Free Once a Mutt (Trace 5) by Warren Murphy Page B

now when I have to carry it to the incinerator.”
    “I’ll stop drinking and smoking as soon as I get back. I’ll even start carrying out the garbage.”
    “Don’t do it for me. I won’t lend you ten thousand dollars.”
    “Fourteen thousand,” Trace said.
    “Ho, ho, ho. Maybe you can make that much money writing jokes for Rodney Dangerfield,” Chico said.
    “You’re an ungrateful wretch,” Trace said.
    “Maybe, but I’ve got to watch out for myself,” she said.
    “I’m going to keep drinking and smoking,” he said.
    “Suit yourself. Since you’re going to be poor, you might as well be dead.”
    “And women,” he said.
    “What about women?”
    “I have been straight for the longest time now,” Trace said.
    “You have never been straight.”
    “If I’ve got the name, I might as well have the game. I’m going back to seeing other women.”
    “As opposed to?”
    “In fact, I’ve got a date tonight. With a beautiful redhead,” Trace said.
    “Wonderful,” Chico said. “I’ve got a date too. If we pick someplace between Connecticut and Nevada, maybe all four of us can meet for dinner.”
    “You’re not going to help me, are you? In this moment of need?” Trace said. “That’s what you’re hinting at, isn’t it?”
    “Now you’re catching on,” Chico said. “If you need the money so badly, do a good job on this case. Earn it. The old-fashioned way.”
    “Anybody can earn money,” Trace said. “I want to beg for it.”
    “Well, beggars can be losers,” Chico said.
    “You know, you’re free, piebald, and twenty-one. You can turn me down if you want.”
    “I want,” Chico said.
    “I’ll never forgive you.”
    “I’ll try to endure,” she said.
    “I’ve got to dress for dinner,” Trace said. “With the redhead.”
    “That’s odd. I’ve got to undress for dinner,” Chico said.
    “Don’t go doing anything dirty in my bed,” he yelled, but the telephone went dead in his ear.
    She probably wasn’t going to lend him the money, Trace decided as he replaced the telephone. He smoked some more and killed the bottle of vodka. He thought some more about his resources. This didn’t take much time because his resources were nil.
    All the money he had in the world was tied up in the restaurant at Oceanbright. He had no other savings and he didn’t know anyone who would lend him money. Bob Swenson had consistently refused to lend him a dime. Walter Marks was out. He would only laugh if Trace asked him for money. There was his father, Sarge.
    But Sarge wouldn’t have it. He had his pension from the New York City Police Department, but any secret savings he might have had would have gone to open up his private-detective agency. And even if Sarge had had money, it would all be in joint accounts with Trace’s mother. Hilda Tracy was not ready to lend her son anything except good advice, like Be Thrifty, Don’t Get in Over Your Head, and Walk Before You Run, and a million other stupid homilies all orated in capital letters.
    Who else did he know who had money?
    There was his ex-wife. She might have some. But to borrow money from her, he would have to talk to her and that violated an oath he had made the day they were divorced. His two children, What’s-his-name and the girl, didn’t have any money. At least he didn’t think they did. They were still little. How old were they? They were something and something. What’s-his-name was older. Maybe.
    Trace wished he believed in telepathy. He could send his ex-wife a message to lend him money. Ten thousand dollars, fourteen if she had it. He closed his eyes and concentrated, forming words slowly and distinctly inside his brain.
    “Cora. Are you listening? Please listen, Cora. I’m in the Ye Olde—that’s with an ‘e’—English Motel in Westport, Connecticut, and I am in dire need of…say, fifteen thousand dollars. Fifteen thousand, Cora. You got that? Call me now at the Ye Olde English Motel in Westport, Connecticut.