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dear,” Hazen smiled at her. “Pure terror.”
    “What do you think those three boys are thinking about now?” Caroline said, dipping into her soup.
    “They’re planning where they can steal three tennis racquets—no, four—” Hazen said, laughing crookedly because of his jaw, “and wondering where they can get a girl to help them in their next nefarious project.”
    Caroline giggled again. “Oh, I’m a dangerous tennis-person,” she said.
    Strand shook his head wonderingly. This must be what the atmosphere must be like in a football locker room, he thought, after a particularly rough victory.
    Hazen spooned his soup clumsily with his left hand. His mouth was beginning to swell noticeably, but his eyes were bright and he seemed to be enjoying himself. “Excellent,” he said, “excellent. May I pay my compliments to the cook?”
    “That’s Mother,” Caroline said. She was obviously proud of her family this evening, as well as being proud of herself.
    “An accomplished tribe,” Hazen said gallantly. He turned toward Jimmy. “And you, young man, what do you do?”
    Jimmy looked around the table. “According to my sister, I bring dishonor on the family name,” he said. “I frequent stews and dives.”
    “Jimmy,” Leslie said, protesting, “what a thing to say.”
    Jimmy grinned at her. “It’s a private phrase of affection between us. She’s not serious. Are you, Eleanor?”
    “Only sometimes, honey.” Eleanor smiled back at him.
    Hazen looked at Jimmy curiously, then turned his attention to Eleanor. “And you, my dear?”
    “I slave and strive for promotion,” Eleanor said shortly. She had been unusually silent for her. Strand sensed that for some reason, like Jimmy, she did not approve of Hazen and he made a mental note to ask them both why after Hazen had left.
    Eleanor stood up to help clear away the soup bowls as Mrs. Curtis came in with the platter of the main dish and put it in front of Leslie to serve. “I’m afraid the soup is all I can manage,” Hazen said as Leslie reached for his plate. “Although it does look and smell delicious.” He took a sip of his wine.
    “What day of the week is it, Mr. Hazen?” Jimmy asked.
    “What sort of a question is that?” Leslie looked at her son suspiciously.
    “I want to see if he has a concussion,” Jimmy said. “If he has a concussion he ought to lie down in a dark room and close his eyes.”
    “Friday,” Hazen said, smiling. “I believe it’s still Friday. I may not be able to chew at the moment, but I don’t believe I have a concussion, thank you.”
    It occurred to Strand that Jimmy was more interested in getting Hazen out of the room than in the state of his health, but when he looked over at his son, Jimmy stared innocently across the table at him.
    “And you, Mr. Strand, if I may inquire,” Hazen said, “what is your profession?”
    Pretrial investigation, Strand thought. Your lawyer must have the facts as you see them so that he can handle your case efficiently. No, not a lawyer, Strand corrected himself, a little annoyed with the man. More like a general reviewing the troops, asking homely little questions to prove that despite the stars on his shoulder he was at heart a true democrat. “My profession—” He cleared his throat. “I struggle with the bloodthirsty instincts of the younger generation,” Strand said, purposely vague. He had decided that Hazen was an important man, more from his manner than from anything he had said, and that he would have much the same estimate of him Leslie’s father had if Strand said he merely taught in a high school.
    “He teaches at River High.” Leslie had sensed her husband’s hesitation and spoke almost pugnaciously. “He’s the head of the history department.”
    “Ah.” Hazen sounded impressed. “When I was young I wanted to be a teacher. A useful life. More useful than the law, I told my father. He was not of my opinion. I took my law degree.” He laughed