I PUT IN a quick call to Mama Wong at the Poontang Gardens (she had serviced the military at Fort Bragg during the Korean War) to see if I had any messages. I do her favors occasionally and she answers the pay phone in her kitchen with “Mr. Burke’s office” anytime it rings. I don’t get a lot of messages, and her favors aren’t any too tough either.

“Mama, this is Burke. Any calls?”

“You have one call, from a Mr. James. I tell him you would be back later, but he wouldn’t leave a number. He say he call back, okay?”

“Sure. When he calls back, tell him I’m out on assignment and if he can’t leave a number, I won’t be able to talk to him for another week or so.”

“Burke, you not call him back, okay? This is a bad man.”

“How can you tell from his voice, for chrissakes?”

“I know. I hear his kind of voice years ago from a man who say he is a soldier but is really something else, okay?”

“Okay, Mama. But if he wants to find me bad enough he will, right? So take the number and let me call him.”

“Not good idea, Burke. But I do it if you say, okay?”

“Okay, Mama. I’ll call you later.”

I got a small piece of steak out of the fridge and called Pansy over. As soon as she saw the steak, she started drooling quarts and came over to sit next to me, watching carefully. I draped the steak over her massive snout and she sat there looking miserable but not moving.