Her dad made a practice then, still did, no doubt, of labeling certain customers with the names of cuts of meat or one of his Italian specialty dishes. Mrs. Fusco, who always had to touch everything, was a calatnan, potbellied Mr. Prizzi was a pork loin, Mrs. Bellini, who'd always leave her shopping list home and could never remember what she needed, was capozella, and once when he'd thought she was in the front of the store, Gin had heard Dad ask one of the butchers if he'd got a load of the cannolis on Mrs. Phillips.

Little Gin adopted the practice and began categorizing the kids she knew by cuts of meat. Duncan Lathram was definitely a rack of baby-backs.

But Duncan's hands didn't quite go with the rest of him, long, delicate, agile fingers that could perform miracles, do medical origami with human tissues.

She felt awkward even thinking it, but the old guy was sexy.

Listen to me, she thought. He's older than my dad.

But no getting around it, Duncan Lathram was an attractive man. Not that she felt any libidinous tugs toward him. God, no. But from a purely esthetic standpoint, he was pretty hot for an old dude.

Must be our history, she thought. We go back a long way. And I've got the scars to prove it.

The big guy was quiet today. Duncan almost always had something to talk about. A news junkie. Read all the District papers, plus the Baltimore San and the northern Virginia rags. Had them strewn all over his office every morning. Never missed MacNeil/Lehrer and Meet the Press.

And never failed to find something to tick him off.

Duncan had his Permanently-Ticks-Me-Off list and his Ticks-MeOff-Today list. Always had something to talk about.

But not today.

The silence was starting to get to Gin.

"Hear about Senator Schulz? " she said.

She thought he seemed to stiffen at the name.