Lisa Scottoline - Legal Tender

“Anything that works is common.” He put a slim finger to his temple. “Let’s see, I’ve used a belt, a rubber band, a leather shoelace. Even an Hermès tie. The one with the jugglers.”

“But it was just like the balloons on your desk. The same color.”

“You can buy them in Woolworth’s! You should see the sleazoids buying those balloons. None of them are making giraffes with them, believe me. I had nothing to do with any death.”

“But you were angry at Bill for protesting the AIDS vaccine.”

“I didn’t even know the kid! I wouldn’t kill him for that! I’d have to kill every Republican in sight.”

Still. My stomach was tense. “Where were you two nights ago?”

“Where I am every night. Getting high with Ramon, my little Speedy Gonzales.”

“Really?”

“ ‘Here Today, Gone Tamale.’ 195-Oh, who cares?”

“Sam-”

“I mean it. I’m telling the truth.”

I looked at him, near collapse in the saggy middle of the couch. “Sam, did you kill Mark? For the fees?”

“No, Bennie, I told you I didn’t, that day in my office!”

“You also told me you didn’t need the money, and you’re a drug addict.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m guilty of every murder in the city!” He leaned forward urgently, seeming to summon all the strength in his body. “You don’t get it, Bennie. If you’re hooked, you need money now. This second, this instant. I don’t need money a year from now or whenever Mark’s will gets probated.”

“What about the time you’d bill, the income from that?”

“Too late. I need cash, cash, cash, cash, all the time. You don’t invoice for dope money, chica. ”

“With the trustee’s fee, every year-”

“I’m in no shape to manage a trust! I can’t even manage my own life!” His eyes glistened. “I didn’t kill Mark. I swear to God.”

I considered it. Was Sam lying or wasn’t he? He looked like he was in pain. He’d been my friend as long as I could remember. I couldn’t be sure, but I felt that I could trust him, for the moment. At least draw on his expertise to help figure out what had happened to Bill. So I told him the whole story, about how there were no tracks on Bill’s arm, and what Mrs. Zoeller had said. When it was over, I asked him what he thought.

“It sounds like a setup to me,” he said. “Though I’ll tell you this-the last person to believe you’re a junkie is your mother.”

“Or your best friend.”

He looked sad. “I really am sorry, Bennie. I never wanted to get you in trouble.”

“Does your mother know?”

“You think I want to kill her? She knows I’m gay, that’s enough.”

I thought of Sam’s lifestyle, a gay man, maybe even sharing needles, exchanging high-risk blood. “From the looks of it, I think it’s yourself you want to kill.”

Sam’s anguished eyes found mine, and he didn’t disagree.

Later, I bundled him into his bed, now a bare mattress with one of the most exclusive views in the city, overlooking Rittenhouse Square. Where the night table had been were pizza crusts, overflowing ashtrays, and other trash.

I set about cleaning the place while Sam fell into an exhausted sleep. Jamie 17 kept me company and I went from room to room sweeping and vacuuming, just as I had cleaned my own apartment after the cops searched it. I’d gone from relentless slob to white tornado in a matter of days and hated every minute of it.

As the night wore on and Sam woke up, the singing turned to persuading, then pleading, then yelling. I hugged him, ordered him food, and threw him into the mildewed shower as Jamie 17 scampered out of sight. Anything to get him through the night. I made him throw out all the drug paraphernalia from his hiding places; an array of bloody needles, spoons, and stuff he called his “works.” I turned the place upside down, with him screaming at me, crying, begging me to stop. But I didn’t listen and he finally gave in.

I lost track of time and at some point I called a drug hotline as Sam raved in the background. They walked me through it-sweats, shakes, and nausea-from wherever they were to wherever I was. At the other end of the phone line was a kind, knowing soul who stayed with me and Sam through the darkness, asking nothing but to help.

By the time dawn came around, Sam had slipped into the soundest sleep I’d ever seen, sounder than Jamie 17’s at his feet, right through two calls from Ramon. The waiter’s third call sounded panicky and it was clear it wasn’t love he wanted. I hung up the phone.

When dawn finally broke, I rose from my spot on the hardwood floor and stretched, looking out the window over the Square. Every muscle in my body ached, but the scene was beautiful, Sunday morning quiet. The streetlights were still on around the Square, glowing dimly in the hazy gray morning. The green wooden benches were empty, even of the homeless. To my left twinkled downtown Philly, but the Silver Bullet seemed far away, draped in the mist. On the right were the classy rowhouses south of the Square and the backstreet that used to be ours, at R amp; B. I thought of Mark, then Grady.

Grady. I wondered how he was. I looked at the phone, off the hook on the floor beside Sam and Jamie 17. It was a chance, but I wanted to talk to him. A fugitive needs her lawyer, doesn’t she? The dawn I left him was exactly like this one. How many days ago was that? The truth was, I missed him. I picked up the phone and dialed him at home.

“Wells residence,” breathed a woman’s voice, in a soft whisper.

It took me aback. I squeezed the receiver in my hand. His old girlfriend? Another woman?

“Hello?” said the woman. I could barely hear her.

Good-bye, I thought, and hung up.

Sunday morning dawned and I spent it taking care of Sam, who cried, slept, showered, and babbled a Foghorn Leghorn cartoon in a continuous loop. I’d wanted to read the newspapers to track what the cops were saying about me, but the news agency had long ago stopped delivering to Sam’s condo, their bills unpaid. I tried not to think about Grady, which wasn’t hard since my hands were full with Sam, who swore he wanted to get clean.

“For real?” I asked, making him a slice of toast, the only food I could find in the apartment.

“I’m ready to kick. This is it.”

“You’re halfway there, Sam.”

“I’m no longer a duck amuck. That’s 1953, by the way.”

“Stop with the cartoons.” I put the toast on a freshly washed plate and set it in front of him as he rested on his elbow at the counter. “I told you.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam waved me off with a trembling hand. His eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses, his skin a saffron hue, and his frame almost anorexic now that he was out of his tailored suits. “I thought you liked the ’toons, Ben. Why are you so cranky all of a sudden?”

“I decided you’re using cartoons as a facade. You hide behind your humor, you don’t want to face reality. I saw it on Sally Jessy.”

He rolled his eyes. “Did Ramon call?”

“Forget about Ramon. He’s a bad influence on you.”

“Of course he is, that’s what I like about him. So did he call?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not letting you play with him anymore.”

“You taking over my care and feeding?”

“Bingo.”

“I hope you’ll do better with me than with Jamie 17. She’s too skinny.” His eyes followed the cat as she walked back and forth on the floor, rubbing against his stool at the kitchen counter.

“I gave her a Snickers yesterday,” I said defensively.

“She needs real food.”

“When it gets dark I’ll go out and get some food for both of you.” I brushed the toast crumbs off my hands in the small, modern kitchen. It was spotless from my cleaning last night and so bare it looked like no one lived there.