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Lions,” I said. “If that’s what you’re referring to.”
    “Did you know he was a Peeping Tom?”
    “What?” The air had been squashed out of my lungs again.
    “And an exhibitionist?”
    “Andrew?”
    “Do you address all your customers by their first names?”
    “A Peeping Tom?”
    “Howard Lepinski said you called
him
‘Mr. Lepinski.’”
    “You talked to Mr. Lepinski?”
    “I guess that answers my question.”
    “What the hell were you doing talking to my clients?” I asked, taking an involuntary step toward him. He didn’t exactly cower away. In fact, his lips twitched again. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of an imprint a Ferragamo would make on his damned sardonic expression.
    “Did you know he was a flasher?”
    “Lepinski?” The shoe drooped in my fingers.
    “Bomstad.”
    “Are you shittin’ me?”
    His brows did rise that time. I squeezed the edges of my robe together and remembered my professional image. “You must be mistaken,” I said and lifted my chin in a haughty expression of pride. Start the bonfires, the martyr was back.
    “I’m not mistaken,” he said. “And neither . . .”—He pronounced it with a hard, elongated
i
sound.—“. . . am I shittin’ you.”
    I wandered into my living room and plopped down in my La-Z-Boy. It had once belonged to a man named Ron. Ron was long gone. The chair remained. Yet another way furniture is superior to men. “Bomstad?” I asked, and glanced up at Rivera. His eyes were deep set, like a sculpture’s, and his hair was too long to be stylish. It curled around his ears in dark waves. “Andrew Bomstad?”
    “The Bomber,” he answered. “You’re not the first woman he’s charmed the pants off of.”
    “He didn’t—”
    “Then why did you send him the wine?”
    I just stared this time, numb as a cherry pit.
    “The Spumante,” he said, and stared back at me. “Did you send it to him?”
    I shook my head.
    “Did you know he had a girlfriend?”
    I nodded.
    “That bother you?”
    “I told you—”
    “There were others, too. He liked them young, mostly. Teenagers. You’re not his usual type.”
    “I didn’t—”
    “Not that I’m faulting his choice, but how did he happen to hear about you?”
    “I’m telling you—”
    “I mean, I would think a guy like Andy the Bomber Bomstad might find a psychiatrist with more . . . notoriety. But then, I guess he didn’t pick you for your diploma. And maybe you didn’t know much about his background. His handler was top-notch at keeping his indiscretions out of the papers. But you’re going to have to come clean now. I’ll keep it quiet. Make sure it doesn’t affect your business. How long had you been sleeping with Bomstad?”
    “I was not—”
    “A month? Couple weeks?”
    “Listen!” I growled and, shooting out of my ‘boy,’ stepped up close enough so I had to lift my chin to glare into his face. “I didn’t sleep with him. I never slept with him. I haven’t slept with anyone for ye—”
    He was standing absolutely still, staring down at me, an expression of near surprise on his face.
    Lucidity settled in at a leisurely pace. I took a deep breath and backed off a step.
    “I didn’t have intercourse with Mr. Bomstad,” I said.
    If he so much as twitched I was going to spit in his eye.
    “Ever?”
    “Never.”
    “Oh.” He nodded agreeably. “You have a boyfriend?”
    “Not at the present time.”
    He snapped his notebook shut and headed for the door, where he turned. “Years of celibacy,” he mused. “It’s bound to make a woman short-tempered.”
    I considered throwing my shoe at him, but I’m a professional. And he was damned quick in the face of a loaded Ferragamo.

3
    Honest friends is kinda nice, but it’s hard to beat a big-ass lie and a six-pack of brewskies.
    —Brutus O’Malley,
Chrissy’s first beau
    I ’M SORRY to bother you,” I said. I was standing rather droopily on the spacious, pillared verandah of my friend and colleague,