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“So you’re playing the system?”

Shayla raised her eyebrows. “Better than letting the system play me.”

Tamara reached across and pinched Shayla’s cheek. Her coffee skin turned pale beneath her eye before regaining its luster. “It helps she’s a sister—and she’s hot.”

“That’s me,” said Shayla. “Tall, black, and nonfat. The politically correct drink of choice for reporters everywhere.”

Sam thought of all the college professors and media pundits saying young women were in constant danger of being exploited because of their sex. These two women had turned the tables on everyone, playing off their looks but using their brains to grab the world by the balls. They were going to graduate from med school and law school without an ounce of debt, and they would never look back.

“I’d hate to get on your bad side,” he said to both of them.

“You getting back to business, huh?” asked Shayla.

Sam nodded. “You were in the next room, on camera, the night Ed died?”

Tamara nodded. “Yup.”

“Both of you?” asked Sam. “I thought you took turns.”

“Some nights we hang out together, like normal roomies,” said Shayla. “Paint each other’s nails.” She extended a bare foot, revealing purple toenails.

“Only we sit around with our tops off,” added Tamara.

“Gotta pay the rent,” said Sam mildly.

“Exactly,” replied the roommates in unison.

“Nice alibi.”

“You want to see the footage?” asked Tamara helpfully.

“What man wouldn’t?” asked Sam, feeling like the straight man in a vaudeville act. “But thanks anyway. How about telling me why neither of you is wearing black to mourn our dear, departed landlord.”

Shayla leaned forward. “Easy. He tried to shake us down.”

“For money?”

“For sex,” replied Tamara.

Shayla lowered her voice and scratched the side of her face as if she had a beard. “
Give me a blowjob and I’ll lower your rent.
”

Tamara matched the pitch of her voice and added, “
Fuck me or I’ll kick your ass out on the street.
”

Sam shook his head.

Both women nodded. Tamara spoke first. “Ed was a class act, I tell you.”

“And that was only the first week we lived here,” said Shayla.

“So you did what?” asked Sam, already knowing the answer.

“We invited him upstairs for a drink,” said Shayla, smiling at the memory.

“Asshole thought he was going to get lucky.” Tamara smirked. “But we asked him to repeat his generous offers.”

Sam said, “And you got the whole thing on tape.”

“Broadcast live on the web,” said Tamara.

“And recorded onto our hard drive,” said Shayla.

“Poor Ed,” said Sam.

“Poor dumb Ed,” said Shayla.

“So the room is miked?”

“Yeah, we have audio,” said Tamara, “but we usually deactivate it, so we can talk shit about whatever we want—our members only care about the T&A, not the witty rapport.”

Shalya snorted. “Most probably have the sound off on their own computers anyway, so they can beat off while their wives are in the other room.”

“How did Ed react?”

“We hit the replay button and all the blood drained from his face,” said Tamara.

“It was beautiful,” said Shayla.

“Then we made him take his pants off,” added Tamara matter-of-factly.

Sam coughed. “You’re not serious.”

Shayla nodded. “We are
very
serious.”

“Very,” agreed Tamara. She laughed from deep in her belly. “He was mad as a hornet.”

“And limp as a wet fern,” added Shayla, laughing just as hard.

“He ever bother you again?”

Tamara stopped laughing. “Would you?”

It was Sam’s turn to laugh. “Not a chance.”

“So that’s our story, Mister Policeman,” said Shayla, doing a remarkable Betty Boop impersonation right down to the fluttering lashes.

Sam knew when he was outgunned. “So you settled your score, and you’ve got the tape to prove it. Gail tells me Ed tried to force her out of the building, too. Anybody else have a reason to dislike our ex-landlord?”

“Can’t think of a reason why anyone
would
like him,” replied Shayla. “Did you?”

“Nah,” said Sam. “I thought Ed was an asshole.”

“Did
you
kill him?” asked Tamara playfully.

“I’m a cop, remember?”

