Page 2 of Sinner's Secret

Mike nodded a little too enthusiastically and nearly fell off his stool.

Their excessive, drunken kindness almost made Baz smile for real. Almost. “Thing is, he’s kind of a hard guy to kill.”

“Is he a cop or something?”

“No.” How to put this discreetly? “He’s in life insurance.”

“Huh?”

Baz leaned close to the two drunks, held his breath, because Jesus-on-a-pogo-stick they stunk, and stage whispered, “He works for the Russian mob.” Not entirely true. Their ancestral land was in Slovenia, but most people couldn’t tell the difference and got confused when he tried to explain, so he didn’t bother most of the time.

“Oh.” Mike nodded sagely. “That kind of life insurance.”

Stifling a laugh, Baz patted him on the back, then looked at Joe. “You called?”

“Yeah, for Sam. He’s out cold. Again.”

“Where?”

Joe led the way to a table near the back wall. Sam was draped over it like a wrinkled doily.

“How long has he been like this?”

“About an hour,” Joe said. “We had a group of loud out-of-towners in here. He didn’t appreciate their spurious remarks about the neighborhood. Left his stool at the bar and passed out back here all unnoticed like.”

“Tourists.” Baz said the word as if it was dirty. “You ever think about just closing the door and sleeping all night?”

“Sure, who doesn’t?”

Baz shrugged.

“You?” Joe asked. “Don’t you think about quitting that tin can you call a cab, getting a regular job and an actual address? Maybe one on a sunny beach somewhere with a nice woman?”

That did make him laugh. “I wish, but I’ve got bills to pay. Really big ones.”

“How about I set you up with my niece?”

“Thanks Joe,” Baz said with a shrug. “But I’m not a relationship kind of guy.”

Joe studied him with sympathy pulling down the corners of his mouth. “How long has it been since your wife died? Don’t you think it’s time to make something better of your life than just driving a cab?”

“It’s funny, but the moment I think about being more connected to the world, I get anxious and start looking over my shoulder.” He shook his head. “I probably need a therapist, but I can’t afford one.”

His biggest problem was figuring out how much of his past to share with someone. The line between enough and too much was so thin it was invisible most days. Also, there was a lot he’d like to forget.

Baz looked at Sam and stood a little straighter. “I guess I’d better get him out of here.” He jerked Sam away from the table, got under him, and bounced the drunk onto his shoulder. Then he half dragged, half carried the lush through the bar and out the front door, Joe clearing the way ahead of him.

Sam weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Add to that the ten or so beers he’d consumed, and Baz questioned his decision to carry the drunk to his cab.

Sam reeked of sour beer, stale pretzels, and sweat.

Baz considered giving up breathing for lent.

Heh, like he was going anywhere other than hell no matter what he gave up or how much he confessed.

“Thanks for taking care of him.” Joe walked ahead to open the passenger door of Baz’s dingy, dinged yellow cab. “You know how his wife worries.”

Thanks? If only Joe knew the truth, that Baz was the last person on Earth he should trust.

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