“Not this time. I’ll stay here and cook.”

Marino’s disposition was no more pleasant when he arrived at my door, and he made a great production of checking my spare revolver, a Ruger .38 with rubber grips. Depressing the thumb latch, he pushed open the cylinder and slowly spun it around, peering into each chamber. He pulled back the hammer, looked down the barrel, and then tried the trigger. While Lucy watched him in curious silence, he pontificated on the residue buildup left by the solvent I used and informed me that my Ruger probably had “spurs” that needed filing. Then he drove Lucy away in his Ford.

When they returned several hours later, their faces were rosy from the cold and Lucy proudly sported a blood blister on her trigger finger.

“How did she do?”

I asked, drying my hands on my apron.

“Not bad,” Marino said, looking past me. “I smell fried chicken.”

“No, you don’t.”

I took their coats. “You smell cotoletta di tacchino alla bolognese.”

“I did better than ‘not bad,’” Lucy said. “I only missed the target twice.”

“Just keep dry firing until you stop slapping the trigger. Remember, crawl the hammer back.”

“I’ve got more soot on me than Santa after he’s come down the chimney,” Lucy said cheerfully. “I’m going to take a shower.”

In the kitchen I poured coffee as Marino inspected a counter crowded with Marsala, fresh-grated Parmesan, prosciutto, white truffles, sauteed turkey fillets, and other assorted ingredients that were going into our meal. We went into the living room, where the fire was blazing.

“What you did was very kind,” I said. “I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.”

“One lesson’s not enough. Maybe I can work with her a couple more times before she goes back to Florida.”

“Thank you, Marino. I hope you didn’t go to a lot of bother and sacrifice to change your plans.”

“It was no big deal,” he said curtly.

“Apparently, you decided against dinner at the Sheraton,” I probed. “Your friend could have joined us.”

“Something came up.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Tanda.”

“That’s an interesting name.”

Marino’s face was turning crimson.

“What’s Tanda like?”

I asked.

“You want to know the truth, she ain’t worth talking about.”

Abruptly, he got up and headed down the hall to the bathroom.

I’d always been careful not to quiz Marino about his personal life unless he invited me to do so. But I could not resist this time.

“How did you and Tanda meet?”

I asked when he returned.

“The FOP dance.”

“I think it’s terrific that you’re getting out and meeting new people.”

“It sucks, if you really want to know. I haven’t dated nobody in more than thirty years. It’s like Rip Van Wrinkle waking up in another century. Women are different from what they used to be.”

“How so?”