“That just makes it easier to cover-up,” said Shayla.

“You kill everyone you think is an asshole?”

“No,” replied Tamara, still smiling. “We just make them take their pants off.”

“Exactly,” said Sam. “So how well do you know your—
our
—neighbors?”

“You talk to Gus yet?” asked Tamara.

Sam shook his head. “Is he the old guy, end of the hall?”

“Yeah. Retired, nice as can be—plays tennis at the courts in the park across the street. Says it keeps him young.”

“How old is he?”

“I dunno,” said Tamara. “Around Gail’s age, maybe? He’s sweet on her, I think. I’ve seen them having coffee sometimes—it’s cute.”

“OK,” said Sam, feeling the need to stretch his legs. “Anybody else?”

“Jill,” said Shayla. “You know Jill?”

Sam shook his head. “Gail mentioned her, but we’ve never met.”

“Last door on the left,” said Tamara. “You’d like Jill.”

Shayla looked Sam up and down, like she was weighing him for sale in the produce section. “He
would
like Jill. How old are you?”

Sam told her.

Tamara beamed. “Jill’s great, very cool lady. She’s a singer—you know the bar on the other side of the park?”

“Yeah.”

“Friday nights,” said Tamara. “Jazz.”

“She’s got that husky voice,” added Shayla. “You’d
like
Jill.”

Sam found himself blushing. “OK—anybody else?”

“How ‘bout the crackheads across the hall?” asked Shayla.

Tamara flushed. “They are
not
crackheads. Jerome’s cute—he’s just…”

“A crackhead,” insisted Shayla.

Tamara flared her eyes at her roommate, then smiled at Sam. “Two brothers, Larry and Jerome. They live across the hall. Larry’s a little uptight, but Jerome’s kinda sweet.”

Shayla rolled her eyes. “He holds the elevator door open for her, and the girl swoons.”

Tamara smacked Shayla on the leg. “I like men with manners.”

Shayla shook her head sadly. “He’s a crackhead.”

Tamara smacked harder this time. “He’s sweet.”

Sam interjected. “A sweet crackhead?”

Shayla corrected herself. “I’m just saying that to get under her skin,” she said, hitting Tamara in return. “Crack is too old school—and too urban—for these boys. They are white as bread, the both of them. But Jerome wears some powerful cologne that smells a whole lot like reefer.”

“So he’s a stoner,” said Sam simply. No judgment, just matter of fact. With medical marijuana legal in California, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone on the force busted someone for pot. The city had bigger problems.

Tamara tried a pout—it didn’t suit her. “He just likes to party.”

Sam nodded. “And he lives with his brother across the hall?”

“Yeah,” said Shayla. “But you probably won’t find them there—they go out during the day.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe I’ll knock on their door tonight.”

“You know where they hang out a lot?” said Shayla. “That Mexican restaurant across the skybridge. We run into them every time we go to the bar.”

“Thanks,” said Sam, standing up. “This has been, um, enlightening.”

Both women stood together. “Stop by anytime,” said Tamara.

“Or go to the site,” added Shayla. “The URL address is—”

Sam held his hands up to cut her off. “No—thanks. Not sure I could handle it.”

“OK, neighbor,” said Tamara, sin in her eyes. The more time he spent with these two women, the less real they seemed to Sam. They were fembots from an Austin Powers movie, designed by some evil genius to tease a man to death.

He said, “They sound pretty harmless. Pot smokers aren’t known for their tempers.”

“Jerome is not a stoner,” Tamara repeated defensively.

“Sorry.” Sam held up his hands again. “How about his brother?”

“Larry?” said Shayla. “That boy—he’s a nervous one.”

Tamara nodded. “Nervous. Totally different from Jerome. He’s not—”

“Sweet?” offered Sam.

Tamara smiled. “Exactly!” She elbowed Shayla.

“What’s Larry nervous about?” asked Sam.

Shayla shrugged.

“Why don’t you ask Larry?”

Chapter Ten

Larry was sweating behind the blindfold.

