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“Mostly he fishes. He was a dockworker in Newark, but he’s retired now.”
“Not married?”
“His wife died a while back. He has kids but they’re in Jersey.”
“You have to be careful about Internet connections,” I said. “You never really know who you’re talking to.”
“He could be a serial killer,” my mother said. “He could be a terrorist. He could be some pervert sex fiend.”
“He might be too old to be a sex fiend,” Grandma said, “but I guess he could be a killer.”
“Why me?” my mother asked.
“Don’t send him any money,” I said to Grandma. “And don’t go to Florida.”
“He could be the one,” Grandma said, pulling up a photo on her phone, handing the phone over to me.
“This is George Hamilton,” I said.
Grandma took the phone back and studied the photo. “He does look a little like George Hamilton, but my honey’s name is Roger Murf. Him and George are handsome devils, aren’t they?”
From the corner of my eye I saw my mom shaking her head and making the sign of the cross. Next stop would be a trip to the liquor cabinet over the sink.
“Did you send him a picture of you?” I asked Grandma.
“Sort of,” Grandma said. “I didn’t have a real good picture, so I sent him one of your mother. We look alike except for the hair, and I’m thinking about going brown anyway.”
My mother sucked in some air and her eyes went wide. “You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t!”
“It was a nice picture,” Grandma said. “It was the one where you’re on the beach at Seaside.”
My mother did the sign of the cross again. “Holy Mother,” she said.
I had a second helping of macaroni, finished my sandwich, ate a bunch of Italian cookies, and pushed my chair back from the table.
“Gotta go,” I said. “Things to do.”
“Are you hunting down bad guys?” Grandma asked.
“Eventually.”
I gave hugs to Grandma and my mom, thanked them for lunch, and escaped to my car. I stopped at the supermarket on the way home and got a couple more packages of hot dogs for Ethel, Pop-Tarts for my hamster Rex and me, bread, cereal, bananas, and assorted frozen dinner–type foods.
FOUR
IT WAS CLOSE to three o’clock when I lugged my groceries into my apartment building and down the hall to my place. I put the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and yelped. There was a man in my place.
He was over six feet tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped, and nicely muscled. He was beach-bum tan with thick, unruly blond hair cut short, and dark eyebrows and eyelashes that I would kill to have. He was wearing jeans with a rip in the knee, a T-shirt that advertised tequila, and black-and-white sneaker-type shoes. He was drop-dead handsome with perfect white teeth and a lot of attitude. I know about the attitude because I know the man. His name is Diesel. That’s it. Just Diesel.
He dropped into my life for the first time several years
ago at Christmas, scaring the heck out of me when he suddenly appeared in my kitchen. When I’d asked him how he’d gotten into my apartment and my life, he said, “Sweetcakes, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Nothing much has changed since then.
He’s visited a bunch of times since that Christmas, mysteriously coming and going. He doesn’t have a key to my apartment, but that never stops him from getting in.
“Surprise,” Diesel said.
“Now what?” I asked him.
