Tommy Sunday coughed into his hand, looking at Harrison.

“Dude, you’re blind. Cally, ignore him. You look gorgeous as always, okay?” he said.

Tommy Sunday was a large man. He seemed to crowd the back of the limousine all by himself. His hair was so dark it was practically black. In an earlier time, he wouldn’t have looked out of place among a pro-football team’s defensive line. In fact, his own father had played. It was part of the reason he was such an avid baseball fan. Oh, he’d long since made peace with his father’s memory, but the love of baseball had stuck. Cally was sure that he would be eager to get back to base as quickly as possible tonight, entirely out of a dedication to professional efficiency, and having nothing to do with game three of the World Series being due to start within the next half hour. Personally, she didn’t think the game had been the same since they let Larry Kruetz get away with betting on baseball. Sure, the only incidents they could prove were on games in the other league, but she suspected the commissioner’s leniency had more to do with the Rintar Group owning a majority stake in the St. Paul Mavericks.

“Now, if we go ahead and get the post-op review out of the way, we can all get home quicker. Everything went okay, right?”

“I got the keys, if that’s what you mean. And a line on another job. Hey, where’s my stuff?” Cally said.

“What? Run that job bit by me again.” Papa O’Neal said, glancing sharply at her in the rearview mirror

“Your other granddaughter sends her love.” Cally lied. Michelle hadn’t, actually, but she would have, of course, if she had had more time. Or at least the Indowy social facsimile thereof.