Fisher forced his eyes up from the scar into Eric's eyes. That was worse. The eyes were a flat reddish-brown, like his girlfriend's hair after she put that henna shit on it. Fisher's hand automatically grazed the butt of his S amp;W.38 bolstered to his hip.

"Name?" he asked, his voice louder than he'd wanted.

Eric glanced at Fisher's plastic name tag, then into his eyes. Since the night that punk had invaded his home eight weeks ago, Eric scrutinized everything. Everyone. "Haven't seen you before."

Fisher studied Eric's clothes. Expensive, but not flashy. He rated a sir. "No, sir. First day."

"Where's Trumball?"

"Gus picked up some kind of bug. Flu, I think. Hong Kong or Singapore or one of those kind that sound more like a vacation than a disease."

Eric nodded.

Fisher frowned. He'd thought that last little comment deserved at least a smile. He prided himself on his sense of humor. After all, he wasn't like most of the other dumb guards in the company. He had a college education, a degree in anthro-fucking-pology. He'd always wanted to discover some primitive tribe hidden from civilization for centuries. Wouldn't that be something? First white man among all the bare-fitted women he could handle. But when he'd graduated, it was hard to find someone who'd pay him to look for lost tribes and bare tits. Still, he was doing all right for now. Getting by.

When they'd called him this morning to take over for Gus, he'd been thrilled. Working the D.A.'s office was a plum. Used to be only cops did that duty, but what with budget cuts and all, they figured it'd be cheaper to hire private guards. Fisher could understand that. The pay sucked. And you had to buy your own uniforms and those ugly black patent leather shoes. But the work wasn't too hard and he made enough to make payments on his Camaro and still keep Debbie supplied with that henna crap and an occasional lid of domestic grass. Besides, he grinned, she got horny as hell when he practiced his fast-draw at home.