I didn't ask the questions Bernie expected. Instead I asked him what I wanted to know. But I did it obliquely, just in case he felt inclined to take offense.

"I guess you're prone to liking people too much, but I have to say, you hide it well."

He glared harder to cover up a wince.

"Women, mostly. Since my wife died." He paused, and I thought he was done. A moment later, however, he admitted, "But recently I'm having the same trouble with men. I see a guy with an honest face, and suddenly I want us to be friends for life.

"Take my advice, Axbrewder. Don't get old. They say it beats being dead, but I say, don't talk to me until you've tried both."

Sounding more than ever like a wasp, he rasped, "Now shut up and get out of here. I have work to do."

On command, I climbed to my feet stiffly and headed for the door.

Bernie Appelwait wasn't going to die of old age. If someone didn't feed him a little respect soon, he'd die of emotional starvation.

As I opened the door, he stopped me. When I turned around, I saw him leaning toward me with his elbows propped on the desk top, pointing at me with a finger that couldn't straighten all the way.

"One more thing, Axbrewder. Leave your iron at home."

Just for a second. I didn't understand him. Sounding particularly intelligent, I said, "Huh?"

"This is a hotel," he explained acidly, "not a bordello. We don't want anyone shot. We don't even want guns going off. It's bad for business. And Watchdog won't cover it. We'd rather get robbed."

"No problem." I attempted a smile to cover my confusion. He must've noticed the bulge of the .45 under my jacket.

"It's just bluster anyway. I can't hit anything."

Before he started buzzing around the room again, I closed the door and left.

Outside The Luxury, heat shimmered on the parking lot, distorting everything, and the pavement felt vague under my heels. Without sunglasses I would've been too blind to find the Subaru. The way it slumped between its wheels made me think its tires were melting. When I got in, the vinyl of the seat scorched me through my suit. I didn't realize how hard I was sweating until drops of water smeared my glasses.

If this was winter in Garner, I sure as hell didn't want to see summer.

With the AC straining, I drove back to the apartment.

Along the way, I asked myself what to tell Ginny. I liked the idea of just keeping my mouth shut. After all, she'd pretty much stopped talking to me. But I didn't trust that reaction. Most of our problems came from not talking to each other.

Manfully I decided to explain everything. Which included my conversations with Marshal. It would do me good to clear the air. If I ever managed to grow as old as The Luxury's Chief of Security, I didn't want to be bitter about it.

But that night there wasn't any air left to clear. Ginny didn't come home.

Five.

If I slept that night, I didn't notice it. My heart suffered while my brain fumed. Marshal, I thought, she's with Marshal. In his bed.

Tasting all that handsomeness She'd had an affair less than a month ago, hadn't she? Why not another one now?

Meanwhile my heart insisted that she was in trouble. Marshal had given her a dangerous assignment, and I was her partner, but I wasn't there to back her up.

I didn't know how to endure it. How had we come to this, when all I'd ever wanted was to stand beside her?

Sometime after midnight, I called Sam Drayton in Puerta del Sol.

I considered him a friend, even though we'd spent less than a week together. He and his wife, Queenie, had been involved in the case that eventually convinced Ginny to get me out of town. And Queenie had nearly died, accidental victim of a cocaine overdose aimed at someone else.

I had no business calling him. Of course. He had his wife to take care of. An overdose that massive might've burned out her brain, leaving a husk where an open and lovely, heart-wrenching woman had once been. The last thing he needed was frantic phone calls in the middle of the night from men who were big enough to fend for themselves.

But he knew things I didn't, and he'd helped me before.

As soon as I heard his voice, I knew I'd gotten him out of bed.

"Sam," I said.

"It's Brew."

Then I seized up. I had no business doing this to him. No business and no right. Even his silence over the phone seemed to ache for rest.

But he didn't try to get rid of me.

"Brew." Recognition sharpened his tone.

"Where are you? Are you all right?"

He knew I was on the run from el Senor. He knew why.

I couldn't tell him where I was. Safer for both of us. And the sound of his weariness closed my throat on everything else. Awkward as a cripple, I replied, "It doesn't matter." Desperate inside, and afraid to show it, I asked, "How's Queenie?"

"Brew." From somewhere Sam mustered the strength for severity.

"Did you call me at 1:37 A.M. to ask that?"

He was my friend.

"No," I admitted.

"But I want to know."

The memory of the way she'd been hurt felt like Estobal's bullet in my gut, leaden and cold.

His voice sagged.

"It damaged her. She's lost seven or eight years of her life. They're just gone. She has no idea how we met, or how long we've been married, or what she did before " His throat closed, too. He had to force out words.

"But at least she remembers me. And she's recovering well in other ways. Balance, mood, reflexes. She may remember more as she gets stronger."

Maybe I shouldn't have bothered him in the middle of the night.

Nevertheless he was definitely the right man to call. The right friend for me. He understood

My eyes burned, for Queenie as well as for myself.