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“It was The Fat Man,” he said, meaning Humphrey. “He borrowed a couple of my guys to go down there. What could I do? One of ‘em was killed, you know. I had to take care of his wife, his kids . . .”
    This was too much, Joe thought. The notion flashed through his head how it was often like this: a guy does you an injury, first he wants forgiveness and absolution, and before you know it he ends with demanding that you apologize to him ! Now it looked like he wanted compensation!
    Joe leaned a little closer and said, quietly but with an edge to his voice, “If I hear one more word about this, Smoke, I won’t like it.”
    Smokey was instantly contrite. “Sure, Joe.” He held his hands up, palms out. “I was just say—”
    â€œOne word,” Joe said.
    Smokey dropped it. “Hey, we’re pals . . . right?”
    Joe didn’t even nod. He pushed his beer away and got up.
    Smokey called after him, “What should I say if the guy comes back?”
    â€œTell him to call me. You know the number,” Joe said over his shoulder.
    Before he picked up Helen, Joe did something he hadn’t planned to do. He called the Colonel. He’d hoped never to talk to the Colonel again, but the stranger had made it necessary.
    Lieutenant Colonel Tucker wasn’t in, according to his assistant, Edna. But she was sure that he’d want to talk to Joe. He’d call him back. Was there something she could help with? Joe said, No, it was nothing. He just wondered if the Colonel had sent somebody around. Some guy had been asking, in Butte. He gave the particulars, as he’d gotten them from Smokey. But Edna hadn’t heard anything. The Colonel would call him.
    Joe didn’t mention any of this to Helen. The more he thought of it the less it seemed that it concerned her. The guy asking questions didn’t sound like someone involved with the Lucani, the Colonel’s little group of disaffected agents. Joe trusted Smokey’s instincts: the guy was a mob guy. But Joe couldn’t believe that anyone from the mob was still pursuing the issue of Carmine’s death. It made no sense. And, after all, Joe had no direct connection to Big Sid—well, he did, through Helen, but Joe was determined to believe that it was a dead issue with the mob. And, finally, he didn’t want to think about all this stuff. He had other things on his mind, like electrical wiring, insulation, whether to build a little cabin up in the woods, a place to retire to when he needed to think, or putterwith his stuff—guns and the new fishing rods he’d bought. It was an attractive notion, a kind of retreat from Helen.
    He discovered in himself, just thinking about it as they drove back from Butte, a kind of disloyalty toward Helen. They were inseparable. But was that the way it would always be? Shouldn’t a man and a woman have some relief from each other’s company? Did Helen ever feel that? He glanced at her. She was gazing out at the countryside, the beautiful mountains.
    â€œWhat?” she said, catching his look.
    â€œNothing,” Joe said. “I was just wondering . . .?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAre you . . . happy?”
    â€œAm I happy? Sure. I’m happy. You mean, this?” She gestured at the mountains. They were descending from the pass, spinning along a grand highway that swept around curves, along a wooded canyon, past rugged cliffs.
    Joe nodded. “You miss Detroit?”
    â€œWell, I’d like to see Mama,” she said. “She’s getting old, you know. I suppose she’s happy. She has her old ladies, of course. Lunch, and dinner after church. She’d never appreciate this, I think, but maybe we could have her out for a week . . . once we get the house done.”
    â€œOh sure,” Joe said. “We’ll have her out. We could take her up to the lake, near Helena. Rent a boat. She’d like