Mon was in Randy’s third bungalow, poor Randy, she could hardly believe the little wacko was dead. She had to admit, Jack had done the right thing, not letting her see him sprawled out in the bathtub. This way, she could remember him the way she’d last seen him, a couple hours earlier, about four inches away from popping the question. Randy, half man, half Frankenstein.
She went into the bedroom to pack her stuff, tossed her suitcase on the bed and just stood there for a second. Mon, feeling like an orphan. She’d lost them both, Jack and Randy — all because of Fats Foley. She fished the little key Randy had given her the evening before out of her pocket.
“For you, darlin’,” he’d told her. “Case things ever get bad.”
Mon had no idea what he meant by that, but there were two things she di
