HE SEEMED surprised to see us. “What’s up with you two?” he asked in a wary voice. “Just a little on-site crime scene visit,” Leo said, smiling. “How’re you feeling? I heard you were under the weather the other night.” Mickey, whose bushy eyebrows, tufts of black hair, and small pointed nose reminded me of a gremlin, rubbed his stomach. “I think it was flu,” he said. “It’s going around. Spike and Julie Canby had it a week or so ago, I think Al was coming down with it Saturday, maybe Walt, too. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve got an ulcer.” He turned his head in the direction of the gas station and minimart. “I’ve been damned lucky—haven’t been held up for almost two years. You see those news stories all the time about convenience store owners getting gunned down. It’s enough to make a guy afraid to go to work.” “Say,” Leo said as if he’d just thought of it, “did you see the fight at the ICT Saturday night?” “Not really.” Mickey rubbed his stomach again.
