The door opened slightly. She stared at him. The shock was too much for her, and for a moment she couldn’t say anything. And then, to let him know that it meant nothing, that he was just another Swampcat pulling a caper, she displayed an iron frying pan and gritted, “You wanna get your head caved in?”

“Calm down,” he murmured, then made a move to walk in; but she put her weight against the door. He stepped back and shrugged. For an instant she was off guard, and he moved very fast, pushing the door wide open, and went through and took the frying pan away from her. As she ran toward the stove to reach for another, he took the wallet out and when she pivoted with her hand gripping a larger, heavier frying pan, he showed her the badge.

Lillian gaped at the badge. She reached backward slowly, putting the frying pan on the stove. She stood rigidly, her eyes bolted to the badge. Corey walked toward her, to let her get a closer look at the badge. She continued to gape at it, then slumped into a chair and looked at the floor.

Corey went to the door and closed it. The rainwater was dripping from his head and shoulders. He wiped his brow and murmured, “It’s kinda damp out there.”

She sat still, gazing dully at the floor. She can’t believe it, Corey thought. She can’t believe they reinstated the shakedown artist. And aside from the seeing the badge, another item she gandered in the wallet was the card that reads “Night Squad.” Maybe that accounts for something else you see in her eyes, a certain uneasiness.

He glanced around the tiny kitchen, seeing the neat arrangement of glasses and jars and pots and pans. On the stove there was something cooking. The aroma was appetizing, and he remembered how it was when they were married. She liked to cook. She was really a wonderful cook.

And then he looked at her and saw the dark brown hair, the medium brown eyes, the pink-and-olive complexion that never needed rouge or powder, and he remembered she never used lipstick, either. Never put her hair up in curlers, never spent a thin dime on face creams or cologne or any perfume at all, not even them deodorant sticks. Just soap and water, and she took a bath every day, and that was it. When you got near her, that flower scent was Lillian herself, and not some fancy junk from a fancy bottle.

Another thing, she liked to sew. She made her own dresses and never from them paper patterns, never copying anything she saw in a store window. It was always her own inventions and you remember that time we went to the Policemen’s Benefit Ball and she wore that evening gown she made. Them other dames wanted to kill her.