Free Hardware by Linda Barnes

crazies?”
    I ran through my almost nonexistent caseload. Two skip-traces that would be speeded up by the acquisition of the computer. One inconclusive store surveillance, possible clerk theft.
    Phil Yancey.
    â€œMaybe Roz is jealous,” Sam suggested.
    â€œYou think she’s got the hots for you?”
    â€œThe shrink next door. I think he’s got the hots for you.”
    â€œWhen Roz wants me dead, she’ll poison leftovers in the fridge. Did you see the guns sticking out of that van? Like Prohibition photos.”
    I turned onto a dark lane off Centre Street.
    â€œGas station with a pay phone three blocks from here,” I said, pulling over and parking behind a gray Nissan Stanza.
    â€œGood. Let’s go,” Sam said.
    â€œFirst, you tell me whose car this is. Chances are the cops will get the plate number. And somebody’s gonna talk, and we’re both gonna get roasted. I’ve got my P.I. license at stake. I’m supposed to report crimes, not assist cover-ups.”
    â€œYou’ve never kept anything from the cops before, Carlotta?”
    I didn’t bother with a denial. “The best thing we can do is call the police—”
    â€œThe car’s expendable.”
    â€œâ€˜Expendable.’” I bet Papa Gianelli used that word a lot. “Frank’s the most likely target, Sam. Why’s he living in a slum like that?”
    â€œLet’s get to the gas station,” Sam said impatiently. “I’ll carry the computer stuff. We’ll call Gloria and she’ll send a cab.”
    â€œFor chrissakes,” I said. “You’re hopeless. Good thing you didn’t go into the family business. If we’re not gonna report this, at least we gotta wipe our fingerprints off the goddamn steering wheel.”
    If you’re going to break the law, do it right.

NINE
    â€œ Theater is life .
    Film is art .
    Television is furniture. ”
    Roz, my delightful tenant, has taken to adding words to her artwork, black graffiti surrounded by swirling orange, green, and fuchsia acrylics. She field-tests her paintings by hanging them near my bed, the idea being that if I don’t puke when I see them, she might be able to sell them. Possibly she considers them more saleable if I vomit.
    She snitches most of her slogans from daytime TV soaps: “Can Catherine prove she’s Dominic’s ill-fated half sister?” “Luke and Laura ponder home decoration.” She uses TV commercials, too, did a whole series based on “It’s not your father’s Oldsmobile.” She despairs of Reebok, insists they parody themselves too perfectly for commentary.
    The theater, film, and television poster is what I saw when I came out of a sweaty nightmare. I liked it enough to wonder if she’d give me a discount.
    I could lie and say that yesterday’s shooting was like a dream. It wasn’t. It was for sure the hell real. I had achy knees and a black-and-blue spot the size of a silver dollar where Sam’s elbow had caught me between the ribs. And a king-size case of the guilts, worse than any hangover.
    A hangover, you drink a quart of O.J., step under a cold shower, hit the Y, play volleyball, swim twenty laps. If you don’t die, you’re cured. The guilts are worse. They require confession, particularly if you grew up in a Jewish-Catholic family. Probably the only thing my mom and dad agreed on was the vital importance of guilt.
    O.J. and a cold shower had no effect.
    As soon as I went downstairs I spied last night’s spoils, the hardware—keyboard, computer, and screen—on my desk. I mentally tagged them Exhibit A.
    I snagged the plastic-bagged morning Globe off the snow-covered stoop and spread it across my desk. I drank more orange juice, from a glass this time.
    The cat, T.C., rubbed against my ankles. I didn’t respond with food, so he stalked off in a huff.
    The drive-by hadn’t made the front