Blindfolds were mandatory accessories for anyone visiting Zorro. The story behind them went something like this:

Once upon a time, there was an informer who once told police where Zorro held all his meetings. The cops tried to bug the place, but Zorro got an inside tip from someone on the force who also happened to be on Zorro’s payroll. Zorro cleared out before the cops could even get the warrant, but never again did anyone know where Zorro would be at any given moment.

The other part of the story was that the informer and his entire family had disappeared, leaving behind their clothes, car, cash, and no forwarding address. People in this neighborhood were too smart to believe the witness protection program could move that fast. But they all knew Zorro could.

The interior of the car had been dark when they climbed in, but Larry recognized the hulk in the front passenger seat as it twisted around and tossed two blindfolds at them. Julio, one of Zorro’s bodyguards. A man as thick as he was tall, with a face that looked like it was mauled by a pit bull. And now, as Larry tried to visualize anything other than Julio’s brutal features, he found himself sweating with the effort. He tried to breathe through his nose.

Jerome’s voice was muffled by the vinyl roof over their heads.

“Hey Larry,” he said in a forced whisper. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

Larry closed his eyes behind the blindfold and let his head sink into the headrest as they hit their first pothole. He could tell it was going to be a long ride.

“Think maybe we should have killed him ourselves?” asked Jerome.

Larry’s eyes snapped open. “
Shut up
, you moron.”

Julio’s voice rumbled around the interior of the car. “Who you skinny
gringos
going to kill?” Then he waited a full minute before adding, “Zorro, maybe?”

Larry almost shit himself as he lurched forward. “Fuck! Fuck, no! No fucking way, Julio.” He started sweating again. “Jesus, man.”

“Don’t blaspheme,
gilipollas.
” Julio smacked Larry on the forehead with his open palm. Larry’s head snapped back as if struck by a cobra.

“Jesus!” Larry repeated, regretting it instantly.

Julio cocked his arm for another smack, but the driver waved him off. Julio grunted and faced forward, crossing his arms as if pouting.

Jerome’s stage whisper roared in Larry’s left ear. “I think he just called you an asshole, bro.”

Larry’s head whipped around. “What?”

“He called you
gilipollas
,” said Jerome emphatically. “I’m pretty sure that means asshole.”

“So?”

“So?” Jerome was incredulous. “What are you gonna do about it?”

I don’t believe this.
“I don’t think he meant anything by it,” he said dismissively.

“You’re saying he called you an asshole by
accident
?”

Larry’s jaw clenched. “What’s your point?”

“That’s not cool,” said Jerome, his voice getting louder. “We’re their
meal ticket,
Larry. You know anyone moving more weed around this city than us? I mean, we probably pay his salary, you know what I’m saying?”

“We’re not paying his salary, Jerome,” insisted Larry. “Give it a rest.”

“What do you think he makes?”

“Are you serious?”

“Sure,” said Jerome, leaning sideways on the bench seat. “I mean, you think he’s paid a regular salary, by the hour, or….”

“Or
what
?”

“By the
job
,” said Jerome dramatically, his voice getting deep. “By the head. By the scalp, you know what—”

“
Shush
,” hissed Larry.

“Did you actually tell me to
shush
?” asked Jerome.

“Shush,” repeated Larry. “Just be quiet, OK?”

“You’re a wreck, Larry, you know that?” Jerome shook his head. “Jesus…”

“Don’t hit me!” It was out of his mouth and echoing around the interior before Larry could stop himself.

In the front seat, Julio just shook his head.

“
Gilipollas
,” he muttered.

Jerome sat straight up.

“See?” he said triumphantly. “What did I tell you?”

Chapter Eleven

Sam couldn’t remember the name of the lesbian bartender.

He knew she was a lesbian because he’d hit on her last year. A moment of weakness during one of his rare nights out, sufficiently lonely to crave companionship and just drunk enough to look past the obvious signs. She’d been clear but kind. Looking at her sober, Sam realized now what a lightweight he’d become. Cues from her wardrobe, hair, and makeup sent signals in all directions that she preferred the company of her own gender.

