handle the empty plates and beer bottles that often accumulate faster than the waitress can take them away.
    We grunt our hellos, and they bring me up to date on the progress of the basketball games. They’ve placed bets that I’ve previously agreed to share, since I did not have time today to pick my own teams. We’re losing three out of four, but each game is in the first quarter. Since it’s the NBA, there is no way to predict how any of them will end up.
    Once I’ve ordered my burger and beer, I turn to Pete. “Did you find out anything?”
    He nods. “That I did. And you are not going to believe it.”
    He’s piqued my interest; for Pete to say something like that means the information is going to be stunning. “Let’s hear it.”
    “After you pay the check,” he says.
    “Come on, you know damn well I’m gonna pay. You want to hold my credit card?”
    He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m allergic to platinum.”
    Vince says, “I’ll hold it.”
    “No, you won’t,” I say.
    “You think I’m going to steal your identity?”
    “That doesn’t worry me, Vince. What scares the shit out of me is, you’ll try and trade identities. Come on, Pete.”
    Pete sighs and takes a couple of sheets of paper out of his pocket. He reads from them. “The driver was Antwan Cooper, a small-time hood from the Bronx. The shooter was Archie Durelle, ex-Army, served in