Q reluctantly took the phone and answered with a resounding, "What?". Then he listened and said, "Okay." Then, he hung up.

"What?" I asked. "That's it?" I inquired.

I realized many years ago that Q is a man of few words. Still, "what" and "okay" seem oversimplified or an indication of lack of interest or perhaps feigning interest. The "what" comment didn't bother me as much as the "okay" word. Okay, what?

I didn't have to wait long. "She's coming over," he said.

"Iris is coming here...now? Is she bringing Just Jim's ear? Are you wearing any underwear?"

(Okay, I know the last question doesn't fit the string of consciousness, but if I don't ask now, I'll forget.)

All my questions went unanswered -- he left the room.

I smoked three cigarettes, drank two more cups of tepid coffee, and stabbed Trevor, the stuffed bear, repeatedly with an olive pick leftover from my morning Bloody Mary.

Q returned wearing a black tee-shirt, black jeans, and Christian Louboutin Dandoline Spike loafers. Somewhere a GQ magazine was missing a centerfold. My saliva gland responded appropriately.

(Note to self: Call your doctor and ask if he can transplant my saliva gland into my vaginal canal.)

"Why is Iris coming here?" I asked, wiping drool from my chin with Trevor's fuzzy paw.

"So I can beat the truth out of her."

"Is that a standard interrogation technique when dealing with a friend?"

"No, but it is the quickest. I got tickets to the Cubs game."

"What makes you think she's in on it?"

"Cause she's stupid. Her story smells like leftover Sashimi."

"What the...?"

"Sushi."

"You could have just said fish!"

Before he could respond, security rang. "Send her up," I said.

She looked sufficiently distraught in leggings and a plain white oversized shirt with a button missing at the boob area. Her paisley print brassiere peaked out the gap. Smudged mascara lined her eyes. She held tight to her purse and a wad of Kleenex.

"Nice to see you, Iris," I started to say, but Q interrupted my salutation.

Q grabbed Iris by the back of her shirt, thus ripping off three more buttons, and escorted her to the living room. "Sit the fuck down and spill," he said, glancing at his wristwatch. "I don't have all day."

Iris did indeed sit down on the couch with a thud. "Zee, are you going to let him treat me this way?"

Q gave me the; "You're next" look and pointed to the other end of the couch.

"I suggest you start talking; kick-off is in one hour," I said hurriedly, seating myself next to Iris.

"First pitch," Q said.

"Whatever," I said with a staredown.

I turned my focus back to Iris. "Just tell us what happened. We know your story is bullshit. Where's Just Jim?"

The truth poured out of her like Old Faithful on double-time. An old story with no surprises. Con man seduces a lonely woman, blows through her money, and coerces her to tap into friends and family.

"How did you intended to pull off the severed ear con? Didn't you think we'd notice?" I asked.

"I just got caught up in the drama. I remember Frank Sinatra's son had his ear cut off during a kidnapping."

Q unscrewed the cap on a Pelligrino and took a drink. "I told you she was stupid," he said and checked his watch one more time.

"I don't get it?" Iris said, looking at me like a basset hound on anti-depressants.

"You got your celebrities mixed up. It was J. Paul Getty's grandson who had his ear cut off."

"Oh, I guess I messed up," she said.

"Ya think? Where's he at now?" Q asked

"The St Clair hotel on Ohio Street."

Q donned his Cubs hat on his perfectly shaped shaved head, checked himself out in the mirror, and left.

Iris spent the next twenty minutes wallowing in self-pity. I spent the time in the remorseful reflection of days gone by. If I shoveled all my acts of stupidity into a pile, mine would be the motherload.

Iris had Just Jim. I had two Franks, a Fred, and a sorry sack of shit called Hog Head by his fellow beer-drinking buddies. If they gave out sheepskins for lessons learned the hard way, I'd be a shepherd.

I dosed Iris with a valium, tucked her into my bed, and kissed her on the forehead.

"I love you, Zee Zee," she said, wiping her snot-filled nose on my Sferra Capri Honey Egyptian pillowcase.

"I love you, too, Iris," I lied. "Tomorrow will be a better day," I lied.

I lie a lot.