"Yeah," I say. "I thought I heard something, too. You figured out where it might have come from?"
The cops look at each other.
The one who's doing the talking says, "We detained three men who were leaving the building when we arrived. They claim they were here to visit you."
"They claim correctly."
"And you are?"
I give him my name. He writes it down on a notepad.
"Those three guys," the cop says. "They work for Papi Ferreira."
"Cute name, Papi. Don't you think? Perky."
"What was their business here?"
"Training seminar." I nod at Boggy. "My associate and I were teaching them some new sales techniques, helping them sharpen their people skills."
The cop cocks his head.
"I need to look around," he says.
I step back from the door and let him in. His partner stays in the hall.
The cop walks around the office, his eyes eventually finding the hole in the ceiling.
"What happened there?"
"Termites," I say. "I've complained to the landlord, but ..."
"The truth," he says.
"Well, actually, we're in the middle of a remodeling project and that's where we'll be hanging the new chandelier. We're thinking brass, but I'm not averse to something a little more sparkly. Crystal, maybe. Any thoughts?"
The cop gives me a long, hard look. I manage not to wither.
"Those three guys," the cop says. "They looked like they'd been roughed up."
"My associate and I are serious about our work," I say. "We take a very hands-on approach."
The cop looks around the office some more, but it's only for show. He writes some more stuff down in his notepad. But that's mostly for show, too.
He rejoins his colleague in the hall. They spend a few minutes interviewing the guy in the other office.
I hang out in the doorway just in case they need me to offer any further illumination to the situation. But, no, I get the snub treatment.
When they're gone, I turn to Boggy.
"That gun you grabbed from the short guy. Where is it?"
Boggy pats a pocket in his pants.
"You want it, Zachary?"
"Not yet," I say. "Just hold on to it."
We lock the office, take the steps to the garage, and get in the Morris Minor. On the drive out of Hamilton, I take a detour down a dirt road to Baxter Bay.
Boggy gives me the gun and I get out of the car.
I've got a pretty good arm. I imagine the gun lofting in a tight spiral as it sails out above the water, the sound of its splash lost against the wind.
41.
It's double-overtime against the Patriots. In Boston. In the snow. Tony Eason drops back to pass for the Pats and launches a long one. Irving Fryar fakes to the outside, but I don't fall for it. I'm in the perfect position between him and the ball. I plant my right leg. I pivot. And even above the roar of the crowd I can hear ...
The creak of a door.
I cock an eye to see Barbara slipping into my bedroom. The clock says 1:17 A.M.
There's the rustle of clothes as they drop to the floor, and then she is crawling into bed beside me.
"Sorry to wake you," Barbara says.
"No you're not."
"You're right, I'm not." She draws herself close, arches her back as I rub my hand down her spine. "And I intend to make sure that you aren't sorry either."
"I never am. Besides, I was about to blow out my knee and help us lose the AFC championship."
Barbara looks at me.
"Say again?"
"Never mind," I say. "But aren't you a little scared?"
"About what?"
"About getting caught in the boy's dormitory after curfew. Aunt Trula might place you on double-secret probation."
"Adds to the thrill," she says.
And then we don't talk for a while. We kiss, we clutch, we moan, we laugh. It is sweet and warm and dear.
It is also more rambunctious than usual.
Afterward, I say: "Are you a little drunk?"
"A little. Why?"
"I don't know. It's just that you showed some moves a few minutes ago that were, shall we say, rather innovative."
"I've got moves, darling," she says. "Moves you've never imagined."
We talk. I tell Barbara about my day. She tells me about hers.
"I hit it off well with the new minister of tourism. He's quite charming," she says. "I think he has a crush on me."
"Sounds like I need to eliminate the competition."
"Not until he has signed the ad contract I'll be presenting him. It will be quite the big deal should I pull it off."
"Oh, you'll pull it off," I say. "You always do."
"Just as you'll pull off whatever it is that you're up to."
"Glad you're confident about that."
"Oh, I'm confident. But I'm also a little troubled."
"By what?"
She rolls over to face me, rubs a hand along my cheek.
"By the fact that you and I aren't getting to spend nearly enough time with each other on this trip."
"Well, Aunt Trula seems to be your top priority. When you're not off charming tourism ministers."
"Just as you seem to be preoccupied by your money woes. When you're not off gallivanting around with pretty Australian cops."
"She is rather pretty, isn't she?"
"For the record, John Traylor is no burden to gaze upon either."
"Who's John Traylor?"
"The tourism minister."
"So go for it," I say.
"Perhaps I will. If only I can get beyond his goiter."
"He has a goiter?"
"I'm not sure. Perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me. It might have been all the wine he plied me with."
"And are you pliable?"
"Oh, very."
She kisses me. We lie quietly for a while.
And then she says: "I would like to propose ..."
She stops. I sit up.
"Propose?"
She looks at me, smiles.
"Yes, I would like propose that we have a playdate tomorrow."
"Oh. Right. A playdate. Like kindergartners you mean?"
"No, like grown-ups. A grown-up playdate. We will put everything aside no matter what and we will devote ourselves only to one another."
"And where will this playdate take place?"
"I have a spot in mind," she says. "Think you can make time for me?"
"Oh, I think so. When?"
"How about noon? Food and drink will be involved."
"Well, in that case, I know so. But if I'm running a little late ..."
"Why would you be running late, Zack?"
"Because I promised Fiona that I would help her out with a few things in the morning. I don't know how long it will take."
She raises up on her elbows, considers me.
"My, my. You are quite the helper these days, aren't you? Helping Fiona. Helping that Trimmingham fellow."
"Yep, just call me Zack the Kindhearted. I'm thinking about nominating myself for sainthood."
She pulls me down to her, rubs a hand along my leg.
"Right now, I could use a little help."