“Dillan said the rugs are going in next Monday, so that means I’ll be able to move back in.”
“No problem. I got my new credit cards, and I got some insurance money, and my old apartment building gave me a good chunk of money as encouragement to live someplace else. So I’ll go apartment hunting after the job interview. My cousin Bruce is going to drive me around.”
“I’m only counting eight dogs,” I said to Briggs.
“Mrs. Brodsky on the first floor took one. And Mr. Grezbek down the hall took one.”
Someone hammered on my door, and I looked out the peephole at Oswald Poletti.
I opened the door, and Oswald slouched in. “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my apartment,” I told him.
“No shit? I thought this belonged to the little turd. What are you two, a couple or something?”
“He’s an acquaintance. I let him stay here because someone firebombed his apartment.”
“Yeah, that was me,” Oswald said. “I was trying to run him out of town so he wouldn’t ruin everything for Miriam. But then he moved here, so I shot off another rocket, only I didn’t count for wind and my aim was off. Sorry about the hole in the wall.”
Briggs and I were momentarily speechless.
“What about the two cars?” Briggs asked.
“I don’t know about two cars. I just shot a rocket into one car. A Porsche. It was awesome. Freaking awesome. I got a freaking boner over it.”
“Miriam?” I finally said. “Are you talking about Miriam Pepper?”
“Yeah, she’s a real nice lady. She makes a bad Manhattan, man. I mean, they’re so bad you could drink until you pass out. And she’s got good Mexican dope too.”
“How do you know Miriam?”
“Her old man kept all the ammo for the shooting range in the Pine Barrens. Man, those were the days. I’d cart all the shit down there for him, and then we’d all get stoned and blow the shit up. Refrigerators, televisions, you name it and we blew it up.”
“Do you see the difference between blowing up a refrigerator and sending a rocket into an apartment?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could have killed someone.”
“It was just a refrigerator. There wasn’t no one in it.”
“I mean the apartment!”
“Yeah, but I thought it was him in the apartment. And anyway that didn’t work so I came over here to tell him to leave Miriam alone.”
“I don’t even know Miriam,” Briggs said. “Are you high?”
“Well, yeah,” Oswald said, smiling. “Of course I’m high. Miriam said you were going to ruin everything. She said nobody trusted you, and you were going to talk to the police, and that would be the end of the Manhattans and weed. So I said, ‘Don’t worry, Miriam, I’ll take care of him.’ ” Oswald looked around. “I’m starving, man. You have any chips, or something?”
“I ate all the chips,” Briggs said.
“Then I guess I have to kill you,” Oswald said. “So what do you have? Weed? Demerol? M&M’s?”
“How about a puppy?” Briggs said. “You could give it to Miriam.”
“Where?”
“Here,” Briggs said, pointing to the Chihuahuas sitting at his feet. “Pick one. They’re up for adoption.”
“They look like rats with big ears.”
“Watch what you say about my dogs,” Briggs said. “They’re very sensitive.”
“Sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Miriam probably doesn’t want a dog right now,” I said. “She sort of burned her house down.”
“Yeah, she’s like living in the garage,” Oswald said. “It’s got air-conditioning and everything, but the cops took all the weed and rockets. It’s like such a bummer.”
“Jeez, this has been a terrific conversation,” Briggs said, “but I have stuff to do. And don’t worry about Miriam. I won’t bother Miriam.”
“Do you need a ride?” I asked Oswald.
“No. I got a car. I’m sort of supposed to be at work, but the kitchen’s loose, being that nobody else’ll work the fry station.”
I pointed Oswald in the direction of the elevator and closed and locked the door behind him.
“Boy,” Briggs said, “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“There’s no limit to your unpopularity.”
I called Morelli and told him to pick Oswald up in connection with the firebombings.