“So where’s the fire?” I asked. “Your old buddy steal Clara’s silver or something?” Mr. Contreras’s dead wife had left behind a pair of candlesticks and a silver salt shaker which he never used but couldn’t bring himself to pass on to his daughter.

“No, nothin’ like that. But I want you to talk to him. He’s got something on his mind that he’s acting awful cute about. I don’t have time to figure out what he’s driving at. Besides, it ain’t good for the princess to have him drinking around her babies, and then snoring all night on the couch right over her head the way he does. I need to get him out of here today.”

“I can’t get the guy into A.A., my friend.”

“And I ain’t asking you to. Crying out loud, you jump to conclusions faster’n a flea trying to reach the dog.”

“Why don’t you tell me what the problem is, then, instead of dancing around it—listening to you is like hearing a mosquito buzz away for an hour while you wonder where it’s going to land.”

“There’s no call for that kind of language, cookie, no call at all. You don’t mind my saying so, but sometimes you’re a little bit fresh.”

I rolled my eyes but bit back a snappy retort. At this rate I’d be here all day and I didn’t have a day to spend on it.

“What seems to be troubling Mr. Kruger?” I asked primly.

Mr. Contreras scratched the back of his head. “That’s what I can’t exactly figure out. I thought maybe you could talk to him, being as you’re a trained investigator and all. See, him and me used to work together out at Diamond Head—you know, the engine makers on Damen down by the river. Then we retired, but we picked the wrong year to do it, back in seventy-nine when inflation was so rough, and our pensions, which seemed good enough at the time, couldn’t keep up. I wasn’t so bad off, because I owned my house, and then when Clara died I bought this place, but Mitch kind of outdrank his, and he also don’t have my luck at the track. Or more to the point, he don’t have my self-control.” He started for the kitchen as though that explained everything.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m short on sleep and can’t make the connection.”

Mr. Contreras stopped to look at me in exasperation. “So he needs money, of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed, trying to keep a sharp edge out of my voice. “What’s he doing to get it that has you so worried? Holding up 7-Elevens?”