Page 33 of Baker

“Yep. Silver one. Told me it’ll take off from a standstill so fast that it’ll make your eyeballs hurt. Offered to give me a ride, but it sits too low for me to get my fat ass in it. Gettin’ in wouldn’t be bad. Gettin’ out might be a trick, though.”

“You’re not fat,” I said.

He slid his flattened hands over his belly until they came to a stop where I assumed his belt was hidden. “Fatter’n I ought to be.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” I said with a smile and a nod. “I think you look just fine.”

“Nice of you to say, but I’m still not gettin’ in that thing. You should get that fella to take you for a ride in it, though. Sounds like a bunch of cats fighting when he fires it up, but it’s faster’n a rocket full of monkeys.”

I smiled at the thought of monkeys being launched in a rocket. “I didn’t know he had one of those.”

“Well, he had it when they arrested Todd. Seen him that evening in it. After the cops got done asking questions.”

“Asking him questions, or asking you questions?”

“Asking me. Don’t know that they asked him anything. Probably could have, though.”

I was intrigued. “Why do you say that?”

“He knew Todd. Seen him ‘em arguing a few times. Wondered if that weirdo owed him money or something, but figured it wasn’t my business.”

I wondered if they were friends, business associates, or if they’d simply met in passing. I couldn’t see Baker dealing in drugs, but the possibility crossed my mind.

“You don’t think Baker deals drugs, do you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Who the hell is Baker?”

“He’s the guy with the tattoo on his hand.”

“Oh.” He shook his head slowly. “Hard saying, I suppose. Wouldn’t be my guess, he doesn’t seem like the type.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

The door swung open. I was surprised to see Baker standing there, and couldn’t help but wonder if he heard us talking about him.

Mort glanced over his shoulder and then stood. “Speak of the devil. Were your ears burnin’?”

“They weren’t.” Baker extended his arm. “Should they have been?”

Mort shook his hand. “We were talking about that noisy piece of German shit you drive.”

“The Porsche?” Baker asked, pronouncing the word Por-shuh, which was different than when Mort had said it.

Mort gave him a look. “Is that how you say it?”

“It’s the correct pronunciation. It’s a two-syllable word.”

“They should spell it different, then,” Mort said.

“They probably should.”

Baker was wearing jeans, black Converse low-tops, and a fitted black tee shirt that left little to the imagination. No differently than any other time when he was in my presence, I got lost in admiring him. Worried that I’d do something that gave away our little secret, I shifted my eyes away from them and began to fidget with a pen.

“You need anything, Andy?” Mort asked.

I looked up. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m gonna leave you two to it, then.” He slapped Baker on the shoulder. “She’s got some bad news for you, Bud.”