“We don't want any problems here,” an officer said. “Not unless some of you want to spend the night in lockup -” “Butchers,” a woman screamed.

Other voices joined in and hands grabbed the chain-link fence, shaking it.

Marino hurried me to my car.

A chant rose with tribal intensity. “Butchers, butchers, butchers…”

I fumbled with my keys, dropped them on the floor mat, snatched them up, and managed to find the right one.

“I'm following you home,” Marino said.

I turned the heater on high but could not get warm. Twice I checked to make sure my doors were locked. The night took on a surreal quality, a strange asymmetry of light and dark windows, and shadows moved in the corners of my eyes.

We drank Scotch in my kitchen because I was out of bourbon “I don't know how you stand this stuff,” Marino said rudely.

“Help yourself to whatever else there is in the bar,” I told him.

“I'll tough it out.”

I wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject, and it was obvious that Marino wasn't going to make it easy for me. He was tense, his face flushed. Strands of gray hair clung to his moist, balding head, and he was chain-smoking.

“Have you ever witnessed an execution before?” I asked

“Never had a strong urge to.”

“But you volunteered this time. So the urge must have been pretty strong.”

“I bet if you put some lemon and soda water in this it wouldn't be half bad.”

“If you want me to ruin good Scotch, I'll be glad to see what I can do.”

He slid the glass toward me and I went to the refrigerator. “I've got bottled Key Lime juice, but no lemon.” I searched shelves.

“That's fine.”

I dribbled Key Lime juice into his glass, then added the Schweppes. Oblivious to the strange concoction he was sipping, he said, “Maybe you've forgotten, but the Robyn Naismith case was mine. Mine and Sonny Jones's.”