Chapter 22

To say that Freddy the Finger was remorseful would be a cruel understatement.

He was somewhere between despondent and apoplectic.

I tried to soothe his jangled nerves as I settled back into the hidey hole he had made available to me,

deep in the portlands where no one who loves not the smell of dead fish should ever, ever go.'

"'You don't understand, Jackie,' he snibbled into his sleeve as he unpacked the bag of tin supplies he had brought with him.

"'It ain't just what almost happened to you, though, you know, I never forgive myself if they had shot you dead.'

"'Thank you,' I said simply, taking a compliment where it could be found.

But it's the principle of the thing, he continued as if he hadn't heard.

Somebody who I consider a good contact and close associate

took a list of questions I had offered them in confidence

and chose to share that information with the police.

In my line of work, that is a crisis of biblical proportions.

I understand, I said soothingly.

Any thoughts on who the guilty party might be?

I don't know, Jackie, I don't know, he moaned.

Right now, the only one I trust is Wendell Marks.

Harpo, I said, using the clever criminals cryptic alias with only a little bit of the required

sarcasm, how does he get a pass?

Because, Jackie, Freddie said, taking on his professorial tone as he offered free crime

lessons, Wendell is the one that gave us the details on Mitchell at the fix-it shop.

And he would never have done that

...