Page 57 of Tangled Up

Mr. C removes a potted plant, and poor Oliver is transferred over. Henry quickly administers the shots, expertly dodging both of Oliver’s boxing swipes at him.

“Now, Ollie, don’t be rude.” The old man takes over feeding their patient the tuna.

“Last thing.” Henry pulls a long, plastic tube from his back pocket that looks like a cross between a pen and a tiny plunger.

He puts the white pill on the end, and quick as a rabbit, he has the worm pill down the cat’s throat. Both men step back, giving Ollie a wide berth. The cat shakes his head, gives all three of us an offended glare, then hops down and scampers away.

Henry pats Mr. C’s shoulder. “He’ll be pissed for a few hours, but he’ll come back for supper.”

“How much do I owe you?” The old guy digs in his pocket, but my friend waves him away.

“On the house.”

“Now, that’s not right. You neutered him for free—”

Henry pushes back against Mr. Callahan’s advancing wallet. “Consider it repayment for stolen watermelons.”

Mr. C chuckles and puts his billfold away. “Hey, I heard Vonnie Clark’s in Orlando now. Singing for Disney or one of those places.”

Henry’s expression hardens, and he turns away, tucking the used medical tools in his pocket. “That so?”

“Vonnie Clark? That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.” I look at my friend. “You two still keep in touch?”

Henry shakes his head, then holds out a hand. “I’m taking off. Let me know if you have any problems with the cat.”

He’s leaving fast, and I’m intrigued. “Let me know if you need anything.” I wave to Mr. C and take off after my friend.

“Was it something I said?” The old guy calls after us.

“Hey, slow down.” I jog to catch up with Henry. “Where you headed in such a hurry?”

“I’ve got to hit the store. Trick or treating is tonight, and Lana wants to hand out candy at the clinic.”

“I think you’ve got a few hours to buy candy.” We’re almost to Goliath’s, and I catch his arm. “Play a round of pool with me.”

He hesitates but follows me inside the ancient tiki bar. “One round.”

“Rack ‘em. I’ll grab us a pitcher.”

* * *

It’s early afternoon, and a cool breeze swirls through the open-air patio. Jimmy Buffet is playing on the speakers, and a few guys are hanging out at the bar. We have the pool area to ourselves.

Henry misses his shot and walks over to lean against a nearby barstool. “I took over Dr. Paul’s vet clinic, and she took off for Branson.”

I lean forward, shooting the eight ball in the corner pocket. “And you haven’t spoken to her since?”

“Not a word.” He polishes off his mug of beer. “That’s it. Gotta go.”

“Hang on. Let’s play another round.”

He hesitates, looking at the clock behind the bar. “One more, but if I’m passing out candy, no more beer.”

“I’ll take care of it.” I walk over to where the pitcher sits on a bamboo partition and pour the rest into my mug.

“You know, everybody said you two would get married, but I don’t know. I always thought she was sort of a bitch.” I take a sip. “Sorry.”

“No worries.” He walks over and takes the triangle off the wall. “I’m surprised she’s in Orlando. She said she hated central Florida, didn’t like the heat and the traffic.”

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