‘‘He’d have to have, wouldn’t he?’’

‘‘You’ve got a bad attitude, Garrett. People could tag you for some kind of racialist.’’

‘‘I am. The kind that don’t give a shit what you are so long as you leave me alone.’’

It had been a while since I’d seen Max. But when I stepped into his den it seemed I’d been away only minutes.

It was a room twenty people could fill and all be comfortable. A fleet of overstuffed chairs jockeyed for position in front of a big fireplace. A major accessory to that was a lackey whose calling was to feed the flames. The room was sweltering hot. The fireplace end was almost intolerable. But Max was in a chair up close, roasting himself. I guess so he’d make a good-looking corpse when he was done.

Max is not a big man. He stands maybe five feet six when he stands. Which he doesn’t do much, anymore. Since Hannah’s death he spends most of his time by the fire, waiting. Once a day he ambles over to the brewery, mainly to be seen taking an interest.

5

Max rose as I approached.

Max Weider is a round-faced man with rosy cheeks and a twinkle in his eye even when he’s down so deep he can’t figure out which way is up. He still has hair but his barber isn’t getting rich charging by the hour. The part down the middle is six inches wide.

Max’s mustache was bushier, maybe to balance the weak crop up top. Though it would never threaten the beast lurking under Hector’s nose.

I was startled. There was a definite twinkle in Max’s eye this morning. I asked, ‘‘Manvil, what’s happened?’’

Gilbey understood. This was the surprise he’d promised. ‘‘He’s found a reason to live.’’

Max shoved a beefy hand at me. ‘‘Damned straight. How you doing, Garrett? Enough friggin’ snow for you?’’

Sounded like he had been taste-testing the product. ‘‘I’m filled up on it, yeah. Alyx came by the house. With a covey of—’’