I ignored that. “What worries me is you’re in a line of work that requires you to keep a gun around. That’s not a good thing, Earl. Most people, unless they’re cops, don’t need to pack heat.”

Earl said quietly, “Lots of people, not just cops, need guns.”

“The thing is, are we going to be having midnight shootouts on the street here? Is everyone else in the neighborhood at risk of getting caught in the crossfire?”

He pursed his lips and tapped the barrel of the gun with his index finger. “It’s just a bit of insurance,” he said. “That’s all. You don’t have to be worried.”

“I just don’t like guns, is all.”

“So if I tell you that you don’t have anything to worry about because I’ve got a gun over here, are you going to turn me in?”

I breathed in deep through my nose, felt a trickle of sweat run down my forehead. “No,” I said. “I’m not going to turn you in.” And instantly wondered whether this was a promise I could keep. I decided to lighten things up. “I guess there’s a lot of chips in the cupboard, in case you get the munchies, too.”

Earl snorted. He waved his pack of Winstons. “This is the only thing I smoke,” he said. “I’m trying to look after my health.”

“I can see that,” I said.

“Look at us. You’re having a beer. I’m having a beer. I’m having a cigarette. The beer gives us pleasure, mellows us out, might even kill us if we abuse it. And this cigarette”—he waved it around with dramatic flourish—“will very likely mean the death of me someday.”

“I feel you’re making your way toward a point.”

“All I’m doing downstairs is meeting a need. I’m providing a service. Just like,” and he gestured toward me, “writing pornography, say.”

“Earl, I don’t write pornography. I write science fiction.”

“But if you did write porn, it would be the same thing.”

“But I don’t, and it wouldn’t be.”