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“I got two hundred dollars for it,” Lula said.
“It was high def!” Vinnie said. “It was a plasma.”
“Well, if you want, I can call Bobby Sunflower and tell him I want two hundred dollars back so you can repo your high def, plasma TV,” Lula said.
“Nope, that’s okay,” Vinnie said. “I’m going to sit here and close my eyes and pretend I have a television. I’m calm. I’m happy to be alive. I’m happy to have gotten out of Joyce’s house without getting my Johnson cut off.” Vinnie opened his eyes and looked over at us. “She’s an animal.”
“Too much information,” Lula said.
Connie went to her desk to answer the phone. “Vinnie,” she called. “It’s Roger Drager, president of Wellington. He’d like to talk to you.”
“What’s Wellington?” Lula asked Vinnie.
“It’s the venture capital company that owns the agency.”
“Oh yeah,” Lula said. “Now I remember.”
Vinnie went to Connie’s desk to take the call.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yessir. Yessir. Yessir.” And he hung up.
“That was a lot of yessirs,” Lula said.
“He wants me to come to his office,” Vinnie said. “Now.”
“Be good if you put some clothes on,” Lula said. “He might not like little Vinnie hangin’ out your shorts.”
“I’ll get them,” Mooner said. “They’re in the Love Bus.”
“What does he want to talk to you about?” Connie asked.
“I don’t know,” Vinnie said.
“Maybe it’s the phantom bonds,” Connie said.
Vinnie’s eyebrows lifted. “You know about that?”
“We scoured the office, looking for money, and I found the file.”
“It started out small. I swear on my mother’s grave I meant to pay Wellington back.”
“Your mother isn’t dead,” I said to Vinnie.
“She will be someday,” Vinnie said. “Anyway, it got out of hand. In the beginning, I just wanted a short fix to pay Sunflower back on some bad bets, but Sunflower came in and wouldn’t let go. Before I knew it, his bookkeeper was helping me keep two sets of books.”
“Is this the dead bookkeeper?”
“Yeah,” Vinnie said. “Sudden death with tire tracks on his back.”
I thought about Victor Kulik and Walter Dunne, executed behind the diner. Life expectancy with Wellington wasn’t good.
Mooner came back with Vinnie’s clothes. “I fixed them for you, dude,” Mooner said. “They’re, like, awesome.”
Vinnie stepped into his slacks and looked down at himself. The slacks had been shortened to just below his knees, and his shirt had been turned into a tunic with a rope belt. It went well with his black dress shoes and black socks. Mooner had printed Doderick Bracegirdle with black magic marker on the shirt pocket. Vinnie looked like a wino Hobbit coming off a three-day binge. His gelled hair was stuck every which way, his clothes were wrinkled and smudged with grass stains, his beard belonged to Grizzly Hobbit.
“I’d kill him,” Vinnie said, glaring at Mooner, “but you sold my gun.”
“Probably, this Drager guy wants to have you arrested for embezzling,” I said to Vinnie. “He’s not going to care that you’re a homeless Hobbit.”
