He transferred the almonds to a paper bag, slid it across the counter, started to turn away.

I showed him my police I.D.

He said, “Police shrink? What’s this all about?”

“I consult to— ”

“And now you’re at The Nut House. How apropos.” His eyes aimed at the woman behind me in line. “Next.”

I stepped aside, waited until she checked out.

Martin Boestling said, “Anything else I can do for you, purchase-wise?”

“It’s about Sydney Weider,” I said. “And Drew Daney.”

His big hands became flesh cudgels. “What is it exactly that you want?”

“A few minutes of your time, Mr. Boestling.”

“Why?”

“Daney’s the subject of an investigation.”

Silence.

“It could be serious,” I said.

“You want dirt.”

“If you’ve got any.”

He waved the kerchiefed woman over. “Magda, take over. An old friend just dropped in.”

* * *

We walked up Fairfax, found an unoccupied bus bench, sat down. Martin Boestling had forgotten to remove his apron. Or maybe he hadn’t.

He said, “Sydney was a bitch from hell, he was a fucking bastard, end of story.”

“I know about the gonorrhea.”

“Know how big my dick is, too?”

“If it’s relevant I can probably find out.”

He grinned. “You’d think it would be relevant, size mattering and all that. I married Sydney because she was smart and rich and good-looking and loved to screw. Turned out, she was making a fool out of me from the day we tied the knot.”

“Promiscuous.”

“If she had showed restraint, you could’ve called her promiscuous. Day of the wedding, she screwed one of my so-called friends.” He began ticking his finger. “The pool boy, the tennis pro, the fish tank guy, bunch of lawyers she worked with. It was only later, after the divorce, that people started to come up and tell me, phony sympathy in their eyes. Sorry, Marty, we didn’t want to make waves. I could never prove it but I’m convinced she screwed some of her clients, too. You know the kind of clients she worked with?”

“Indigent.”

“Murderers, robbers, scumbags. Think about that: She’s keeping long office hours in order to spread her legs for lowlife while I’m hustling to support her in the style to which she’d become accustomed. I hated the industry, stayed with it because I was desperate to impress her. Know where we met?”

“Where?”