Chance had thought a heron was a fish until Duboff told him different.

Duboff edged near the desk, showed those gross teeth of his. “Rich folk in Beverly Hills don’t like when the herons swoop in during hatching season and eat their rich-folk koi. Koi are aberrations. Mutations, people messing with brown carp, screwing up the DNA to get those colors. Herons are Nature, brilliant predators. They feed their young and restore nature to true balance. Screw those Beverly Hillbillies, huh?”

Chance smiled.

Maybe it wasn’t a big enough smile because Duboff suddenly looked nervous. “You don’t live there, do I recall correctly?”

“No, sir.”

“You live in…”

“Brentwood.”

“Brentwood,” said Duboff, as if trying to figure out what that meant. “Your parents don’t keep koi, do they?”

“Nope. We don’t even have a dog.”

“Good for you guys,” said Duboff, patting Chance’s shoulder. “It’s all servitude. Pets, I mean. The whole concept is like slavery.”

Keeping his hand on the shoulder. Was the guy a fag?

“Yeah,” said Chance, inching away.

Duboff scratched his knee. Frowned and rubbed a pink bump. “Stopped by the marsh to check for trash. Musta got bit by something.”

“Providing food for the little guys,” said Chance. “That’s a good thing, sir.”

Duboff stared at him, trying to figure out if Chance was messing with his head.

Chance brought out Mr. Sincere and Duboff decided Chance was being righteous and smiled. “Guess you’re right… anyway, I just thought I’d stop in, see how you’re doing before your shift ends.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Okay, check you out later, man.”

Chance said, “Uh, sir, it’s kinda close to the end.”

Duboff smiled. “So it is. At ten, you can lock up. I’ll be by later.” Walking to the door, he stopped, looked back. “It’s a noble thing you’re doing, Chance. Whatever the circumstances.”