Page 95 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Well, I am not aD Fucking T,” I say defensively. He stares at me, confused. “Dog Fucking Trainer. Actually, that sounds awful. Forget I said that. Look, you and Claudiamademe take them, and I’m doing the best I can.”

“Are you even trying to keep up with their grooming?” he asks.

“I can barely keep up withmygrooming, Benny. I’m not spending my pepperoni money just to have a bunch of fashion dogs.”

“It’s not for fashion,” he protests. “It’s ahealththing. They have to get professionally groomed.”

“Right. And how much does a dog spa cost, out of curiosity?” I ask.

Benny grimaces. “Um, about a hundred bucks. Maybe one twenty-five.”

“Each??”

“Plus tip.”

I look at the green screen crumpled up on the seat next to me. I havegotto get on those videos. Between Sheila and apology drinks and friggin’ dog haircuts, I’ll be broke by the end of the month if I don’t get the eleven-point-five grand. God I need that money.

Literally a month ago, I had none of these kinds of problems. A surge of loss hits me as I realize how much I miss my old life.

Ah shit, now my eyes are burning, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to cry in front of Benny. I rub my face like I’m just really tired and not crying and hope my eyes haven’t already gotten puffy.

Benny doesn’t notice. He’s tipsy and getting nostalgic and starts reminiscing about Claudia. He’s an artist, which is how he and Claudia met; he draws and paints portraits (notnudes, he assures me) and she, well, clearly lovedThe Legend of Zelda, and he happily modeled for her (again,notin the nude—“just topless,” he says, blushing).

It’s bittersweet—they’re good stories, she was a fun, kooky old lady, and I wish I’d gotten a chance to know her better. But the thrill of Benny being out of jail has long since waned, and I can barely even fantasize about him posing topless. Now I’m just in a funk about the sad state of my broke-ass life, and really I just want to leave and crawl into bed and try to sleep for once this week.

Plus, there’s that nagging feeling at the back of my head that I can’t seem to shake. Probably just the reality of my inevitablesecondeviction of the year.

That’s when it occurs to me—I could take aloanon the eleven-point-five K. Just a teensy one? Like a payday advance. A down payment. Earnest money. That’s a thing, right?

Because if I can’t get through the month financially, then I can’t solve this murder. I feel like Tond would understand that. And if I had his phone number, I would totally tell him.

I wrap up our conversation a little abruptly, but Benny is, at this point, manymanycold red wines in and doesn’t notice. We hug goodbye, so I guess we’re friends now, and I feel my mood on an upswing as I head over to Claudia’s with the dogs.

We sneak into her backyard through the alley, across the disheveled lawn, and creak open the bulkhead doors. The four of us trundle down the dusty concrete steps by the light of my phone, and I shine the beam over to the messed-up Benny statue—

—whose abs are open to the world.

No envelope in sight.

No eleven-and-a-half K.

Nothing.

Nada.

I give the chest cavity a good scour, sticking my hand in, and feeling up into the inside of messed-up Benny, behind his ribs all the way to his neck.

Nope.

It’s gone.

My body goes hot and then cold. What. The. Fuck.

The dogs won’t stay still, like they sense something.

“What do you smell?” I whisper, scouring the shadows.

They don’t answer, and I can’t breathe. And there are no paper bags anywhere.