He also knew it was useless trying to explain to Graham that the books on the floor were “work work,” so he settled for, “Last time we talked, I was ‘suspended,’ remember?”

“That was just to cool you out.”

“I take it I’m cooled?”

“Ice.”

Yeah, Neal thought, that’s me. Ice. Cold to the touch and easy to melt. The last job almost chilled me permanently.

“I don’t know, Dad,” Neal said. “I think I’ve retired.”

“You’re twenty-four years old.”

“You know what I mean.”

Graham started to laugh. His eyes squinted into little slits. He looked like an Irish Buddha without the belly.

“You still have most of the money, don’t you?” he said. “How long do you think you can live on that?”

“A long time.”

“Who taught you how to do that-stretch a dollar?”

“You did.”

You taught me a lot more than that, Neal thought. How to follow a mark without getting made, how to slip in and out of an apartment, how to get inside a locked file cabinet, how to search a room. Also how to make three basic, cheap meals a day, how to keep a place clean and livable, and how to have some respect for myself. Everything a private cop needs to know.

Neal had been ten years old the day he met Graham, the day he tried to pick Graham’s pocket, got caught, and ended up working for him. Neal’s mother was a hooker and his father was an absentee voter, so he didn’t have what you’d call a glowing self-image. He also didn’t have any money, any food, or any idea what the hell he was doing. Joe Graham had given him all that.

“You’re welcome,” Graham said, interrupting Neal’s reverie.