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cards. Banks in Bangkok and Hong Kong pay the bills. Last year your credit card totals were twice your declared income. The FBI keeps the IRS off your back because you helped the bureau penetrate the Russian Mafia three years ago.”
    “You’re being dramatic, John,” Broker said. “But I’ll admit I’m just a little curious about where you got the stuff about the credit cards.”
    John rolled his eyes. “I sit on task-force planning sessions with all this alphabet soup: FBI, ATF, DEA, IRS. People have a few drinks, and they talk. C’mon, you pirate. Do me this favor, okay?”
    They went silent, and then the silence became awkward as John started to speak and wound up chewing back false starts until finally he said, “There’s a card inside on the table. It’s your birthday, right?”
    “Fuck you, John.”
    John chewed some more silence, then spoke. “Nina and Kit, you . . .”
    “Don’t,” Broker said sharply.
    John sat back and folded his heavy arms across his chest and waited. Twenty seconds. Thirty.
    “Who would I report to?” Broker said.
    John grinned. “Nobody. Your kind of play, totally on your own. I hire you as a Special Projects consultant.”
    “No paperwork, no office, no desk,” Broker said.
    John held up reassuring hands. “No paperwork, no desk. We can stay in touch by phone. You said your license was current?”
    “Yeah, no problem there.”
    “So I’ll get you an ID and a badge. You need a gun?”
    “I still have the old forty-five. That’ll do, if it comes to that.”
    John gave Broker a direct fatal look and said, “You know me, I don’t go in for dramatics, right? But we’re talking you and Harry here. If he’s drinking, you wear the gun. Okay?”
    Broker nodded. “Gotcha.”
    John nodded. “Okay then. We’re on. Just keep it mostly legal.”
    Broker smiled thinly. “I won’t alienate any voters, John. I understand you have to get reelected.”
    “Good. But we have to put it together fast. Like this morning. I have to go home and pack.”
    Broker shrugged. “Let me grab a shower and get dressed. I’ll meet you at the Law Enforcement Center in half an hour.” He pointed at the medallion. “What about this?”
    John put it back in the envelope. “It’s going in my safe until I get back.” They walked down the steps toward John’s truck. John shifted from foot to foot and pursed his lips. “Another thing . . .”
    “What?”
    “Keep an eye on this young cop who’s working the case, Lymon Greene. Give me a gut read on him.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Sometimes the sheriff is the last to hear what the troops are saying down in the trenches. I want to know why Lymon and Harry are always about an inch from fist city.”
    John Eisenhower got in his Bronco, fastened his seat belt, put both hands on the steering wheel. “You know what the troops callrumors about Harry being the Saint—they call it ‘the elephant in the living room.’” He started the truck, then leaned forward feeling with his hand for the cold air to start coming through the A/C vent.
    Broker shook his head. “Too hot to go elephant hunting.”
    “Broker, the guy needs help. Somebody has to have a Come-to-Jesus with him. I wish it wasn’t you. But he’s got most everybody else either dazzled or buffaloed.” John shook his head. “I never liked Harry, going all the way back to the rookie school in St. Paul. He’s got the best instincts of any cop I ever knew and the worst methods of acting on them.” John paused a few beats and then stared directly at Broker. “And you know that better than anyone.”

Chapter Five
    Broker watched John Eisenhower’s Bronco disappear up Milt’s driveway and then stood soaking in the heat as he calculated Harry Cantrell’s influence on his life.
    Which had been in the nature of huge.
    Broker knew that Harry Cantrell had trouble with the first half of July because his wife, Diane, had been murdered on a July 7 at seven o’clock.
    Seventh month,