He went home to his wife who had not known his body since he started the job. She embraced him passionately, shooed the kids off to bed, and undressed him. She took great care in the shower, and put on the special perfume he loved.

When she entered the bedroom, her husband was dead asleep. No matter. She knew what would wake him. She nibbled at his ear and ran a hand down his stomach to his navel.

All she got was a snore.

So Mrs. McQuade accidentally spilled a glass of water on her husband's face. He slept with a wet face. At 3 a.m. there was a buzz at the door. Mrs. McQuade nudged her husband to answer it. He slept on.

She donned a bathrobe, and mumbling curses about her husband's job, answered the door.

"FBI," said one of two men, holding forth identification. "May we speak to your husband? We're awfully sorry to disturb you at this hour. But it's urgent."

"I can't wake him," said Mrs. McQuade.

"It's urgent," said the spokesman of the pair.

"Yeah, well lots of things are urgent. I didn't say I wouldn't wake him, I said I couldn't."

"Something wrong?"

"He's dead tired. He's been working without any really good sleep for almost two months."

"We'd like to talk to him about that."

Mrs. McQuade looked up and down the street to make sure no neighbours were watching, and reassured that at 3 a.m. this was highly unlikely, she invited the two agents into the house.

"He won't wake up," said Mrs. McQuade, leading them to the bedroom. They waited at the bedroom door.

"He won't wake up," she said again, and shook her husband's shoulder.

"Wha?" said Jimmy McQuade, opening his eyes.

"For this he wakes up," said Mrs. McQuade.

"It's the FBI. They want to talk to you about overtime."