“Stop!” Warlock grabbed his arm, a rhinestone cuff link clacking against the door. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s okay.”

Clete had jumped back so Warlock opened the door and slid in the packages, but La Verne had craned her neck around the door.

“What the hell is that briefcase in the refrigerator for?” She laughed.

“I’m afraid it has to be a secret. It’s connected with the job.”

“You’ve turned into a goofy fucker,” Clete said, tearing the door from Warlock’s grasp and taking a beer. “We can go home.”

“Don’t be silly.” Diana came into the kitchen in a bathrobe and gave Clete a vampy hug. “He’s become a spy or something. What’d you bring? I’m hungry.”

“Got some steaks. Slaughtered a steer last week. And what’s left of the white morels. They’re dry.”

“Oh goody.” She kissed him smack on the lips, not having lost her heat. La Verne looked out the window.

“I guess I better change.” Warlock was flustered and wondered if taking off the tuxedo might help.

“You look like James Bond,” La Verne said.

“In a pig’s ass.” Clete grabbed his lapels. “If you’re really a spy why does Asshollah still have the hostages?”

“He’s an old man. He doesn’t know what to do.” Warlock took a bottle of whiskey from the counter and swigged deeply as a solution to a problem that didn’t exist.

“Now he’s Johnny again.” LaVerne said passing the bottle to Clete. “He’ll never change. He’s our penguin.”

Chapter 18

He awoke late in the evening, hearing Boccherini from the living room, and the popping and cracking of his hangover between his ears. His right ear was still ringing but that was the aftereffect of firing the pistol and could not be blamed on whiskey. What had begun as a gentle Sunday barbecue had progressed into a celebration of his employment. Now there was a tremor of worry that the job hadn’t been specifically offered, but he recognized this doubt was physiological, the down side of whiskey. The Boccherini was helping everything but his thirst; the music reminded him of a Romeo and Juliet movie filmed in Verona, with all those old buildings and beautiful costumes. He had wept at the ending and for once Diana hadn’t felt the whole thing gauche and sentimental. He had thought the dialogue was great, though a little hard to follow, then remembered Shakespeare had written it.

He made his coffee clumsily, noticing with delight that he hadn’t read the Sunday Free Press, which lay fresh and virginal except the sports page. He plucked at his sore ear. Cletis had thought, after a number of drinks, that Warlock needed side-arm training. They had shot at a large oil can and Warlock was pleased to hit it three out of ten, though Clete’s score was perfect.