“You’re a cute-looking kid, Theo,” Harry said. “Especially the one in the middle.”

She wrung out a washcloth and began sponging his forehead. “Don’t do too much talking.”

“Kiss me.”

Her hand stopped. “Now Harry.”

“Mike won’t mind. No, not there,” he said as her lips approached his cheek. “On the mouth.”

The expression on her face was hidden from Shayne. He lit a cigarette. Putting down the washcloth, Theo took Harry’s face in both hands and kissed him gently and thoroughly, without hurrying. Shayne had ample time to snap his lighter shut, to put it away, to examine the pictures on the walls. She lifted her head.

“I think I feel better,” Harry said. “Let the washing go for now, Theo. I’m clean enough. Get Mike some brandy. There’s a bottle of Cordon Bleu around somewhere.”

“He can wait a minute,” she said calmly, and finished sponging the blood and dirt from his face.

Harry’s hair, the small amount he had left, was graying over the ears. He had a rugged, outdoors face, with a quick smile and sun crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It was true, as Shayne had told him, that he was a few pounds over his best weight, but he had the arms and shoulders of a professional fighter.

“And a bourbon for me,” he added.

“No,” Theo said, “not till the doctor says so.”

“I know what the doctor will say-bouillon. I’ve got to tell Mike something, and I can’t do it without a drink.”

She looked up at Shayne.

“It won’t kill him,” Shayne said.

“All right, but it’s against my better judgment.”

Harry watched her leave the room. Her walk was lithe and athletic.

“There’s a real woman,” he said. “Mike, sit down. Here’s the problem.”

Shayne moved a straight chair closer to the sofa. “What do you want me to do with Waters, throw him out?”