"I'm going to bed, Chuckles." I got out before he could change my mind, muttering, "Three marks a day to tail Barking Dog Amato. It can't be true."

The foot of the stairs is just a couple steps from the kitchen door. I leaned in to wish Dean a good night. "After you get rid of that cat, start thinking about the floor in the Dead Man's room, since you two are such good buddies now. It could use sanding and refinishing."

He looked at me like he was seeing spooks.

I chuckled, headed for bed. He pulled any more stunts, I'd have him in there for three months, sanding and polishing and painting and generally getting himself a good dose of employer vengeance.

I hit my room, shucked my clothes, brooded about having to go to work for about as long as it took me to plop my head into my pillow. Insomnia isn't one of my shortcomings.

5

There are those, old Dean among them, whose major personality flaw is a compulsion to spring up with the first bird chirp. That's a dandy habit—if you've got to get to the worms first. Me, I swore off exotic chow when I parted ways with the Corps. I won't get into that situation again.

Dean suffers from the delusion that sleeping till noon is a sin. I've tried and tried to show him the light, but his brain hardened along with his arteries. He flat won't admit the truth of my theories. No fool like an old fool.

I made the error of observing that aloud.

Hell, it was barely sunup. You expect me to think at that time of night?