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autopsy schedule for the Does so I’d have something to tell Stu. They were backed up. It probably wouldn’t be till Thursday.
    The rest of the afternoon I worked on the Nellie Gail and never saw Stu and never saw Joe again before I left. When I went to my car and got reminded of its damage, I wasn’t even mad anymore, just resigned.
    The crowd at The Quiet Woman was noisy from a birthday party, the honoree screaming her surprise at every turn. Joe and I hid in a booth, wishing the establishment’s name applied. The wooden sign near the front door was a painted depiction of a woman in Dutch dress, minus a head; hence, the quiet woman. Legend has it she incurred the fatal wrath of her relatives by talking too much.
    Over the racket, Joe mentioned again that something seemed to be bothering his son.
    I sipped my wine and asked benignly, “Girl trouble?”
    “Don’t think so. And as far as I know, he’s doing okay in school. So says Jennifer. She usually gets something out of him.”
    Behind us the birthday girl was opening a pink package, crying, “Amy-y-y, you
shouldn’t
.”
    Joe said, “It’s like he can’t finish a thought, a sentence. His knees bounce. We’ll be sitting somewhere, his knee takes on a life of its own. He’ll put his own hand on it. Then the other one starts.”
    I felt guilty for not telling Joe what his son said about his roommate. But a confidence is a confidence, and that’s that.
    “I mean, we already had the sex talk, what, five years ago,” Joe said. He took my hand and said, “Do something to your hair?”
    “Washed it.” I gave him a nuzzle.
    “How novel,” he said. The curve of lines by his deep-socket eyes and the rich smell of his skin set me to amorous thoughts.
    When I clicked back in, Joe was saying, “He’s busy enough. He’s into a game called
Go
. Chinese. You play with little stones. I’ve never seen it. Besides that, he’s doing this conservation project near Culver and Michelson, in there. So it
seems
like everything’s going all right.”
    “David will be fine. He probably wants to hit you up for a loan for his gambling debts.”
    “He owes me for tires.”
    I smiled. “He told me about that.”
    “He did, huh? Was I ever that dumb, I wonder?”
    “Probably.”
    The server brought our meals: halibut and halibut.
    “Tell me,” I asked Joe, “what do you know about Boyd Russell? He’s the investigator on my two Does.”
    “Russell? He’s okay. Nothing exactly faulty. Just no imagination, no creativity.” He looked down at his drink. I had the feeling there was more he wasn’t telling me.
    “What else?”
    He paused, then said, “The way he conducts his private life.” He regarded me with half-closed eyes. “Has Boyd hit on you yet?”
    “
Boyd?
No,” I said, laughing.
    “Watch him next time you’re on an investigation with him. He spends a lot more time interviewing the women than the men.”
    I slipped along the leather booth, closing the space. “Yeah? How about losing this joint, you and me? You been hit on, buddy.”
    The moon rode low on the bluffs near the bay as we drove. Joe had a CD of Carly Simon’s “Boys in the Trees” playing, a favorite of mine. When we reached my place he hauled out a package wrapped in red tissue paper, twisted off with a red curly ribbon. He brought it into the house and set it on the coffee table, then took a seat on the sofa.
    I unwrapped it, exposing a stuffed Tasmanian Devil dressed in a leather biker jacket and a red bandanna. “Remind you of anyone?” Joe asked. It did: a certain biker of the felon variety: One Monty Blackman from a case two years earlier, Harley rider, bar owner, pig farmer, smuggler, general all ’round rough trade.
    When I looked at Joe, he had a hand on his stomach again.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Water would be good.”
    On my way to the kitchen I put on music I bought because I knew Joe would like it: Linda Ronstadt, songs of the Forties. Joe was on the balcony