“I’m going to hang out awhile longer,” Rose says. “See if he goes out. If he seems settled in for the night, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

An hour later Eddie emerges from the duplex a changed man. He wears chino pants, creased and clean, a short-sleeved, button-front plaid shirt, and shined cordovan penny loafers. His thick short hair is plastered to his skull with water or hair cream, a part as straight as a ruler’s edge dividing the dark cap.

Rose requests a Lyft that is four minutes out. Antsy, she leaves Arby’s and hovers on the sidewalk, a fat telephone pole between herself and her quarry.

As Eddie is backing out, seat belt fastened, hair checked in the rearview mirror, a silver Prius driven by Brian pulls up to the curb. Rose hops in the front passenger seat.

“Follow that truck,” she says.

“You got it,” Brian replies with a rakish grin. Evidently he’s grown up on the same movies and TV shows as Rose. He is a striking-looking man, midsixties, all lean angles and raw bones, wavy gray hair nearly to his shoulders.

“Trick is to stay back, but not too far back,” he says.

Rose raises an eyebrow.

“Mansplain?” Brian asks. He has what Rose always thinks of as Paul Newman–blue eyes.

“What are we following him for?”

“The usual,” Rose replies.

“Cheating boyfriend?”

Rose snorts.

“Hey,” Brian says. “Times they are a-changed.”

“Not cheating on me,” Rose says. “On my husband. That’s our pool boy.”

Brian laughs. “Okay, don’t tell me. Secret squirrel. The plot thickens.” He pulls out, the Prius not making a sound, and falls in behind Eddie’s truck.

In an old neighborhood of small houses with nicely kept yards, the pickup truck parks under a live oak. Eddie gets out.

“Drive past,” Rose says. In the side-view mirror she sees Eddie smooth his hair, then knock on the door. “Go around the block, then park.”

“Ten-four.”

Eddie isn’t long. Brian has just parked the Prius when he comes out of the house accompanied by an attractive woman, dressed with a Hispanic flair for figure-hugging clothes and neon-bright colors. Holding her hand is a little girl of four or five wearing pink leggings under a short purple dress, and sparkly shoes. Curling black hair falls to her waist. It is kept off her face by a plastic diamond princess tiara.

“Any cuter and she’d be a puppy,” Brian says.

“Grandchildren?” Rose asks.

“Guilty,” Brian replies. “The youngest is about the age of the princess.” He nods at the little girl Eddie is buckling into the center of the bench seat in his truck.

“Any pictures?” Rose asks to be polite.

“Not that far gone,” Brian says, and smiles. One of his front teeth has a chip in it, adding to the roguishness. “They any relation to you?”

“We are all one,” Rose intones sententiously.

“Namaste that,” Brian says.