Reason To Kill. Andy Weinberger

He likes to dress well, and even though it’s Sunday and the rest of Los Angeles is wearing sweatpants and flip-flops, Shelly’s got his tasseled dark leather loafers on and a pink Ralph Lauren shirt under his powder-blue blazer. He drops the sack on the table. What brings you here? I want to know. Pastries, he says. Raspberry bear claws, among other things. He was in the neighborhood and stopped by La Brea Bakery on Sixth. He had a hankering. “And besides,” he says, patting his stomach, “I couldn’t possibly eat them all.”

      Carmen pulls the goodies out and arranges them on one of our platters. She offers him coffee.

      “Well,” he says, “since you asked.”

      We talk and eat. Loretta wanders out of the bedroom in her yellow nightgown and gives Shelly an enormous hug that lasts far too long, if you ask me, but I don’t say anything. They’ve known each other forever, but what does she honestly remember about him? And after all this time, and all she’s been through lately, are her memories accurate? Who does she think she’s hugging? These are just questions; maybe in the end they don’t matter. Maybe it’s all right for my wife to be exceedingly fond of my cousin; Shelly has three ex-wives he’s still supporting. And they’re certainly not showing him the love.

      At some point, I let Shelly know that I have to be shoving off. “There’s a new case that’s come up,” I say with a shrug. “You know how it is.”

      He doesn’t seem to take it personally. “I thought you were retired, boychick.”

      “Sure, I’m retired,” I say, “but I’m also available. You know. Just in case.”

      Shelly chooses a powdered lemon bar with crumbs on it. Part of it sticks to his chin. “You’re smart, Amos. No reason a guy like you can’t go on doing what he loves forever, I mean, assuming you’ve still got your health and wits about you. Zei gezunt and all that.”

      “I’m okay. My legs haven’t quit on me. I walk an hour a day, just to clear my head. You ought to try it, Shelly.”

      “You’re not the first person to tell me that.” He smiles and pops what’s left of the lemon bar into his mouth and, in the same motion, wipes his chin clean.

      “I don’t want to be the last,” I say. I slip on my sport coat and cap, grab my car keys, kiss Loretta on the forehead, and start for the door. Then I stop and look at the three of them at the kitchen table. It’s like some kind of lost painting by Vermeer. The light is streaming in the window. Loretta’s working on a cookie. Behind her, Carmen’s stacking the dishes to go in the sink, and Shelly is leaning back contentedly in his chair, staring off into space, his coffee in front of him, hands folded like a pasha over his generous middle. “Anyway, you don’t have to leave just because I do,” I say.

      “I wasn’t about to,” he says.

      “That’s good. Because Loretta likes your company. Carmen, too, I think. Stick around. Have some more coffee.”