"We won't tell your wife!" one of the young men quipped from the mattress.

Jefferson took the phone. He dialed his landlady. "Hi, Miss Curran, this is Floyd. No, no problem with the rent. Reason I called is some friends of mine might be waiting for me. Salvadorans. Short hair. Muscles. Look like soldiers."

"Oh… so macho," the other young man on the mattress sighed. "Introduce us."

"You saw them? They left? Oh, shit."

"I'd be disappointed, too," Peter laughed.

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry I said that. I think I'll be gone for a few days. Talk to you later." Jefferson broke the connection, then dialed another number. "Hey, Prescott? Working late? Yeah, this is Floyd. We didn't go. I'll tell you why. I'm coming down to the office. The congressman's in town? I got a story for him. Stay till I get to you. There in half an hour."

Peter introduced his lovers. "Craig. Allan. This is Floyd Jefferson. He works for the Globesometimes. What's this life-and-death problem?"

"You still got that riot shotgun?" Jefferson asked Peter.

"Sure do. Never know when the Moral Majority's going to go Ayatollah ape-shit."

"I'll buy it from you." Jefferson took out his traveler's checks. "How much? Two hundred? Two fifty?"

"What's going on?"

"Three hundred. You can buy a new one tomorrow."

Peter forced a laugh. "Are you serious?"

"And a hacksaw. And all the shells you got."

"Floyd, if you're in trouble, just take it. You don't have to pay me."

Still naked, but his smiles and jokes gone, Peter went to the closet. He took out an old blue-steel Smith & Wesson with an eighteen-inch barrel and a three-round magazine. Returning to the bed, he checked the safety, then handed it to Jefferson. "It's loaded and cocked. There's a round of Number Six in the chamber. Next three are double-ought. Forget the money, just take it."