The Bad Kitty Lounge Read Online Free PDF Page A

this a foot?”
    â€œIt’s a hock,” Mom said. “Eat it.”
    He did.
    She said nothing about Holy Trinity during dinner, but I caught her watching me like she’d seen cracks in my surface and worried about them getting bigger. After we cleared the plates, she poured coffee and asked Jason to take out the garbage.
    She put both elbows on the table and rested her chin on thebacks of her hands. “Why were you at the church when Judy Terrano got killed?”
    I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “I wasn’t. I came afterward. I was working for her assistant, the man who shot himself. A divorce case.”
    She sighed, too, like that relieved her. But she said, “Did you have your gun?”
    My Glock 23 had been sleeping in my glove compartment all day. “This was a divorce—”
    â€œYour father would have had his.”
    â€œPlease don’t,” I said.
    â€œHe would have.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t, because cops don’t work divorce cases.”
    â€œHe worked North Side, South Side, and West Side, but wherever he worked he took his gun.”
    â€œCan we change the subject?”
    â€œNo, we can’t. These people—these people you’re working with are dangerous.”
    â€œMom,” I said, trying my best, “these people are a nun and her assistant. Something went wrong today, and it’s sad and ugly and all that, but it didn’t happen because they’re dangerous.”
    She glared at me like I was mocking her. “I know who they are. Do you know Judy Terrano’s background?”
    â€œI was working for her assistant, not her.”
    â€œAnd what do you know about him?”
    I knew a large caliber bullet had taken off the bottom half of his face. I knew he shot himself, or, if he didn’t, Eric Stone did. I knew he burned a $65,000 Mercedes. I knew he loved his wife. “Nothing,” I said. “But Judy Terrano was a nun.”
    â€œI know what she was.”
    Jason came in from dumping the garbage, and our talk ended.Over dessert, Mom went back to watching my face for cracks. When she kissed me good night, she whispered, “Always carry your weapon.”
    â€œCome for dinner on Friday,” I answered.
    â€œI don’t eat takeout,” she said.
    â€œI’ll cook.”
    She kissed me again. “I’ll eat beforehand.”
    Jason and I got back to my house a little after 10:30. As soon as he’d changed into his pajamas, I made a show of looking at my watch and announced, “Bedtime.”
    He shook his head. “From now on I’m going to stay awake at night.”
    â€œLike an owl?”
    He nodded.
    â€œAnd for your two A.M . lunch, you’ll eat what?—mice?”
    â€œI’ll call out for pizza.”
    I picked him up over my shoulder.
    He laughed. “What are you doing?”
    â€œI’m carrying you to your room. It’s time.”
    I dropped him on his bed and turned out the light. When I got to his door, he said, “Did you know aphids can have babies thirty times in one summer?”
    â€œGood night, Jason,” I said.
    â€œI saw you on TV this afternoon.”
    I flipped back on the light. “You and everyone else.” I sat on his bed and told him what had happened at the church, told him how sad it was when such things happened, reassured him that he was safe. He took it all in and his eyes said he understood it the way I would have hoped.
    I flipped off his light and said good night again. When I reached his door, he said, “Joe?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCan I ask you a question?”
    â€œAnytime.”
    â€œWhy did you ram those news vans?”
    Â 
    I ROLLED AROUND IN bed, sleepless. When I closed my eyes, I saw Greg Samuelson, bloodier than a dead man, stretched across Judy Terrano’s desk, a gun inches from his fingers. I saw Judy Terrano stretched across the floor, a big black cat tattooed on