“I feel like moaning now,” I told him. “And it has nothing to do with sex.”
I unwrapped my scarf and hung it on a hook on the wall next to my front door. I draped my heavy winter jacket over the scarf and exchanged my snow boots for shearling slippers.
“I can't believe you bought all that stuff,” I said to Diesel.
“It's for Jeanine… unless you want to take something for a test drive.”
“No.”
“Are you sure? We've got a bag full of fun here. I bet we've got samples of every condom ever invented.”
“No!”
Diesel set the bag on the kitchen counter and went to the refrigerator. He backed out with a couple beers. “You know what your problem is? You're too uptight.”
“I'm not uptight. I've got a boyfriend, and I don't mess around.”
“Admirable, but this living arrangement would work better if you had fewer scruples,” Diesel said. “I don't fit on the couch.”
“Do you fit on the floor?”
“That's cruel,” Diesel said.
I took a beer from him and unwrapped a loaf of bread that had been sitting on the counter. We made a stack of peanut butter sandwiches, gave one to Bob, and took the beer and the rest of the sandwiches into the living room and turned the television on.
“I want to know about Beaner,” I said to Diesel. “What are his powers? What kind of chaos does he cause?”
“I'd like to tell you, but then I'd have to kill you…”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I'd really rather not.”
“Great. Don't tell me. I'll get the story from Mrs. Beaner tomorrow.”
“Okay, I'll tell you,” Diesel said, “but if you laugh, I swear I'll turn you into a toad.”
“You can't actually do that, can you?”
“The better question is, would I? And the answer is, no.”
“About Beaner.”
Diesel washed a sandwich down with half a beer. “He can give you a rash.”
“A rash?”
“Yep.”
“That's it?”
“Sweetie pie, this isn't any ordinary rash. It's the mother of all rashes. It makes you itch everywhere. It's nonstop torture for anywhere from three days to three weeks. It's related to poison sumac and looks like hives. Doesn't necessarily leave scars unless you start carving yourself up with a knife because you can't stand the itching.”
“Wow.”
Diesel sunk low into the couch and closed his eyes. “Who am I trying to kid? It's a rash, for crying out loud. How bad can a rash be?” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Used to be I tracked dangerous sexual deviants and insane despots. Last time I was here I disabled a guy who shut down the northeast power grid at Christmas. That's the kind of stuff you can get your teeth into.” He sunk lower and groaned. “And now I'm hunting Mr. Itchy. Do you have any idea what this does for my image?”
“It's not good?”