Free Hot Rocks by Randy Rawls

have any other source of information. What the hell. I’d bargained for a bigger pig in a poke. “You get her license number, and I’m good for a hundred bucks. But no pay until I verify the plate.”
    “Easy money,” he said, pushing his untasted coffee aside. “Now I gotta get back on my corner. I leave it too long and some asshole will grab my spot.”

fourteen
    My homeless recruit walked away, leaving me to wonder if he was dependable. No reason he should be except the promise of a hundred bucks. I’d have to be careful. I figured he’d feed me information. The only thing in question would be its accuracy.
    I sipped my latte and kept an eye on the folks walking through the area. Not much chance I’d spot Ms. Garcia, but maybe lightning would strike. Besides, with my social life, I had nothing better to do. I could kill more time here, then find some place in the area to have dinner. Maybe in another strip mall. Mr. Homeless said there was a bar nearby. I pictured Ms. Garcia nursing a cold one, waiting for some mysterious man to show up—her accomplice in crime. Or I could walk up the street and hit the ice cream parlor. Maybe Ms. Garcia was a freak for a soft cone or a dish of rocky road. Plus, for some reason I couldn’t identify, I pictured a hot fudge sundae with my name on it.
    A cell phone rang. I looked at my purse, waiting for a second ring. I usually carried it there, but with the way things had gone in the last couple of days, who could say. It might be off in la-la land, or the police station with my primary revolver. The phone’s soft sound echoed again from the bag, penetrating the leather. Amazing. At least one thing was normal in my world. I fumbled it out and gave the caller ID a quick glance. Not familiar. “Hello.”
    “Ms. Bowman? This is Dr. Rasmussen. I’m driving home, so thought it would be a good time to check in on my favorite patient. You are the one I gave a pedicure, aren’t you?”
    The mood behind his words came through loud and clear. His jocular tone was wonderful medicine. “Yes, and I’m unhappy with the color. Black and blue does not become me. Do you guarantee your work?”
    “Hmmmmm. I’ll have to check with your insurance. I view pedicures, like lobotomies, as irreversible. No do-overs allowed.”
    I chuckled, couldn’t help myself. “Thanks, Doc. You may be just what the doctor ordered.”
    “Oh, bad. Leave the funnies to me. How do you feel? I could swing by and check that lump if it’s bothering you.”
    “I have a better idea,” I said, feeling emboldened. “If you’re off work, you could buy me a sundae. I checked my horoscope this morning. It said eating hot fudge with a person in the medical profession would give me long life and utter brilliance. I’m on Military Trail in Boca Raton, and there’s an ice cream parlor calling to me.”
    “That bump on your head must have made you clairvoyant. That’s what I’ve been craving—ice cream, a banana split. Give me the address.”
    I did, and he came back with, “I know where the place is. Used to know a delectable Jamoca that chilled out there. It’ll take about thirty minutes in this traffic. How about you?”
    “I’ll be waiting. Heck, I’ll even buy. Since I have to pay your tab on the installment plan, this can be the first payment.”
    Soft laughter answered me. “Thirty minutes. I’m crazy about hot fudge and women who eat sundaes.” He disappeared from my ear.
    I felt myself smiling, my body relaxing, the tension of the day draining away. My problems hadn’t changed, but I felt better. Since I’d never met a doctor who made house calls, much less ice cream parlor calls, I wondered if Dr. David Rasmussen had another reason for phoning. Hell, I hoped he had another reason for phoning. It was worth the price of a banana split to find out.
    _____
    We settled at an outside table covered by an awning to protect our ice cream from the sun, he with his banana split and I with my hot fudge