Hopeful that all I had to do was lean on Huey with the photo of him going into and coming out of that green loft. I’d take a healthy percentage of whatever he got from Ms. French and price Max out even if he offered more. I checked my e-mail, but the incriminating photos hadn’t come through. As soon as they did, I’d go visit the bistro and show Huey the pix on my phone, make the goofball give me the money or have his meal ticket punched. The bistro was named after his wife; Ariel owned it. Huey was her employee. For now. You’d think I had enough to worry about, like that it was windy on Smith Street and I had to make sure my hundred-dollar hat didn’t fly off. I was still worried about the cats, though—whether Tigsy had his shot and Herman had eaten. I had hopes that Snuggles and Lady were bringing projectile vomiting and shitting to a new, unprecedented level at the expense of Gustav’s wits. Without the incriminating Bridget photo, I didn’t even want to stroll by the bistro and maybe run into Huey smoking out front.
