“Thanks, Chief.” I took the cigar and gave it a close look. “Dominican, eh? Been hanging around the tobacconist playing Wooden Indian again?” I grinned.

“Yeah, blow it out your ass,” he laughed. “One of the coppers I helped with a case owed me one and finally paid up.” Reaching into the bag he pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet and a bottle of de-alcoholized white zinfandel. “So where’s the little woman?”

“Upstairs doing that bill paying thing,” I answered, sliding the cigar beneath my nose with a flourish and sniffing the spicy, Spanish cedar veneer that encased it. “She’s gonna just love you for this,” I continued, waving the expensive smoke at him. “I’m supposed to call her down when you get here, and I suppose that would be about now.”

“I’ll get ‘er,” he told me as he stood up and took a stride to the door. “I need a glass and some ice anyway. You good?”

“I could go for a couple of cubes. Just fill the ice bucket and bring it out if you want.”

“Everything still in the usual place?” he asked as he opened the door.

“Yeah, same as always.”

I could hear him calling up the stairs to Felicity as the screen door swung shut; something pseudo-official sounding about having the place surrounded and that all tiny red-headed women should come out with their hands up. His call was answered by my wife bounding down the stairs followed closely by our English setter and Australian cattle dog vociferously making their individual presences known. A few short minutes later he returned, ladened with the ice bucket, a fresh glass, and Felicity in tow.

“So, before you even get started with your cop stories,” my wife began, perching herself on the ledge near the stairs, “how are Allison and Ben Junior?”