“Tell you what. I’ll go next door and get your cello, then you can play some heavy-duty stuff for me while I make breakfast.”

An hour later he was frying French toast to Bach. “That’s pretty nice,” he said. “Do you know any Metallica tunes? Maybe some Eminem?”

Kate improvised “Master of Puppets” by Apocalyptica.

“All right! Now you’re playing music.” He saw the look of horror on her face and grinned. “Only kidding. I think Bach is okay, too.”

They both turned at the sound of light rapping on the window of the kitchen door. It was Howie and another man.

Dave opened the door. “Just in time for breakfast.”

Howie looked at the French toast and groaned. “You know what my wife made me eat this morning? Plain yogurt, six ounces of orange juice, and a sawdust muffin. She weighs my food! She has this little scale, and she weighs every lousy morsel of food. She checks my pockets for candy wrappers, and she smells my breath when I come home at night to see if I’ve eaten pizza.”

Howie’s partner held out his hand to Dave. “Ed Slikowsky. Everyone calls me Slik. Howie’s doctor told him to lose ten pounds, and since Howie’s been on a diet he’s gained three.”

“It’s hormones,” Howie said. “It’s not my fault.”

Dave set two extra places at the table. “Some coffee?”

Howie nodded. “We have a favor to ask. Remember how you said next time we should shoot from your house and leave the chopper at home? We’d like to take you up on it.”

“Something big due to happen?”

Howie sipped his coffee. “Maybe. Your bedroom window is at the perfect angle to keep an eye on things.”

“How long do you think you’ll be here?”

Howie had his gaze glued to Kate’s French toast. She poured syrup over it, and he held his mug in a death grip. “If everything goes as planned, we’ll make our move tonight. They’re supposed to sell some syrup… I mean some dope.” He pressed his lips together. “That’s real maple syrup, isn’t it? Not the fake kind with corn syrup and coloring, but the real stuff that costs $4.75 for a little bottle…”

Dave stacked up a tower of toast, loaded it with melted butter, and poured syrup over it until there was a substantial pool of brown liquid in the bottom of his plate. “You’ve got to get a grip on this diet business, Howard. All it takes is a little willpower.”

“Better watch it, Dave. I’m carrying a gun. I’m a desperate man these days.”

Dave forked French toast into his mouth. “What you need is more exercise.”

“Is that how you do it? You look like you lost weight since I saw you last. In fact, you look like hell. You have bags under your eyes. You need more rest.”