Page 9 of Sinners Reunion

He wails in response.

“Open the damn door or I’ll bring it down myself!”

Feet scurry on the other side, and the door eases open a crack. Jim’s eye peeks through. “You don’t have to yell,” he pouts.

With a rush of cigar-scented air, the door blows open and reveals Jim in a purple smoking jacket and nothing else. I try not to stare at his limp penis as I cough and wave off the stench of his dismally dark quarters.

“Are you still lighting those things? You don’t even smoke.”

Jim continues pouting as he flops into a massive leather recliner. “It makes me look cool.”

“Yes, well, it’s terrible for that poor bird.”

“You’ve never had a pet in your life, so what do you know? And for your information, I never light up around him! One of the staff has taken him for his evening stroll, and I decided it might help me calm down.”

I grimace. “The smell lingers.”

“Kenny isn’t staying in this room! He has his own wing, which you would have known if you’d asked instead of assumed.”

“You care more about a bird’s lungs than mine?”

“Did you come to complain, or did you come to find out why I’m so damn distraught?” He flops across the arm of the chair and wails again. “It’s like no one even cares about me.”

“What’s all this bother about, then? Spit it out. I have a walk-in shower calling my name.”

“I hate her, King. I hate her!” He kicks his legs and throws a tiny tantrum. “She’s the absolute worst! Meanwhile, where is my sloth?”

My shoulders droop, and I head for the side table to pour myself a bourbon. I’ll need it.

“What’s the matter? Find a little bird who won’t sing for you?” I sit on the couch beside his chair and take a long pull from the glass. “You need my help? Is that it?”

Jim lifts his head and smiles. “Could you help me?”

I tip my head to the side.

“She’s young and pretty,” he teases. “I think you’ll like getting info out of this one.”

“I don’t fuck my kills anymore. You know that.”

His face brightens. “Oh, you don’t have to kill this one. She’s one of us.”

Well, now I am intrigued.

And . . . mildly concerned.

“She’s a killer? You kidnapped one of us, Jim? What were you thinking?”

“That I would like to find the sloth,” he whispers, and he sounds so pathetic and downtrodden that I can’t find it in me to be peeved with him.

“Who is she?” I ask. “At least tell me that much.”

“Oh, no one you know.” He cuts his gaze away from me and traces the stitching on his chair.

“Jim?”

“That’s not important. Just tell me if you’ll help me.”

“No.”