Some detective he was.

“Sam.” Her smile was genuinely warm. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Sam smiled back, relieved this wasn’t going to be awkward. Guess there was a difference between being a clod and a jerk. “How you been?”

“Can’t complain,” she said. “Nobody’s hit on me lately.”

“Ouch.”

A bigger smile as she reached across the bar and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “What’ll you have?”

Sam scanned the tap handles. “Boddington’s.”

A waitress only slightly taller than the Eiffel Tower squeezed next to Sam, tray balanced precariously over his head. “Sadie, I need a Ketel One and tonic.” She shifted to a bad Austrian accent, adding, “I’ll be back.” Without waiting for the drink, she disappeared, weaving between the tables as if she wore roller skates.

“Sadie,” said Sam, pleased her name was one less mystery he had to solve, “is Jill singing tonight?”

Sadie set the beer down, the head foaming over the top of the glass. “You bet. End of the bar, to your right.”

Sam glanced over as he drank. A woman sat by herself eight stools over, a glass of wine and sheet music in front of her. He recognized her immediately, had seen her around the building, in the coffee shop, the grocery. She’d made an impression.

She wasn’t so much beautiful as she was attractive. Auburn hair, gentle curls swept back on one side of her face, falling across the other until she swept the loose strands behind an ear. Smile lines around her eyes, a slender figure, long fingers unadorned with jewelry. Sam guessed she was about his age, but she had aged much better.

She glanced down the bar and caught him looking before he could turn away. She smiled and Sam felt himself pulled across the room, drink in hand and walking before he’d consciously thought to join her. As he got closer, the gravitational pull only increased.

“Hi neighbor,” she said, her voice less husky than he’d imagined, maybe sanded smooth by time. “Thanks for coming.”

“You’re Jill.”
Master of the obvious
, thought Sam.

“And you’re Sam,” she replied. “I knew your wife.”

Sam nodded. “Everyone did.”

“Great lady.”

“Yeah,” said Sam.

Jill smiled again. “Sweet of you to come.”

Sam shrugged. “I had an ulterior motive.”

Jill arched her eyebrows. Her eyes were green. This close, Sam noticed the mote in her left iris, a miniature sunburst of orange, a rogue star about to eclipse her pupil.

“I came to talk to you,” said Sam.

“Officially?” Eyebrows headed north again.

“No, no,” said Sam, waving his hand. “I’m retired.”

Jill gave him a once-over. “You don’t look old enough to be retired.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

Jill laughed. “Not that much. You look great,” she said, adding, “maybe a little wrinkled, that’s all.”

Sam touched his face and frowned. Jill brushed his hand away. “Not your face. Your
clothes
.”

“Oh.” Sam looked down—his slacks looked like crepe paper, his shirt like a papîer-mâché project. “Never mastered the iron.”

“I’ll show you sometime,” said Jill, finishing off her glass of wine. “But now I have to go sing for my supper.”

“Does that mean I can’t buy you dinner afterward?”

Jill stood, gathered up the sheet music. “For a man with so many wrinkles, that was pretty smooth.”

“Was that a yes?”

“I’ll tell you after my set. Otherwise you might leave early.”

Sam watched her move through the crowd, making her way to the small stage at the rear of the bar.

“I’m definitely not leaving early,” he said to himself.

You’ll like Jill
. Isn’t that what Tamara and Shayla had said? It made Sam wonder about his neighbor Gail. His ex-partner, Danny. The girls down the hall. For a man who felt disconnected from everyone, shut off from the world, it felt strange to have so many people act like they knew him.

He’d been roused from a coma, amnesia fading with every waking moment, every social interaction. That was it—they were all alive and he’d been damn near dead, trapped between this world and the next, not sure if he should stay among the living or join Marie.

Pretty soon, Sam was going have to choose which side he was on.