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was blown out of proportion in the papers.”
    “Michael,” I said with mock solemnity, “please tell me you didn’t throw a dwarf.”
    “Monty’s not a dwarf. He may be altitude-challenged, but he’s technically not a dwarf. Anyway, he makes up for his size in orneriness. The crazy son of a bitch has been known to bite. And nobody likes a biter.”
    “The papers say his nickname is Monty Python.”
    “Yeah, well, you don’t want to know why. He’s liable to show you.”
    I had learned not to challenge Michael when it came to matters of taste. “So Monty once worked for the Abruzzo family?”
    “For a couple of years, yeah, he did collecting—you know, debts. He was very good at it. He could crawl through doggie doors when customers refused to let him inside.”
    “But now he’s going to testify against your father? Over the racketeering thing?”
    “He was lined up to testify. But he fell into a Dumpster and got a few bruises.” Michael shrugged. “A junkie snitch told a cop that I— Look, I wasn’t even in the same county at the time.”
    “Really?”
    “I was at a truck auction with a couple of hundred witnesses, so the cops let me go. Simple.”
    “Even I’m not naïve enough to believe it’s simple, Michael. Intimidating a person from testifying against your father’s organization is tampering with a witness. That’s a felony.”
    He shrugged. “The police claim he’s being coerced, but they can’t prove it.”
    “The papers say somebody stole property of Monty’s and is holding it hostage for his silence. What property might that be?”
    For a moment he considered not answering, then said, “An Elvis suit.”
    I blinked. “He likes Elvis?”
    “Monty’s very big into Elvis. He puts on a little white suit and jumps out of cakes as Elvis. It’s a good line of work when you’re a dwarf.”
    “You’ve seen him jump out of a cake dressed like Elvis?”
    “Only pictures. It’s mostly a girl thing.”
    “You mean he takes off the suit?”
    “Parts of it.”
    I debated whether to ask Michael if he knew who was currently in possession of the little Elvis jumpsuit and decided I didn’t want to know the answer. He watched me think it over and smiled.
    I said, “Just promise me you won’t get your picture taken with him, Elvis costume or not. You’re nearly two feet taller than Monty. The two of you will look like something in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”
    Michael rolled over and pinned me to the pillows. Without his clothes, his body was lean and hard. He said, “I promise. You’re cold again. What do you have against central heating?”
    “It’s expensive.”
    I’d returned to my family’s drafty homestead when my parents gave me the deed to the family farm. I’d moved into the ramshackle mansion with a firm vow to keep the family legacy out of the hands of land developers, and ever since then I’d fought a hard economic battle. In addition to the estate, my parents handed over to me their delinquent tax bill, which amounted to an impossible two million dollars. After the shock wore off, I’d sold everything of value to organize a tax repayment plan, then gotten a job and drafted Lexie to help me find creative ways to pay the monthly bill. So far, I was keeping my head above water. But barely.
    Michael had been the first creative source of income. We’d met when he and a friend purchased five acres of my prime riverfront farmland. I’d received enough money to hang on to Blackbird Farm a little longer, and Michael had promptly built Mick’s Muscle Cars, a used-car lot that I could see from my bedroom window. Since our relationship had evolved, however, I didn’t feel right about accepting money from him. It felt too much like my old life.
    Michael said, “Why don’t you move over to my place for the winter? It’s not a palace, but at least we won’t be Popsicles by spring.”
    I traced the line of his collarbone with my fingertips and didn’t answer.
    He said,