Suckers - J.A. Konrath

“No.”
I noticed she had some orange powder in the corner of her unattractive mouth.
“You have cheese curls,” I said.
“No I don’t.”
“Bring me the cheese curls.”
She folded her arms. “I don’t have any.”
“You have Cheetos dust on your lips.”
“I was eating carrots.”
“Were they powdered carrots?”
“Maybe.”
“Bring me the goddamn Cheetos, or I’m off the case.”
She frowned and waddled off. I called after her, “And anything Hostess or Dolly Madison!”
I air guitared in perfect synchronization with Jimmy Page until the ugly wife returned with
my treats. The Cheetos bag only had a few left in the bottom, and Mrs. Drawbridge’s cheeks
were puffed out chipmunk-style. She also brought me half a raspberry Zinger.
“You ate them,” I said, stating the obvious.
She shook her head. “Mmphmtmummuffff.”
“Don’t lie. You did. You’re still chewing.”
“Ummurrfumamamm.”
“Are too.”
She swallowed, and I watched the large lump slide down her throat.
“I think my husband went to his parent’s house,” she said after smacking her lips.
“What am I supposed to do with half a Zinger? It’s like the size of my thumb.”
“I said I think my husband went to his parent’s house.”
“Who?”
“My husband. After his parents died, he refused to sell it. I’m not allowed to go over there.
He’s got all kinds of locks and security devices. I think he may be hiding something.”
I scarfed down the rest of the cheese curls, then washed them down with the remaining half
a Zinger. It wasn’t even half. Maybe a third, at best.
“I’m the detective, lady. I’ll decide if he’s hiding anything. Gimme the address.”
She gave it to me. It was in the neighborhood of Streeterville, less than a mile away.
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