He reached one hand back into his jeans pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open for me to see. Inside was a picture and a card identifying him as Anthony Carlucci, licensed private investigator.
I looked at the picture and then I looked at him. The picture didn't do his dark eyes any justice, but it was him. His hair was longer now, and he had a serious case of five o'clock shadow, but it was definitely him.
"You can call me Tony," he said, and stood there, staring me down in my own home.
I looked away at the carton of eggs sitting on the counter-top. He had really been intent on cooking breakfast in my kitchen. Next to the stove sat my coffeepot, full of strong, black liquid. I inhaled and half-closed my eyes, then sighed and turned my attention back to Carlucci. Well, at least he was somewhat domesticated.
"You didn't start the grits water?" I said, pulling out another pot.
"Hashbrowns," he answered.
"Grits," I said. "My house, my food, my rules."
He smiled and stepped over to the coffeepot, grabbing a new mug as he went. "Here," he said, pouring the steaming coffee into the cup. "You haven't had enough to be thinking straight."
I slammed the skillet down on the stove and cut the fire on underneath it. "Who hired you?" I asked. I reached past him, pulled open the refrigerator door, and grabbed the bacon. Mama always said, "If you fill a man's stomach, you'll dull his senses." Mama never argued with Daddy when he was hungry, and Daddy never won an argument.
"I can't say. It's confidential."
Tony was leaning against the counter, uncomfortably close. He was slightly taller than Marshall Weathers, and larger, but without an ounce of flesh that wasn't muscle. Even without looking at him, I could feel him there. It was as if he radiated heat and something else that I couldn't quite put a name to.
"Man or woman?" I asked.
"Can't say," he answered.
I threw four strips of bacon into the hot skillet and listened to it sizzle against the burning surface.
"Why are you looking for Vernell?"
" 'Cause I got paid to look for him."
"By who? You can tell me that," I said. "What harm can that do?"
He shrugged. "I don't like to violate my code of ethics."
The bacon hissed and popped. "Yeah," I said, "like you have one. You work for the Redneck Mafia, don't you?"
That stopped him cold. He reached out, grabbed my arm and turned me toward him. "What do you know about that?" he asked. His eyes darkened and the look in them frightened me, but I wasn't going to let him know that.
"Nosmo King a friend of yours?" I said, letting my voice drop down to a near whisper. His grip on my arm tightened and I winced.
"How do you know about them?" he growled.
"The bacon's burning," I said, and jerked my arm away. I turned my attention back to the stove, knowing he wouldn't let it drop.
"Maggie, answer me. You can't drop a name like that and then stop talking. It's too dangerous."
"Who do you work for?" I shot back.
It was a standoff. I pulled the bacon out of the pan and slipped in the eggs. Over easy. I wouldn't look at him and he wasn't volunteering a thing. I poured grits into the boiling water and stirred them. The words Redneck Mafia and Nosmo King sure seemed to hit a nerve.
By the time the eggs were ready and the grits almost done, I had a plan. Mama always said, "A critter'll always come to sugar, long before he'll lick salt."
"Breakfast is on," I said. I pasted a stupid smile on my face and gestured toward my dining room. "You go sit down, let me tend to things."
Apparently he'd taken lessons in the same school of common sense. "Let me help you."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I purred. "You're a guest." Like hell, I thought, but swallowed it.
Tony picked up the coffeepot, filled our mugs, and then carried them into the dining room. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.
I set his plate of food down in front of him, then added a huge bowl of grits. I just couldn't help myself. Then I went back for my plate.
"Umm, umm," I heard him moan from the dining room.
"You know, Maggie, where I come from, we don't eat grits, but these are delicious!"
I know a liar when I hear one. I stuck my head around the corner and stared at him. He was shoveling plain grits into his mouth as fast as possible, ignoring the bowl of red eye gravy, and ignoring the pepper. What was wrong with him? It could only be one thing. He had Yankee written all over him.
"Glad you like 'em," I said, breezing past him to my seat. "Where I come from, grits just ain't no good without gravy and pepper, but I'm so happy to see you love them plain. What a tribute!"
Tony shot a longing glance at the redeye gravy, realizing his error, and knowing he couldn't switch over now.
We would've continued like this for I don't know how long, but Sheila saved me. The front door latch clicked, the door swung open, and my teenaged daughter faced down Tony Carlucci with a haughty glare.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Mama, that's him! That's the guy that was watching Daddy's house!"
Sheila marched through the living room and straight up to the dining-room table. She was wearing a little plaid miniskirt, black knee-highs, and pigtails. She looked like a Catholic schoolgirl.
"Baby, this is Mr. Carlucci," I said. "He's a private investigator looking for your dad."
"No you're not," Sheila sneered. "Private investigators don't wear black leather jackets and ride motorcycles."
"Sheila, where are your manners? And why aren't you in school?"
Sheila gave me a pitying look. "Mama, I am trying to save your life!"
"Cutting school again, huh?" Carlucci said, grinning.
"Shut up!"
"Sheila!" I swung back to face Carlucci. "How do you know she cuts school?"
"Doesn't everybody?" he answered.
"Well, I didn't."
Now Tony and Sheila both favored me with a pitying glance.
"I just stopped by to pick up a book I forgot," Sheila said, taking my side. "I do not cut school!"
"Stand by it if you want," Carlucci said, still smirking. "But I bet you wouldn't want your mama to check up on you." Sheila's face said all I needed to hear. I'd deal with her later.
Carlucci's plate was nearly clean. "I guess you'll be going now, huh?" I said, snatching the plate away. "I know you're busy with your investigation."
Sheila had stalked off to her room and was rooting around in search of something. I doubted it was a textbook. In this one instance, I figured Tony was right: Sheila had planned on cutting school and not getting caught.
"I'm not so busy that I can't help you do the dishes," he said. "My mother raised me right and I've got all day." He leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of me. When he smiled, as he was doing now, without the smirk, he seemed almost human.
"You're not from around here, are you?" I asked.
"Philadelphia," he said. "South Philly." He shifted in his chair and I stared at his shoes. He wore motorcycle boots, rounded toe, black, scuffed leather. His arms were crossed, the muscles cording like thick bundles of wire. I thought I caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from his shirtsleeve, but when he moved, it vanished.