Page 63 of By the Pint

A mind-bag, but not a bag.

And even though it took three days, Dima waited. Impatiently, I should add, but he still waited. Called me every two or three hours on the internal guest phone and slipped dozens of notes under my door.

FROM THE DESK OF MR BLACK

Have you figured it out yet?

FROM THE DESK OF MR BLACK

Paulo has swordfish today. I’ve asked him to set aside the biggest piece for you.

FROM THE DESK OF MR BLACK

I’m sending down some laundry. If you want anything washed, leave it outside your door.

FROM THE DESK OF MR BLACK

If you had another dog, what would you name it?

His phone calls were no better. Mostly he would ask me if I’d cracked it yet, and when I’d say no, he’d huff and slam the receiver down. Sometimes he would strike up unrelated conversations. Usually, to whine about the greatest injustice of being undead; the inability to grow a moustache.

“I don’t know why you want one so badly. I think they make you look porn-star-y,” I’d said.

To which he laughed. “Grass is always greener, I suppose. But … what am I supposed to twiddle when I’m solving murders, if not my cool handlebar?”

I had no answer for him, literally none, so I kept my mouth shut.

Other times it was to talk about puppies.

“Mal said I’m not allowed to get a dog because they’re diurnal, and Joey’s cat, Not Ludo, will have a meltdown. Goldie stole him from Joey’s old landlord, Hellbitch Christie, when she kicked Joey out. And now he lives with us. He hates me. Not Ludo, that is, not Goldie. The cat is called Not Ludo. In case that was confusing you.”

“That was the least confusing part of that conversation,” I’d said.

The last time Dima called, I had just wrapped my fingers around the receiver to ring him and tell him I probably, mostly, almost definitely, had this mind-bag thing figured out.

“Woah, that was quick-draw phone answering,” he said. No hellos, or how are yous. “Did you know we get the sports channels on these tellies? I’ve been watching wingball all evening. Still don’t understand the rules.”

“Yeah?” It was playoffs season. I’d actually forgotten. I usually followed the playoffs, but I’d gotten a little side-tracked recently. “Who’s playing?”

“Uh … St. Clouds Cavaliers verses Remy Rockets.”

“Cavaliers are shit. Rockets will walk it. What quarter are they in?”

“I don’t know, they’re all just sitting around wiping towels on their faces and drinking fluorescent drinks.”

“What number does it say at the bottom of the screen?”

“Three, no, four.”

“They’ll be going into the last quarter then.” Maybe I could catch the rest on my TV. “Anyway, I was just going to say that I think I figured out this whole locker room mind-bag thingy.”

He didn’t answer. The phone went silent and two seconds later, there was a knock at my door.

I opened it, unable to keep the smile from my face. His was so big it probably could have been seen from space.

Dima stared at me for a while, his grin growing impossibly wider with each passing moment, and I realised he was trying to read my thoughts, or delve deeper into my mind. “You’ve done it. You brilliant, beautiful man. You’ve done it.”

I tried not to preen at his words. Wait—

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