The Face

firearms.”
        “You been talking to Laura Moonves over in Support Division?”
        “She was helpful,” Ethan admitted.
        “You should marry her.”
        “She didn’t give me that much on Reynerd.”
        “Even all us morons can see you and her would be as right as bread and butter.”
        “We haven’t even dated in eighteen months,” Ethan said.
        “That’s because you’re not as smart as us morons. You’re just an idiot. So don’t jive me. Moonves could get firearm registrations for you. That’s not what you want from me.”
        While Hazard concentrated on lunch, Ethan gazed into the false twilight of the storm.
        After two winters of below-average rainfall, the climatological experts had warned that California was in for a long and disastrous dry [77] spell. As usual, the ensuing dire stories of drought, flooding the media, had proved to be sure predictors of a drowning deluge.
        The pregnant belly of the sky hung low and gray and fat, and water broke to announce the birth of still more water.
        “I guess what I want from you,” Ethan said at last, “is to take a look at the guy up close and tell me what you think of him.”
        As perceptive as ever, Hazard said, “You’ve already knocked on his door, haven’t you?”
        “Yeah. Pretended I’d come to see who lived there before him.”
        “He creeped you out. Something way different about him.”
        “You’ll see it or you won’t,” Ethan said evasively.
        “I’m a homicide cop. He’s not a suspect in any killing. How do I justify this?”
        “I’m not asking for an official visit.”
        “If I don’t wave a badge, I won’t get past the doorstep, not as mean as I look.”
        “If you can’t, you can’t. That’s okay.”
        When the waitress arrived to ask if they wanted anything more, Hazard said, “I love those walnut mamouls. Give me six dozen to go.”
        “I like a man with a big appetite,” she said coyly.
        “You, young lady, I could gobble up in one bite,” Hazard said, eliciting from her a flush of erotic interest and a nervous laugh.
        When the waitress went away, Ethan said, “Six dozen?”
        “I like cookies. So where does this Reynerd live?”
        Earlier, Ethan had written the address on a slip of paper. He passed it across the table. “If you go, don’t go easy.”
        “Go what-in a tank?”
        “Just go ready.”
        “For what?”
        “Probably nothing, maybe something. He’s either high wired or a natural-born headcase. And he’s got a pistol.”
        Hazard’s gaze tracked across Ethan’s face as though reading his [778] secrets as readily as an optical scanner could decipher any bar pattern of Universal Product Code. “Thought you wanted me to check for gun registration.”
        “A neighbor told me,” Ethan lied. “Says Reynerd’s a little paranoid, keeps the piece close to himself most of the time.”
        While Ethan returned the computer-printed photos to the manila envelope, Hazard stared at him.
        The papers didn’t seem to fit in the envelope at first. Then for a moment the metal clasp was too large to slip through the hole in the flap.
        “You have a shaky envelope there,” said Hazard.
        “Too much coffee this morning,” Ethan said, and to avoid meeting Hazard’s eyes, he surveyed the lunchtime crowd.
        The flogged air of human voices flailed through the restaurant, beat against the walls, and what seemed, on casual attention, to be a celebratory roar sounded sinister when listened to with a more attentive ear, sounded now like the barely throttled rage of a mob, and now like the torment of legions under some cruel oppression.
        Ethan realized that he was searching face to face for one face in particular. He half expected to see toilet-drowned Dunny Whistler, dead but eating lunch.
        “You’ve hardly touched your salmon,” Hazard said in a tone of voice as close as he could ever get to motherly concern.
        “It’s off, “Ethan said.
        “Why didn’t you send it back?”
        “I’m not that hungry, anyway.”
        Hazard used his well-worn fork to sample salmon. “It’s not off.”
        “It tastes off to me,” Ethan insisted.
        The waitress returned with the lunch check and with pink bakery boxes full of walnut mamouls packed in a clear plastic bag bearing the restaurant’s logo.
        While Ethan