Signatures by James A. Hetley

Author:James A. Hetley [Hetley, James A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary fantasy, detective, hard-boiled, noir, wizards, police
ISBN: 9781611384727
Publisher: Book View Cafe
Published: 2015-01-27T08:00:00+00:00

XV

Okay, I’ve already told you that I don’t have women figured out. I didn’t think I’d done anything that justified Sandy’s blast. But then, I couldn’t understand the way Cash was acting, a sensible if hard-assed woman, and obviously I hadn’t known Maggie as well as I should have. That made a clean sweep, three for three. Third strike, you’re out.

I can practically see you scratching your head right about now, wondering why I put up with Sandy. Thing is, Sandy looked normal to me. I never had a baseline for normal.

I’ve already mentioned my father. Mom, well, Mom crept around the house in a bathrobe and curlers most days and drank or popped Valium or did both, except for the times when Dad finally got too much for her and she cried and screamed and threw things and then stormed out of the house. Then we wouldn’t see her for two or three days until she ran out of money and came home and Dad would slap her around a little and all was right with the world. I grew up having to get my own meals a lot. That’s how I learned to cook.

So I stared at the door for a few minutes, just standing there, wondering if Sandy would come back and apologize. Gives you a hint of just how dense I can be. Then I stirred my fat ass and cleaned up after the tornado, dumping beans and potatoes in the garbage but I managed to salvage the chicken and wiggled the drumsticks to make a good-enough guess on how much longer it needed in the oven. I hate wasting food.

Particularly good food. That curried stuffing and the spiced garlic rub she used could match up with the best of fusion cuisine, but it was probably wasted on me. She’d had a bottle of Chianti opened and breathing, a rougher wine than you’d normally serve with chicken but a good match for the robust spicing she used. Enough wine for two people, two large people, and I finished it off.

And then I locked up and set my guards and alarms, still half-expecting Sandy to come back. As fast as she could explode, she could calm down and regret that explosion just as quickly. It was as if a stick of dynamite could look around at the settling dust and chunks of . . . stuff . . . falling out of the sky and say that it was sorry. Anyway, then I went to bed and actually slept, in spite of all the crap the world had dumped on my head that day.

Of course, I paid for the wine in the morning. I don’t know why, but I can handle more alcohol as whiskey than in other forms. Or maybe that’s just an illusion, and I actually drink less when I’m drinking my drug of choice. Never felt like doing the measurements and calculations to find out which.

Be that as it may, I stumbled through my

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