"I'll do that," I said. "And thanks. Keep safe."

"You, too," he said and he was gone.

I set the receiver down, still staring at the phone. A murder contract? How many times had someone tried to kill me in the last year? Well, not that many, I thought defensively, but this was something new. Nobody (that I knew of) had ever put out a contract on me. I tried to picture Tyrone Patty chatting up the subject with a hit man in Carson City. Somehow it seemed strange. For one thing, it was hard to imagine the kind of person who made a living that way. Was the work seasonal? Were there any fringe benefits? Was the price discounted since there were four of us to whack? I had to agree with Galishoff-fifteen hundred bucks was bullshit. In the movies, hit men are paid fifty to a hundred thou, possibly because an audience wants to believe human life is worth that. I suppose I should have been flattered I was included in the deal. A public defender, a DA, and a judge? Distinguished company for a smalltown private eye like me. I stared at Dietz's number, but I couldn't bring myself to call. Maybe the crisis would pass before I had to take any steps to protect myself. The real question was, would I mention this to Henry Pitts? Naaah. It would just upset him and what was the point?

When the knock at the door came, I jumped like I'd been shot. I didn't exactly flatten myself against the wall, but I exercised a bit of caution when I peered out to see who was there. It was Rosie, who owns the tavern in my neighborhood. She's Hungarian, with a last name I don't pronounce and couldn't spell on a dare. I suppose she's a mother substitute, but only if you favor being browbeaten by a member of your own sex. She was wearing one of her muumuus, this one olive green, printed with islands, palm trees, and parrots in hot pink and chartreuse. She was holding a plate covered with a paper napkin.

When I opened the door, she pushed it toward me without preamble, which has always been her style. Some people call it rude.