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you think about moving back home? You’ve been in Seattle for eight years now, that’s long enough, isn’t it? We’re your family, we love you, and we want you here. You’re missing all your nieces and nephews growing up. That’ll never come again, Tony.”
    His mom’s voice was sad. He thought about his large Italian family, the weekly dinners with all four of his brothers and their wives and kids, his own aunts and uncles. He could picture his four brothers so easily, with their simple, painless heterosexuality, and the proof of their testosterone running all over the house screaming. He did miss them, but he wasn’t like they were, and they’d never understand who he really was. After so many years, it still hurt.
    He heard a voice yelling in the background. “You tell ’em Ma! Tell that no good bum to get his ass back to Brooklyn!”
    “Is that Federico? Put him on.” Tony said, feeling a wave of brotherly sentiment.
    His mother got Federico to take the phone. “Tony! How’s the private dick business?”
    “Good. How’s the hot head business?”
    “Smokin’,” Federico said. “We had a warehouse fire yesterday that took all fucking day. Hey, you comin’ home for Thanksgiving?”
    “Christmas, okay? I’ll come for a couple of weeks then. You know how expensive tickets are.”
    “Well no one told you to live on the other side of the fucking continent, Brainiac.”
    “Yeah, yeah. Hey, I’ve got a question. I know this is dumb, because it’s like asking if you know someone in New York City, but I’m looking into a guy who was a combat surgeon in Iraq. Name is Dr. Jack Halloran. Ever heard of him?”
    “Nope. But I’m on an e-mail list with a bunch of Iraq guys, some of them are still there. Want me to ask?”
    “Yeah, but don’t say who wants to know.”
    “Sure. I’ll just look like the jerk-off. Thanks.”
    “Come on.”
    “Okay, okay. I gotta go. Hey, miss you, Tony.” Federico’s voice was warm.
    Tony felt a lump in his throat. “Me too, ya loser.”
    Federico handed the phone back to their mother. “You still there? You ready for the list?”
    “Yeah,” Tony sighed. “Go on, Ma. Lemme hear how everyone’s doing.”
     
     
    A N HOUR later, Tony parked once again at Stanley’s and went inside. It took a few drinks, and more than a few big tips, but he got the young bartender to talk to him. He showed him a picture he’d taken on his phone of Brent White.
    “I know the guy,” the bartender said. “He was in tonight.”
    “That’s right. So did this guy ever mention his wife to you, by any chance?” Tony played up his Sylvester Stallone accent. For some reason, West Coasters got a kick out of it. Probably it was from watching too many episodes of The Sopranos .
    The bartender, a Latino named Ricardo, slipped into the role of informant easily. He leaned on the bar. “You a cop?”
    “Me? Nah. Private investigations. You know.”
    Ricardo nodded sagely. “You got an expense account for that?”
    “Yeah. You deserve some of it?”
    Ricardo looked around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. “He did talk about his wife once.” He looked at Tony meaningfully.
    Tony opened his wallet, took out about a hundred bucks, and laid it on the bar. It was the White’s money. If the information was good, they wouldn’t mind.
    Ricardo took the cash. He looked a little guilty. “Look, normally I wouldn’t repeat what people tell me for money. You wouldn’t believe the shit people say to a bartender, it’s nuts. But this gringo? He’s a grade-A asshole.”
    “Tell me about it,” Tony agreed, like he knew all about it. He didn’t, but he was glad his first impression wasn’t wrong.
    Ricardo nodded. “So one night he was in here and it was kind of quiet, and he was getting hammered. He asked what I would think if my wife suddenly turned from a lamb to a lion in bed.”
    The hairs on the back of Tony’s neck stood up. This was something all right. “When was