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    â€œOh, there’s make-believe problems, sure enough,” said Corrie, “but there’s real ones too. That boy acts like he’s got his share.”
    â€œWhich kind?”
    â€œCan’t say,” said Corrie. “I’m too old for him to talk to. He’s unhappy about something, though. Woman, maybe?”
    I glanced at him. He was sliding a pill into his mouth and slipping the plastic vial back into his shirt pocket. His face was impenetrable.

—  5  —
    At our house, Zee took Corrie by the arm. “Jeff will tend the grill while you and I have a drink and yak. Come inside and tell us what you’d like.”
    Corrie would like a beer. I went into the kitchen, poured vodka on the rocks (with two black olives) for Zee, and got a Sam Adams for Corrie and another for me. When I came back, he was looking around the living room approvingly. “Still got the rods hanging on the ceiling, like you said. I don’t remember that stove. Used to be just the fireplace.”
    â€œI put the stove in to make the place more civilized for my blushing bride,” I said. “It’s a more efficient heat source. I traded some work for it.”
    He nodded. “The barter system is best for them with no money. I see you still got your daddy’s decoys. That man could surely carve.”
    â€œIt’s a talent I didn’t inherit, so we show off the ones he made.”
    Oliver Underfoot and Velcro, the family cats, rubbed against Corrie’s ankles and got scratched ears in return. Instant friendship. Corrie straightened, glanced at the lock and picks I kept on the coffee table in front of the couch, smiled, and moved to the fireplace mantel, where we kept Zee’s expanding collection of trophies.
    â€œWell, well, I see that you’re a competitive pistol shooter, ma’am. I don’t believe I’ve ever met another lady who does that.”
    â€œJust call me Jessica James,” said Zee with a smile. “Yes, I shoot. It’s fun.”
    â€œShe’s a natural, according to Manny Fonseca,” I said. “She’s better than I ever was, for sure.”
    â€œMaybe that’s because I’m only shooting at targets,” said Zee. “When Jeff was shooting a pistol, people were shooting back.”
    Pretty effectively, too. I had the bullet scars to prove it. Another reason for giving up police work and living the fisherman’s life.
    â€œNever was much of a shootist, myself,” said Corrie. “I did some hunting when I was a boy, but since then I ain’t had much time for guns. Some of the people I’ve known down through the years had a different view, of course.” He laughed. “What I get for hanging around saloons and nightclubs all my life. Lucky for me that those pistol packers mostly liked my music, otherwise I might have some holes in my old Martin and in me, too!”
    â€œWell, our guns are all locked up, so there’ll be no shooting out the lights this evening,” said Zee. “Come on, let’s go up onto the balcony and talk while Jeff looks after the children and gets started on supper. I may be a better shot than he is, but he’s a better cook than I am. You kids stay down here with your pa, but don’t get too near the grill.”
    â€œA man should know how to feed himself,” said Corrie, following her to the stairs. “I make no claims to being a chef, but I can bake a fish and use a frying pan if I need to. I’ve lived a long time, and I ain’t starved yet!”
    The cats and kids trailed me into the kitchen, where I collected the mesquite-marinated bluefish and chopped vegetables, and they stayed with me as I went outside to the gas grill, which was going nicely.
    Zee had chopped, sliced, and marinated onions, peppers, precooked potatoes, and some other dibs and dabs of veggies from the fridge. I had more time than I needed, so I put all