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“There was orange juice last night,” Morelli said.
“Yeah, but I drank it.”
Morelli fed Bob and got the coffee going. I looked for something to eat that might not be contaminated with Dickie cooties. I didn't mind sharing a cereal box with Morelli, but I wasn't going to eat from something Dickie had just stuck his hand in. God knows where that hand was last.
“Tell me about the key,” I said to Dickie.
“What key?”
I glanced at Morelli. “I'm going to hit him.”
“I'll close my eyes,” Morelli said. “Tell me when it's over.”
“You can't do that,” Dickie said. "You're supposed to protect me. Especially from
her. You do one little thing wrong with her and the Italian temper comes out. And God forbid you come home late for dinner/'
“Four hours!” I said. “You'd come home four hours late for dinner, and you'd have grass stains on your knees and your shirt caught in your zipper.”
“I don't remember that part,” Dickie said. “Did I used to do that?”
“Yes.”
Dickie started laughing. “I wasn't making a lot of money back then. I couldn't afford a hotel room.”
“It's not funny!” I said.
“Sure it is. Grass stains and rug burns are always funny.” He looked over at Morelli. “She didn't like to do doggy.”
Morelli slid a look at me and smiled. There wasn't much I didn't like to do with Morelli. Okay, a few things, but they involved animals and other women and body parts that weren't designed for fun.
“What?” Dickie said. “What's that smile? Oh man, are you telling me she does doggy with you?”
“Leave it alone,” Morelli said.
“Is it good? Does she bark? Do you make her bark like a dog?”
“You need to stop,” Morelli said. “If you don't stop, I'm going to make you stop.”
“Arf, arf, arf!” Dickie said.
Morelli gave his head a small shake, like he didn't fucking believe he had Dickie in his kitchen. And then he grabbed Dickie by his T-shirt and threw him halfway across the room. Dickie hit the wall spread-eagle like Wile E. Coyote in a Road Runner cartoon, and the cereal flew out of the box. Bob came running from the living room and snarfed up the cereal.
“What's that about?” Dickie asked, struggling to get to his feet.
“Trying to get your attention.”
I handed Morelli a cup of coffee. “Ask him about the key.”
“I'm telling you I don't know anything about a key,” Dickie said.
“Let me refresh your memory,” I said to him. “You left the safety of this house and went straight to my apartment, where you were caught on camera breaking in and searching for something. Later that day, I got a call from a guy who wanted the key.”
“So?”
“So I know there's forty million dollars out there. I know everyone wants it. And I know someone thinks I have the key. And unless I can figure this out, I'm going to get barbecued like Smullen and Gorvich.”
“Let's start from the beginning and build up to the key,” Morelli said. “How did you meet Smullen and Gorvich and Petiak?”
