“She got an alibi?”

“For when? Nobody’s got a clue when Como actually died.”

“So that answer would be no, no alibi,” Hunt said. “And otherwise we know she’s not guilty because…?”

Mickey let out a breath. “She’s not guilty, Wyatt. Originally, she wanted to hire us to find out who killed Como. She wouldn’t have done that if she did it.”

“There’s so many arguments against that one that I don’t know where to start.” Still, Hunt held up his hand again and sucked on his cheek for a minute. “She good- looking enough to be affecting your judgment?”

“I hope not.” Mickey turned to him, met his eye, nodded. “Possibly, but I don’t think so. For the record, though, I would marry her tomorrow if she’d have me.”

“Good to know. And she was involved with Como? Intimately?”

“Don’t know. Maybe.”

“But she didn’t kill him?”

Again, Mickey hesitated. “Let’s say that I think we can choose to believe she didn’t and not have it come back and bite us. It’s a calculated risk and also pretty much the only game in town. And meanwhile, she can put us in touch with people who will pay you to be back in that game. Maybe that’s short-term, but guess what?”

“Tell me.”

“No. You told me about ten minutes ago. If you’re in the game, you’re gonna win it. Or die or kill somebody trying.”

Hunt chuckled. “That’s flattering, Mick, it really is. But that was basketball.”

Mickey Dade shook his head, truly amused that his boss didn’t seem to realize this fundamental truth about himself. “Don’t kid yourself, Wyatt. That’s any game you get yourself into.”

6

At six o’clock that night, Mickey checked the coals in his Weber kettle cooker and then came back into his purple kitchen. He walked over and opened the refrigerator, atypically loaded with food. After leaving Hunt’s, he’d gone down to the Ferry Building, and though it was by then late in the day, the various stores there still had a selection of foodstuffs that put to shame most of the other, regular grocery stores in the city.