“I’d love to, but Charlotte said she’d stop by at eight. I’m taking her to dinner.”

“Really. Well, that’s interesting.”

“I don’t know how interesting it is. I treated her poorly over the business with Gus. I was a butt and the time has come to make that right.”

I left him to get himself gussied up and walked the half block to my car. The drive to St. Terry’s took less than fifteen minutes, which gave me time to ponder Solana’s vanishing and Cheney’s reappearance. I knew it wouldn’t be smart to renew that relationship. On the other hand (there’s always that other hand, isn’t there?), I’d caught a whiff of his aftershave and nearly whimpered aloud. I parked on a side street and headed for the brightly lighted hospital entrance.

My intended visit with Gus was short-lived. When I reached the floor and identified myself, I was told he was still asleep. I chatted briefly with the charge nurse, making sure she was clear about who was allowed to see him and who was not. Peggy had laid all the necessary groundwork, and I was assured his safety was uppermost in everyone’s mind. I did peek in at him and spent half a minute watching him sleep. His color had already improved.

There was one bright moment that made the whole excursion worthwhile. I’d rung for the elevator and I was waiting. I heard the whir of cables and the ping announcing its arrival from the floor below. When the doors opened I found myself face-to-face with Nancy Sullivan. She had her good Girl Scout briefcase in one hand and she was wearing her sensible shoes. As proof there’s justice in the world, she’d been assigned to Gus’s case after having blown me off. She greeted me coolly, using a tone that implied she hoped I’d fall in a hole. I didn’t say a word to her, but I did gloat in my heart. I resisted the urge to smirk until after the elevator doors closed, shutting her from sight. Then I mouthed the sweetest four words in the English language: I told you so.

I drove home, fantasizing about my dinner at Rosie’s. I was going for the fat and cholesterol sweepstakes: bread and butter, red meat, sour cream on everything, and a big gooey dessert. I’d take a paperback novel with me and read while I stuffed my face. I could hardly wait. When I turned onto Albanil, I could see how scarce the parking was. I’d forgotten it was hump night again, and the midweek revelers had put parking places at a premium. In search of a spot, I cruised the street at half-speed, scanning for two other things as well: the sight of a black-and-white, indicating the police had returned to Gus’s house, or the sight of a telltale metallic blue Buick Electra, a sign that Solana was close by. No sign of either.

I turned the corner onto Bay and drove to the end of the block without seeing a car-length of empty curb. I turned right on Cabana and right again on Albanil, checking the block again. Ahead on the sidewalk, I spotted a woman in a trench coat and high heels. My headlights picked up a flash of hair too blond to be real-hooker hair, all tarted up and dyed. This gal was huge and even from the rear I could tell something was off. It wasn’t until I passed that I realized it was a guy in drag. I turned my head and squinted. Was that Tiny? I kept an eye on him in my rearview mirror. A spot had opened up and I angled into it.

Before I shut down the engine, I glanced back at the sidewalk. No sign of the “babe,” so I rolled down my window an inch to listen for the clopping of her high heels on concrete. The street was quiet. If it was Tiny, he’d either retraced his steps or turned the corner. I didn’t like it. I removed the key from the ignition, clutching the ring in my fist, keys through my fingers. I looked over my right shoulder once more, checking the sidewalk before I opened the car door.

The handle was jerked out of my hand and the door was flung open. I was hauled up by the hair and yanked from the car. I hit the pavement on my backside, pain searing my tailbone. I recognized Tiny by smell-corrosive and foul. I flailed, glancing back at him. His platinum wig was askew and I could see the stubble on his face that even a late-afternoon shave hadn’t fully eradicated. He’d shucked his trench coat and kicked off his high heels. He wore a woman’s blouse and his XXXL-sized skirt now rode up over his hips, allowing him freedom of movement. His hands were still buried in my hair. I grabbed them, lifting myself in an effort to keep him from ripping off my scalp. My keys had fallen on the street half under the car. No time to worry about that now. I was struggling for purchase. I managed to get my feet under me and kicked his right knee. The heel on my boot might have done some damage except for his bulk, which made him almost impervious to pain. He was pumped up on adrenaline, doubtless hyped on his sense of himself. The hair on his calves and the lower part of his thighs was pressed flat by a pair of queen-sized panty hose. Runners snaked down from the crotch where the nylon had been stretched to the limit. He was making guffing sounds deep in his throat, half exertion, half excitement at the notion of the injuries he’d inflict before he was done with me.