“I don’t like it.” His lip curled like a dog that’s scented danger. This meant he actually liked it. He was perverse.

“May not even be a case with this development. I’ll have my guy call Adeyemi’s lawyer and verify.”

“With your luck? The case is on like Donkey Kong.”

I changed the subject and jokingly asked if he’d blown his “riding west” bankroll. Over the past months, we’d spoken in desultory fashion of moving on from our halfway house existence—me tying the knot with Meg, him touring west into Northern California.

“The West Coast isn’t ready for you,” I said. “Wyoming, Montana, maybe Alaska. Be a cowboy, a drifter. They like cowboys in all those bass-ackward states. You’d have to wear a ball cap or a cowboy hat and learn to ride a horse.”

“California or bust. Pot growers’ mecca over there. Mexican cartels are moving in, putting the clamp on the locals. Getting to be a violent business with traditional growing families on the losing end. Home team could probably use some help. A sniper. A combat engineer. A fuckin’ ninja who knows his way around booby traps.”

“Do you really, truly, sincerely want to get involved in a guerilla war between pot plantation owners and the cartels?”

He sipped his beer and smirked.

“What about Delia?” I said. The couple were hot and heavy or estranged depending upon the day of the week, the weather, or the alignment of the planets.

Gloom wiped away his smile.

“Don’t think she’d be much help setting claymores,” he said.

■■■

I rented an office a few miles northeast of Hawk Mountain. Stone Ridge is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hamlet located north of the Shawangunks and south of the Catskills. Business had steadily improved (thank the gods or I’d have been a permanent resident in the poorhouse instead of a frequent guest), so I hired a receptionist to answer the phone and keep my affairs organized. Theodora Nowakowski—late twenties, brunette, kind and sweet-natured, but terse in the finest New York tradition. I gathered from the interview that she was a long-suffering Islanders fan who liked scotch on the rocks, dogs, and hiking the Shawangunks. She answered to Ted. Not Teddy, Dora, nor gods pity the wretch, Theodora. Her dad called her Ted because he’d expected a boy, and that was all she’d say in regard to family.

To break the ice, I asked her to name a favorite fictional detective.

She regarded me blandly.

“I’m thinking Columbo.”

Lastly, how did she feel about guns? She opened her purse to flash a petite Smith & Wesson Airweight revolver. I didn’t pry into how she’d acquired a carry permit, which is tough to get in New York. After I hired her, she kept the gun in the top shelf of the reception desk during work hours. She hung photos of Ruth Bader Ginsburg and her Bernese Mountain dog, Valentino. Ted stamped her imprint on the office from day one.

I walked in the Monday following Thanksgiving weekend. Primarily to make an appearance, but also to double-check my emergency stash in the office safe. Clear and cool on the heels of the weekend snow. An excuse to tromp around in a fur-lined Levi’s jacket and insulated Wellingtons.