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breath—there were things to do. Like call Joanne.
    After I gave her the rundown, she asked, “Are you sure?”
    “What do you mean am I sure? Who else would be threatening me like that?”
    “I don’t know, you have a talent for pissing people off.”
    “Not many who have recently accused me of arson.”
    “Yeah, I know,” she said quickly. “You met this guy once, talked to him for five minutes at most. A couple of weeks later someone you allege to be him calls you on the phone and threatens you. A bottom-of-the-class defense lawyer could rip that one apart.”
    “So what am I supposed to do, wait until he actually starts a fire?”
    “Look, Micky, I agree, a fire threat does point to him. I can hunt him down and question him about it, but he’s going to deny it and then it’s your word against his.”
    “That’s all you can do?”
    “I’d take your word over his any day, but the legal system has to treat you both equally.”
    Maddening as it was, Joanne was right. He’d certainly implied that he was going to play with matches at my expense, but what proof did I really have? It was my word against his as to what he said. I didn’t know his voice well enough to be certain it was his—it could be a bizarre coincidence, a wrong number and the caller was threatening a total stranger. Even in my weird world, that was stretching it. “Okay, I get you—and understand that sometimes the rule of law lets scum get away with things.”
    “If he really wanted to get you, he wouldn’t have bothered with a phone call.”
    “Somehow that’s not very reassuring.”
    “He’s a con, not a fighter. He probably has to know you didn’t set the actual fire, but he’s angry and vents that anger with nasty phone calls. My bet is that he doesn’t have the guts to start an actual fire.”
    “How much money are you putting on that bet?” I asked.
    “If I lose the bet, you and CJ can hang out on our couch for as long as it takes to repair your place.”
    “Your couch isn’t long enough for Cordelia, and it wouldn’t fit both of us at the same time.”
    “We both hope this is a bet I don’t win.” She was gallant enough to hang up before I had to name what I’d wager if I lost.
    My next less-than-pleasant task was to call and re-call all the clients who’d hired me to track down Mr. Prejean, or whatever his real name was. They needed to know he was an angry slime bag and threatening revenge arson against anyone who might have burned down his house.
    “Can I shoot ’im if I see ’im?” was the first response. It was hard, but I put on my law-abiding hat and said that just seeing him wouldn’t be sufficient cause for gunplay.
    “You didn’t give him my name, did you?” was the second one. I had to remind him he had hired Prejean to renovate his house and that usually involves the exchange of names. I tried to reassure him that as Prejean didn’t intend to do any work, it was unlikely he kept the paperwork. Unless he was too lazy to throw it out, but I didn’t mention that.
    “You sure should have burned it down if that’s his attitude,” was number three. “Did you?” she ever-so-encouragingly asked. I explained that I had not and would not burn down anyone’s house, no matter how far afoul of the law he was. I didn’t like that she considered it possible I would commit arson.
    Especially for the amount they’d paid me.
    Number four told me, “You gotta call the police. Right now. Don’t waste time with me.” I made the mistake of telling him I did call the police and there wasn’t much they could do. That got me the diatribe on how bad the New Orleans cops were, they were corrupt, never came when you called, had all been cowards during Katrina. I had to pretend I was losing my cell signal. On my landline.
    And so it went. While their responses were different, there seemed an underlying theme: I was the professional, I knew how to deal with these things and so they were glad he’d come after