At just after midnight, the phone rang.

I'd been tossing and turning, trying to sleep and unable to do so, my mind filled with thoughts of Charlie. Beautiful, sweet, intoxicating Charlie. I wanted him lying next to me. I wanted to breathe in the scent of him. I wanted to feel his warmth on my skin. I felt like I couldn't breathe.

The phone rang again, insistent.

"This is Dewey," I said, irritated as I struggled to sit up and talk at the same time.

Billy Joe Dabbs, the county coroner, was on the other end.

"You need to come over to my office and pick up this mess," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Accident. You'll see when you get here. Check your fax machine."

He rang off without saying goodbye. Which was typical.

I dressed in a hurry and went downstairs to the office. According to the fax waiting on the machine, the deceased was Dwayne Duffy, nineteen years old, the victim of a motor-vehicle accident. Dabbs was always sparse on details when it came to anything written down, so I was not surprised by the lack of specifics on the report. He had already ascertained that the family wanted the boy embalmed, which meant they would want a visitation and a funeral.

I called Charlie, told him we had a death call, and that I'd get the van and meet him at his door.

Two minutes later, we were on our way to the coroner's office, which was over in Amory by the justice center.

"I want you to meet the coroner, is why I called you," I said.

"Sure," he said sleepily. Had he been sleeping? And not tossing and turning like me? The thought annoyed me.

"Having yourself a good sleep?" I asked.

"I always do after good sex," he replied easily. "Makes me wanna sleep like a baby."

Touché.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say I had been having trouble sleeping, that I missed him, that I wanted to share my bed with him, wake up next to him, feel him close to me.

I kept my mouth shut.

"I don't know where you learned to suck dick, but damn," he added. "As far as I'm concerned, you can suck my dick anytime you want."

"Thank you," I replied.

"We should do it in one of the casket."

"We should ... what?"

"You know," he said, beaming a bright smile. "We should make out in a casket. Do it. Do it do it do it! Fuck like rabbits! Always been a fantasy of mine."

"Well ..."

"Like that old black and white movie Dracula. You know how he comes up out of that coffin? He's like, let's get it on, baby! Let the fucking begin! I have a thing about vampires. Did I tell you that?"

"Well, no."

"Interview With the Vampire. Oh sweet Jesus! Fuck me! Oh, I loved that book. That whole series. What was her name? Anne Rice, right? I wanted to hang out with Lestat, but all Louie ever did was bitch and moan and carry on, and I was like, man, you're a vampire! What more do you want? Oh, I'm going to have to live forever! Oh, poor me! God, what a sad old sack of shit! You ever read that book?"

"I watched the movie."

"Oh, please. You need to read that book. They never really make out -- it's not that kind of book. But you know they're thinking about it, and they're probably doing it. They lived together for years!"

"Brad Pitt ... not to be sniffed at."