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his beer can the breakfast of champions. Most of the ale he had consumed over the past few decades seemed to have settled around his midriff. The rest of his lanky body was thin, so he looked like a donut stuck halfway down a stick.
    “How do you know Dirk isn’t up yet?” She couldn’t resist asking, because she could never tell herself. Dirk always kept his curtains drawn; he seemed to think it negated the need for dusting. And he seldom ventured outside unless he was in the process of coming or going.
    His old Buick was parked in his gravel driveway.
    Mr. Biddle grinned a sly, toothless smile. “Ain’t heard his commode flush yet,” he announced proudly.
    Not bad detective work, she mused. If old Mr. Biddle would only use his powers for good.
    “He’ll get up for me,” she said before considering the possible sexual innuendo. No matter; Old Man Biddle probably hadn’t even heard her.
    Quickly she passed Mr. B., his trailer, his chaise, and his beer. Today, his vision seemed better than usual. His bleary eyes followed her as she walked by, and she could almost swear he was checking her out.
    “Yep...” He nodded his approval. “...I’d say , if you can’t get ‘ im up, missy, nobody can.”
    Savannah did a double take to see if she had heard correctly. Yes, there was definitely a leer on the wrinkled face— toothless, perhaps, but a distinct leer.
    “Harry, get the hell in here this minute,” screeched a female from inside the trailer. “And stop making a donkey’s ass of yourself.”
    Sweet Mrs. Biddle. It was always such a pleasure to hear die velvet words that rolled off her silken tongue. Like an obedient puppy, the king of the trailer park rolled out of his chaise and trudged across the yard to disappear inside his Mobile home.
    Snatches of conversation wafted through the tom screen windows to Savannah —phrases like, “… flirtin ’ with that hussy... makin ’ eyes at... right in front of God and everybody...“
    Savannah was still chuckling when she rapped on Dirk’s door. Judging by the length of time it took him to answer, she knew Mr. Biddle had been right—Dirk hadn’t been up and about yet.
    “Sleeping in, huh?” she said, as he opened the door and glared down at her, wearing an undershirt, boxers, mussed hair, and a scowl.
    “Trying to,” he replied. “Did you bring food?”
    She held out a brown paper lunch bag, half-expecting him to loll his tongue, roll his eyes, and wag his tail. Dirk was a sucker for sweets... or food of any kind, for that matter.
    “What is it?” he asked, opening the door and reaching for the bag.
    “It meets two of your basic food group requirements: edible and free,” Savannah replied as she pushed her way past him and into the trailer.
    He peeked inside the bag and lit up instantly. “Donuts!”
    “More specifically, apple fritters and French crullers. I was hoping you’d share,” she added, watching him eagerly dig in.
    His smile drooped. “But there’s only four.”
    With a sigh, Savannah walked to his kitchen sink, shoved some dirty dishes aside, and began to make coffee in his old percolator pot. He removed a pair of jeans from a doorknob and slipped them on.
    “Now, you don’t have to go gettin ’ dressed up for me, sugar,” she said, setting the pot on the two-burner stove and turning up the flame. “It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before.’
    He bristled. “You haven’t seen it all .“
    “That’s true. But not because you haven’t offered to show it to me.” She squirted some detergent into a couple of mugs.
    He grunted, his mouth full of fritter. “Humph... that was a long time ago. I’ve done given up on trying to get you into the sack.”
    “It wasn’t a good idea, and you know it. So don’t pout .“
    “It wasn’t a good idea when we was partners on the force. But since you’re not a cop no more, what’s your excuse now?” Savannah glanced around the cluttered trailer at the piles of unpaid bills on