“Had my share,” I said. “Bunny’s the best. Of course, the worst one I ever had was wonderful.”

I pushed the tumbler across again, he poured.

“So what are you telling me?” Sammy asked. “You fell in love with a blow job?”

“You would too. Bunny’s nickname is ‘the Spoiler.’”

“How’s that?”

“Once she’s waxed your carrot, you’re spoiled for anyone else.”

“The Spoiler. That’s pretty good. But you’ve had some nice ladies. What happened to that wife you had? She wasn’t around very long either.”

“That was Brenda. Divorce. I met her when we were both on the rebound. We only knew each other about two months.”

“She sure was easy on the eyes.”

“She was. I couldn’t believe such a lovely peach would have me.”

“You’re always hard on yourself,” Sammy said.

“She didn’t stay lovely for long. Turns out she had a split personality, and both of them gave me shit every day of the week.”

He laughed. “That’s a joke, right?”

“Nothing funny about it. One night she broke a whiskey bottle on the sink and threw it at me. Twenty stitches in my arm. The scar’s under this cast or I’d show it to you. Anyway, that did it. Some things cannot be forgiven. That was expensive whiskey.”

Sammy laughed at my portrayal of love gone awry.

“She took everything we had,” I said, “which wasn’t much, leaving me only this watch.”

“Quite the heirloom.”

“Yeah, a real collector’s item. She told the judge I should have done better by her, should’ve made sure we’d have more assets that she could take.”

“Didn’t you have any defense at all?”

“I used my P.I. skills and made candid videos of her in flagrante delicto.”

“What’s that?”

“Fucking another guy. I tell you, Sammy, she had talent between the sheets. Those videos would have been too hardcore for the Internet. The judge gave her everything she wanted.”

“What happened to the videos?”

“The judge kept them.”

Sammy laughed so hard he started coughing.

“Don’t get married, Sammy,” I said when he quieted down. “Don’t set yourself up for that divorce shit. Just find a woman who hates you and buy her a house.”

“I’ve heard that one.”

“I’ve lived it.” I emptied the glass and pushed it over.

“You driving?” Sammy asked.

“I am.”

“This is the last one, then,” he said. “Unless you want me to call you a cab.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Sammy leaned on the bar. “You don’t want to get pulled over.”

“That’s okay. With these crutches I couldn’t walk a straight line anyway. Put this on the tab. How much is it?”

“National debt,” he said.

“Okay. I’ll have Willa get square with you. We got a windfall.”

“Some advice, Stan. Don’t be so quick to take the Spoiler back. She knows you’re always there for her. Let her find out what it’s like to not have you in reserve.”

“Easier said than done.” I leaned back and sighed. “The Spoiler.”

“Well then, pal, ignore my advice. It’s better for my business. You quit drowning your sorrows, and I go on Food Stamps.”

He moved to another part of the bar to talk to a couple of customers. I took my time drinking the last drink.

A fellow I didn’t know came in and sat next to me at the bar. I hoped he wasn’t looking to pick me up. I wasn’t that desperate.

“Mr. Bentworth?” he said.

I turned and looked at him. He was bigger than me—who wasn’t—and well-dressed. His nose was bent. Uh-oh.

“Who wants to know?” I said. That’s what they always say in cowboy movies.

“My name is not important.”

Nobody wants to tell me their name.

“Maybe you should get an important name. Might help with your self-esteem issues.”

He was not moved by my humor. He continued. “My sources tell me you might know the whereabouts of an old friend.”

“I don’t have any old friends. Or any young ones.”

“My old friend,” he said. “I’m looking for him, and I have reason to believe he might be living around here under an assumed name.”

“Is that better than an unimportant name?”

No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get a laugh out of this guy.

“His name used to be Tony Curro. You know him?”

“Nope. Never heard of him.”

“I figured that’s what you’d say. How did you hurt yourself?”

“Discount bungee jumping.”

He lowered his voice. “Well, you understand, if you know my friend and don’t tell me, your next jump will be without the bungee.”

“Why do you think I know him?”

“No reason I shouldn’t tell you. We got an anonymous tip  saying I should look you up. That’s all he’d tell me.”

That could only have been Vitole after I visited him. I hadn’t given him my name. He must’ve gotten my license number and had it traced.

Now I understood why Vitole had ignored my warning and demanded that Buford put the twenty grand back. If he got rid of me without outing Buford, his money train would keep rolling. Assuming I didn’t cave in and give Buford up.

All I could do for this fellow was lie. “I can’t help you. I really don’t know the guy you’re looking for.”

“Well, my family gave me the job of finding Curro. This is as far as I’ve gotten, and all I found is you. Here’s a card with my cell phone. If you think of anything, call. If I don’t hear from you soon, I might have to come calling again.”

He got up and went out the front door.

Buford got it right when he said my ass would be in the crosshairs if the mob found out we were connected. I wondered how many of his relatives this guy had told about me.

I called Rodney.

“Get your laptop going and find the GPS for this number,” I said. I read the number to him and then said, "When you find where it is, call Overbee. I’ll let him know to expect your call.”

“You got it, Uncle Stanley.”

“No, I don’t yet, but I expect to.”

I called Buford.

“Remember when you told me the mob would be on me?”

“Yes. What happened?”

“I just had a visit. I got his cell phone number. Rodney will be calling you with his location.”

“Not to worry, Stan. We’ll take care of it.”

My crutches and I limped out to the car. It was almost suppertime, but I wasn’t hungry, I wasn’t up for seeing Bunny, and I sure wasn’t going to eat anything I cooked myself. Not in this shape.

I drove home, took the bottle into the apartment, and drank myself to sleep.

Chapter 23  

The next morning I was in the office, back to normal, which was needing a shave, bleary-eyed, with a star-spangled hangover and yet another resolve to quit drinking. I sent Willa out for some V8 and vodka, Buford’s hangover cure. I sat staring at the wall until she came back, whereupon I drank two coffee cups full of the potion. Drinking a hangover cure isn’t the same as drinking, I told myself.

I told Willa to call Oliver’s for a total on my tab and to send them a check.

“And no lectures on what I’m spending, either,” I told her. “Some guys collect cars, others play golf. I count cigarette burns on the bar at Oliver’s.”

“How many are there?” she asked.

“Several more as of last night.”

“Get to work,” she said. “Earn your keep.”

I went into my office. Rodney was already there.

“I located that cell phone at an Italian restaurant in town, Uncle Stanley.”

“Did you call Overbee?”

“Yep. He called this morning and said to tell you the problem has been taken care of. Who’s Sanford?”

“The guy who takes care of problems. Let’s get to work.”

Rodney’s transcriptions of my notes onto the whiteboard were good. I had to make a couple of corrections, and they were due to my crappy handwriting.