Page 51 of It Takes a Thief

“What’s this?” he asked, holding up a tire iron.

“A tire iron. People use it for changing tires.”

“And?”

“And?”

“Well we heard the murder weapon was a heavy blunt instrument with a head about a quarter inch wide. This qualifies for that. And”—Galileo touched his glove to the end that would pry off the hubcap—“this one has blood on it.”

Well, wasn’t that just special. For once, things were perfectly falling into my lap. “Let’s leave all this shit in plain view, Galileo. You make the call to your people to tell them where to find this hunk of shit Moss Empire and all the evidence they need to keep them busy for months tracking down dead girls. I got one in Show Low who’ll testify against them.”

Galileo looked blank as he replaced the tire iron. “Testify against… This man is dead.”

“There are more where he came from. Sorry you have no renter.” I clambered over garbage, burrito wrappers and empty pop and beer cans, to get out the side door.

“Oh, there are plenty where he came from,” said Galileo almost cheerfully.

Maddy plastered her body to mine once we were out. Her lips were so soft and pliant against my throat, I started getting a hard-on. But I’d never fuck in that trailer with the toon porn.

“You’re my hero,” she whispered.

Now my cock really began to harden. As I kissed her full lips, a distant roar of pipes became apparent.

“Another motorcycle?” Galileo wondered.

I pulled away from Maddy, unholstering my piece again and heading toward the road. Squinting, I could make out the burgundy gas tank and rear fender of a Super Glide. But the rider, seeing us, slowed about two hundred yards away. I’d heard that Noodlum rode a burgundy Dyna Super Glide, so I jumped to the conclusion it was him.

Whoever it was stared at us for about five seconds, which is a really long time to stare if you think about it. Then he turned around and rode back into the bowels of hell.

Was he coming to kill Moss Empire for directing all that attention to himself? I’d never fucking know.

“Who is that?” asked Maddy.

I didn’t want to burden her. “I have no idea. Listen. I can’t—”

My phone chimed out She Works Hard for the Money, which was Faux Pas’ ringtone.

“Sorry. Got to take this.”

“Whatever,” it seemed like Maddy mumbled.

“Ford,” said Faux Pas. “There are a couple hippies at the Bum Steer. They swear that in the vortex calendar behind the bar there is some clue about another club coming to take us down on a certain date.”

“Really?” I couldn’t believe I wasn’t automatically blowing this “woo-woo” stuff off. But stranger things have been known to happen. “What’s the date?”

“Well they want you to come look at the calendar.”

I tried telling him I’m on the Rez, but he kept insisting I talk to these hippies in person. I had to get back anyway, so I hung up and turned to Maddy.

“Got to—”

“Go back, I know,” she said dismally. “You can’t even come to see my apartment?”

“No. Matter of fact, Galileo did you call the Rez cops?”

“Sure did.”

“We’d best get blazing out of here too, Maddy. I don’t want you to have to explain everything and get dragged into it. You need to put this numbnuts in your rearview.”