“Hormones again?” He had never seen her this frustrated.

“I don’t know.” She worked on more buttons and hooks.

They seriously made out on the couch while Niles remained in his sanctuary above the sink. He was not a fan of Tire Man, as Niles called Raines after noticing some radial ad in the newspaper lining his litter box. Tire Man was offensively loud and never warm and appreciative of Niles. Several times, Tire Man had launched Niles off the couch, and this would have been one of those times should Niles have tested his luck, which he did not.

He looked adoringly at his distant, sad King. I’ll help you. Fear not. My owner knows about laundry money. She is very powerful and will protect you and all Usbeeceeans. Niles twitched an ear, detecting another engine sound, this one a pleasant, deep purring that he recognized. It was Piano Man, the nice one who played his fingers over Niles’s spine and ribs and right behind his ears until Niles fell over from sheer pleasure, rattling windowpanes. Niles got up and stretched, excited that Piano Man seemed to be slowing behind the house, where he had parked in the past, on the few times he had stopped by for one reason or another.

West and Raines were not in a good space when the doorbell rang. By now, Raines was completely focused on what he was doing and was within minutes, at most, of victory. It was quite inconvenient and inconsiderate for someone to dare and drop by unannounced. Raines experienced an intense wave of homicidal rage as he withdrew to his end of the couch, sweating and out of breath.

“Goddamn son of a bitch,” he furiously blurted.

“I’ll get it,” West said.

She got up, pulling, zipping, and buttoning, as she walked and combed her fingers through her hair. She was a mess, and as the bell rang again, she hoped it wasn’t Mrs. Grabman from two doors down. Mrs. Grabman was a nice enough old woman, but she tended to drop by every weekend West was home, usually offering vegetables from her garden as an excuse to meddle and complain about someone suspicious in the neighborhood. West already had a long row of ripening tomatoes on the counter, and two drawers full of okra, green beans, squash, and zucchini in the refrigerator.

Safety-conscious West, who had never gotten around to installing a burglar alarm, yelled through the door, “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Brazil said.

From the bottom of the steps, where he waited with wine, he was excited and clueless. He assumed the old black Corvette on the street belonged to a neighborhood kid. It had never occurred to him that Denny Raines might drive anything besides an ambulance. West opened the door, and Brazil lit up at the sight of her. He offered her the bottle of wine in its brown paper bag.

“I thought we should at least drink a toast . . .” he started to say.