39
Singe was having trouble concentrating. Dojango kept distracting her. He wouldn’t shut up. Which was a habit of his that I’d forgotten. Kind of the way you forget how much a broken bone hurts until the next time you bust one.
I explained, on three separate occasions, how difficult it was for Singe to follow a trace as old as Playmate’s, to explain that she had to concentrate all her attention on the task at hand.
“Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. I understand, Garrett, actually.” And thirty seconds later it would be, “This’s just like the time me and Doris and Marsha was running the bag for Eddie the Gimp, actually. If we wasn’t right on top of what we was doing every second . . . ”
I sent a look of appeal up toward Doris, whose turn it was to walk beside the cart. But it was too dark out for him to notice. So I asked, “Doris. How the hell do I get your little brother to shut up?”
“Huh?”
I got ready to groan.
“I don’t know. I just shut him out. Is he running off at the mouth again?”
“Still. I can’t get him to stay quiet for twenty seconds straight. He’s driving me crazy and he’s making it impossible for Singe to keep her mind on her work.” I suffered a moment of inspiration. “If we don’t pull this thing off, if we don’t find this guy, we blow the job. Which means that none of us will get paid.”
“Dojango, shut the fuck up. You even cough, I’m gonna slug you.” Doris waved a fist about the size of a bull’s head in his brother’s face. “Where we gonna put him when I do, Garrett? ’Cause I’m guaranteed gonna gotta do it on account of he can’t even keep his mouth shut when he’s asleep.”
“He managed to shut up when he had to that time we all went to the Cantard.”
“Yeah. But like they say, long ago and far away. And times change.”
They do indeed. I’d just gotten more words out of one of the grolls than I’d heard before in all the years I’d known them.
Dojango couldn’t help observing, “Actually, it ain’t really polite to be talking about somebody like they ain’t even there when you—”
Bop!
Doris’s blow was almost casual. Dojango rocked and wilted. His brother scooped him up and carried him like a baby.
I asked, “Wasn’t that a little harsh?”
“He ought to be getting used to it, Garrett. Actually.” Doris grinned broadly. Moonlight glistened off his snaggle teeth. “This ain’t the first time his mouth has caused us some trouble.”
“Amen, brother,” Marsha said from up front. “We gotta love the guy on account of he’s family, but sometimes . . . If it wasn’t for his connection with Cousin Morley . . . ”
“Guys, we all have relatives like that. I’ve got a great-uncle Medford that somebody should’ve poisoned a hundred years ago.”
Singe stopped. “You are quite right about Medford Shale, Garrett.” Great-uncle Medford had figured prominently in the case where I’d first made Singe’s acquaintance. “Just as you were right about me needing no distractions if I am to follow this trail. Perhaps I can have Doris knock you out, then have Marsha knock Doris out, then pray that a building collapses on Marsha.”
“Or we could all take a hint and save the chatter till later.”
“You could do that. But I am willing to bet that none of you are able.”
Was it Mama Garrett’s boy who’d said that this ratgirl desperately needed some self-confidence? She sure didn’t lack for it in this crowd.
Ten minutes later, I called, “Singe, I know where we’re going.” We were headed for the Prose homestead. Maybe Playmate’s luck had changed. Or, from his point of view, maybe he had given in to temptation. “We’re headed for the boy’s mother’s flat.”
“All right. If you think so. If you want to go there and wait for me, go ahead. I would prefer to stick to the trail. That will reveal if there were other stops he made along the way.”
A gentle admonition from the expert. I decided to heed it. The girl had a point. Suppose Playmate was headed for Kayne Prose’s place but never made it there?