3 Strange Bedfellows Read Free

cops will be able to trace the gun."
    Will rubbed his eyes, looking suddenly exhausted. "I heard some cop say the serial numbers were filed off."
    "Maybe they'll find fingerprints," I said brightly, trying to cheer him up.
    It didn't work. "Yeah, that would be nice," he said gloomily. "But the gun was wiped clean, or else the guy was wearing gloves. That's what the D.A. said at my arraignment when he was outlining their preliminary evidence."
    I had a flash of inspiration. "Gunpowder residue," I said, snapping my fingers. "They must've checked your hand for residue."
    "They did."
    "And they didn't find any, right? So that proves you're innocent."
    He shook his head ruefully. "That's what I thought. But it turns out the stuff, the antimony or barium or whatever, can just wash off. Or even rub off. So its absence doesn't prove anything, especially with a sink in the next room."
    How aggravating—with all the advances in scientific crime stuff, none of it seemed to be helping Will... at least not yet, anyway. Will's mopiness was catching. I fought it off. "Is it possible someone's trying to frame you?"
    "Can't imagine who."
    I tried another tack. "Did anyone at the station see somebody running away?"
    Will shook his head. "And no one heard anybody, either."
    "How about a car? Anyone see a car drive off?"
    "Not that I know of."
    This didn't sound good. My face must have shown it. "You've got to help me," Will pleaded, "you've got to. If they send me back to that jail, I'll stick my finger in a light socket!"
    I patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Shmuck," I reassured him, with much more confidence than I felt. "We'll get this squared away in no time."
    And if you believe that, I've got an Internet stock to sell you.
     
    From Will's house I drove to the scene of the crime. I'd been to WTRO once before, when they interviewed me about my movie.
    Ah yes, my movie. I should explain about that, and why I was free to traipse around that morning playing Colombo instead of commuting off to some j.o.b. somewhere.
    It's like this. After I escaped from grad school at age twenty-four (with an M.F.A. in Playwriting, of all the ridiculous degrees), I spent fifteen years writing artsy, avant-garde screenplays that never got produced and artsy, avant-garde stage plays that did get produced—off-off-Broadway, for audiences of about four people, including me.
    But then one day, while sitting at my old pockmarked desk and debating which bills to pay and which to put off, I somehow took it into my head to write an incredibly dumb disaster movie about deadly gas seeping out of the ground after an earthquake and threatening to destroy the entire population of San Francisco. The Gas that Ate San Francisco took five weeks to write, it was the worst piece of junk I'd ever done . . . and it made me a million dollars.
    Even after the agents, managers, producers, lawyers, tax men, and other bloodsuckers drank their fill, I still wound up with 300K, free and clear. It was so much money, I decided to take some time off and figure out What I Wanted to Do Next with My Life.
    That was almost two years ago now, and I still hadn't figured it out. But hey, between a bull stock market and Andrea's salary as a community college professor, that 300K was holding steady. And my extended sabbatical gave me plenty of time to pursue my other interests, like hanging out at the local espresso bar, teaching Creative Writing at the local state prison, and playing a lot of baseball with Derek and Bernie.
    I had also, much to my surprise, decided to become a Capitalist Landlord. Six months ago I bought the decrepit house next door and began the long process of tearing things down and building them back up again. After a decade and a half of being a brain-driven writer, I thoroughly enjoyed getting down and dirty. I rented the house out last week to three Skidmore College students, and I gave them such an enthusiastic blow-by-blow description of the rehab process that they