Page 52 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Mmmm,” I groan. “It’s just incredible. Thank you. My weekend started off so badly, but between hot civil servants and delicious cookies, things are looking up.”

“Was it because of the dogs?”

I promptly choke, cookie crumbs suddenly clawing at the inside of my throat.

“What?” I manage to croak.

“Your bad weekend. But never mind that! Sounds like that cookie went right down your Sunday pipe,” she says, nothing but sweetness. “Let me get you something.”

She disappears again as I keep coughing.

Sheila knows about the dogs?

When she reappears, the oven mitts are gone, and she holds a shot glass of what looks like whiskey.

“Go on,” she says encouragingly.

I shoot it, and it is, in fact, whiskey. Cheap, brutal, and very definitely whiskey.

“There you go,” she says, patting my back as the coughing subsides, instantly replaced by the burn of the alcohol. “I thought you might need it.”

“For the cookie?”

“Oh, no, dear. For the blackmail.” She winks again.

“I’m sorry,” I say weakly. “I think I’ve lost track of what’s happening.”

“Oh, that’s because I haven’t told you yet.” She takes the shot glass back and dries it out with the edge of her apron.

Note to self: no more shots with Sheila.

Then she smiles at me again. “I know you have dogs up there. Now see, my Roy can be a little naive, like most men, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know about the dogsandI know you aren’t allowed to have dogs as per your lease.” She puts on a pair of readers and pulls my literal lease out of her apron pocket, perusing it with her lips pursed.

“I... I...”

“Don’t try to deny it.Buuuut...” She draws the word out, asshe flaps the lease in front of my face. “I don’thaveto tell Roy about them.”

“You don’t?”

“Thing is, he’s got me on a pretty strict allowance, and I could use some going-out money. Mama needs some horizontal refreshment.”

I squint at her. “I’m sorry, some—”

She rolls her eyes. “Nookie. Whoopie. Oh, what is it you kids say—hot beef injection?”

A small squeak escapes my throat.

“So I’ll need forty-five a week to keep your little secret. You can Venmo me.”

“Forty-five...dollars?”

She just smiles pleasantly.

I’m suddenly grateful for that whiskey. Between horny ol’ Sheila and the bull penises, these dogs are going to bankrupt me.

I have no choice but to agree to her terms. It’s already clear: You don’t haggle with Sheila.

And as I trudge upstairs, eating the other cookie, which somehow doesn’t taste nearly as delicious as the first cookie, I make a resolution.