“I was too close to that situation, Vic. I let my own anger over what Yarborough was doing to the firm cloud my mind, and I took it out on you—which is inexcusable between a lawyer and a client. But the real problem is a potential conflict of interest. You need someone speaking for you who is unimpeachable, because Yarborough may be firing some pretty big rockets. I’ll come up with a few names. And I’ll see that the bills don’t get out of hand. And after that—I don’t know—you can take your time to decide whether you want me to work for you in the future or not.”

“Thanks, Freeman,” I said quietly. We left matters at that for the present.

I was moving restlessly around my living room, wanting to talk to Lotty, not wanting another painful conversation, when Mr. Contreras showed up unexpectedly. He’d gone to the corner for a pizza, the kind we both like, thick with vegetables and topped with anchovies. And he’d picked up a bottle of the Ruffino I often serve him.

“I know I should’ve called, make sure you wasn’t planning on—on doing anything else for dinner, but I could see you didn’t have much food left. And we had a pretty good adventure. I thought we ought to celebrate.”

Carol Alvarado showed up unexpectedly when we were close to the bottom of the bottle. She was taking the graveyard shift tonight, filling in for someone else, she explained, and was just stopping for a minute on her way to the hospital. She’d read the brief story in this morning’s Herald-Star, but wanted to talk to me specifically about Mrs. Frizell.

She turned down an offer of wine. “Not when I’m going on duty. You remember I told you I thought I might have the answer for Mrs. Frizell?”

So much had happened in the last few days, I’d forgotten our conversation at the hospital. I hadn’t thought much of her secretive optimism then, but I made polite noises.

“It was her meds. I talked it over with Nelle McDowell, the charge nurse, and she agreed: too much Valium can have that effect on an old woman—make her restless and at the same time appear senile. And when it’s combined with Demerol it’s almost a recipe for senility. So we stopped the drugs for seventy-two hours and today she’s definitely better—not totally over it, but able to answer simple questions, focus on who’s talking to her, things like that. Only, she keeps asking about her dog Bruce. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “But it’s wonderful news. Now, if only I can get the Picheas out of her life, she can move back home one of these days.”