"But for what you're paying . . . "
"Jesus," Parker said. "What's got into you today?"
Wilson bounced like a monkey, scratching under both armpits. "Or, or.
Grick. Grick."
"This is what happens when he gets to bed early," Parker said to
Patrick. Mrs. Van Slyke returned.
"Parker?" He rose to his feet balancing his coffee, assumed a good humored expression, and approached Mrs. Van Slyke.
"Her husband's a bad dude," Wilson said. "Nothing you couldn't handle." His live eye gleamed. "He did a good painting of a boxer, once. They got married."
"He married the boxer?"
"Smart ass." Wilson shook his head. "Then he slowed down—know what I mean?" They considered Mrs. Van Slyke who had Parker more or less pinned against the lilacs. "My woman gets in the way . . . " He snorted. "I don't even have a studio, paint right in the living room."
"You a painter?"
"All the time, man. What do you do?"