“So why'd you part ways with this Dickie Orr person?” Lula asked.
“He's a jerk.”
“Good enough for me,” she said. “I hate him already.”
When I was married to Dickie he worked for the district attorney. His career with them was only slightly longer than his career with me. Not enough money came out of either of us, I guess. And after I found him on the dining room table with Joyce Barnhardt I made enough noise to ruin whatever political aspirations he might have had. Our d
ivorce was everything a divorce should be . . . reeking of outrage, filled with loud and lurid accusations. The marriage had lasted less than a year, but the divorce would live on as legend in the burg. After the divorce, when lips loosened in my presence, I learned Dickie's infidelity had stretched far beyond Joyce Barnhardt. During the short tenure of our marriage Dickie had managed to boff half the women in my high school yearbook.
The door with the names opened to a mini lobby with two couches and a coffee table and a modern receptionist desk, all done in pastels. California meets Trenton. The woman behind the desk was upscale help. Very sleek. Pastel dress. Ann Taylor from head to toe.
“Yes,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“I'd like to speak to Richard Orr.” Just in case the office was too swanky for a guy named Dickie. “Tell him Stephanie is here.”
The woman relayed the message and directed me to Dickie's office. The door was open and Dickie stood at his desk when Lula and I appeared on his threshold.
His expression was mildly quizzical . . . which I knew as being expression number seven. Dickie used to practice expressions in front of the mirror. How's this? he'd ask me. Do I look sincere? Do I look appalled? Do I look surprised?
The office was a respectable size with a double window. A realtor would say it was “nicely appointed.” Which meant that Dickie had gone with baronial rather than L.A. Law. The carpet was a red Oriental. The desk was heavy mahogany antique. The two client chairs were burgundy leather with brass studs. Ultra masculine. The only thing missing was a wolfhound and some hunting trophies. The perfect office for a guy with a big stupid dick.
“This is Lula,” I said by way of introduction, approaching the desk. “Lula and I work together.”
Dickie inclined his head. “Lula.”
“Hunh,” Lula said.
“I have a few questions about Mo,” I said to Dickie. “For instance, when is he going to turn himself in?”
“That hasn't been determined.”
“When it has been determined, I'd like to be informed. I'm working for Vinnie now, and Mo is in violation of his bond agreement.”
“Of course,” Dickie said. Which meant when cows fly.
I sat in one of his chairs and slouched back. “I understand Mo is talking to the police. I'd like to know what he's got to trade.”
“That would be privileged information,” Dickie said.
From the corner of my eye I could see Lula morphing into Rhino Woman.
“I hate secrets,” Lula said.
Dickie looked over at Lula, and then he looked back at me. “You're kidding, right?”
I smiled. “About Mo's deal . . .”
“I'm not talking about Mo's deal. And you're going to have to excuse me. I have a meeting in five minutes, and I need to prepare.”
“How about if I shoot him?” Lula said. “Bet if I shoot him in the foot he tells us everything.”
“Not here,” I said. “Too many people.”
Lula stuck her lower lip out in a pout. “You probably don't want me to beat the crap out of him either.”
“Maybe later,” I said.
Lula leaned a hand on Dickie's desk. “There's things I can do to a man. You'd probably throw up if I told you about them.”