He hemmed and hawed.

"Come on, Pop. Open the poke. Shake it out. Let's see if the little porker oinks or meows."

His expression became pained, almost pleading. "I'm just trying to do right by my son. Trying to carry out his last wishes."

"We'll put up a statue. When does the clam open up? Or do I go home and finish sleeping off this hangover?" Why do they always do this? They bring you in to handle a problem, then lie about it or hide it from you. But they never stop screaming for results.

"You've got to understand—"

"Mr. Tate, I don't have to understand anything except exactly what is going on. Why don't you start from the beginning, tell me what you know, what you want, and why you need me. And don't leave anything out. If I take the job and find out you have, I'll get extremely angry. I'm not a very nice man when I get angry."

"Have you had your breakfast, Mr. Garrett? Of course not. Rose wakened you and brought you straight here. Why don't we do that while I order my thoughts?"

"Because there's nothing guaranteed to make me madder quicker than a stall."

He went red in the face. He was not used to backtalk.

"You talk or I walk. This is my life you're wasting."

"Damn it, a man can't... "

I started toward the stairs.

"All right. Stop."

I paused, waited.

"After Denny died, I came here and found all this," Tate said. "And I found a will. A registered will."

Most people don't bother to register, but that didn't amount to anything remarkable. "So?"

"So in the will he names you and me his executors."

"That damned sawed-off little runt! I'd break his neck for him if he hadn't already done it himself. That's it? All the shuffle-footing and coy looks is because he rung in an outsider?"