When Stranahan’s sister came to the door, she said, “Well, look who’s here.”

Stranahan kissed her and said, “Is Jocko home?”

“His name’s not Jocko.”

“He’s a circus ape, Katie, that’s a fact.”

“His name’s not Jocko, so lay off.”

“ Where’s the blue Beemer?”

“W e traded it.”

Stranahan followed his sister into the living room, where one of the girls was watching MTV and never looked up.

“Traded for what?”

“A Maserati,” Kate said, adding: “The sedan, not the sporty one.”

“Perfect,” Stranahan said.

Kate made a sad face, and Stranahan gave her a little hug; it killed him to think his little sister had married a sleazeball ambulance chaser. Kipper Garth’s face was on highway billboards up and down the Gold Coast-”If you’ve had an accident, somebody somewhere owes you money!!! Dial 555-TORT.” Kipper Garth’s firm was called The Friendly Solicitors, and it proved to be a marvelously lucrative racket. Kipper Garth culled through thousands of greedy complainants, dumping the losers and farming out the good cases to legitimate personal-injury lawyers, with whom he would split the fees fifty-fifty. In this way Kipper Garth made hundreds of thousands of dollars without ever setting his Bally loafers on a courtroom floor, which (given his general ignorance of the law) was a blessing for his clients.

“He’s playing tennis,” Kate said.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Stranahan told her. “You know how I feel.”

“I wish you’d give him a chance, Mick. He’s got some fine qualities.”

If you like tapeworms, Stranahan thought. He could scarcely hear Kate over the Def Leppard video on the television, so he motioned her to the kitchen.

“I came by to pick up my shotgun,” he said.

His sister’s eyes went from green to gray, like when they were kids and she was onto him.