“I tell you how many!” Morrow’s voice rose with indignation. “None!”

Frank rapped the steering wheel and smiled.

Frances Morrow bored in. “You give us all these downtown arguments about the Constitution… You’re talking about Puh-toe-muck living. About how you folks in Great Falls live. I tell you what”-righteous anger rolled in her voice-“I tell you what-you come down to where I live. Or you go over to Bayless Place. You’ll find one thing, Mistuh North, Missus Brady-you’ll find the only thing wrong with guns is that the wrong people got them.”

Madison, recognizing a dramatic closing line when he heard one, took a break for a commercial. Frank imagined North and Brady wondering what the hell had just hit them.

Two large wooden desks dominated the center of Frank and Jose’s small office. Years earlier, they had pushed the desks together so they could work facing each other. A random collection of file cabinets and bookcases lined the walls. Above the bookcases on one wall was an Ipswich Fives dartboard that Frank had picked up in a London secondhand shop, surrounded by holes in the drywall attesting to sloppy marksmanship. The single window faced south, its sill home to an eclectic parade of potted plants over the years. Today, a variegated pothos shared its perch with a struggling African violet that Frank had bought at Eastern Market and a spider plant that Tina Barber had given Jose.

Jose stood looking out the window. He turned slowly when Frank walked in. He glanced up at the wall clock.

“You run this morning?”

“Yeah.” Frank saw that Jose had already made coffee. He picked his mug up off his desk, regarded the dark brown remainder of yesterday’s coffee, poured it out, then poured a refill. The coffee was scalding.

“Frances Morrow,” he said, and blew across the steaming mug, “on-”

“Joe Madison this morning.”

“Yeah.” Frank tried another sip. “Where’d we-”