Charlie looked so ridiculous with today's bruise that he'd made a huge sartorial effort with a brown tweed suit, a yellow and blue tie over a blue shirt, and rust-colored suede shoes. All from his happiest days, before he'd ever thought of marrying Ingrid: the seventies.

"You've got to get that muffler fixed. You're gonna get a violation for that. Then jail, mark my words."

"Oh, I don't think so."

"Oh yes, mark my words," Ogden insisted.

Charlie had been marking his words for a long time. Odgen always predicted the worst. Now he spooned a bite of oatmeal and grated apple into his mouth, then forgot to work on it for a while. His face took on the odd, comic expression of surprise he always got when a swallow wasn't going well.

"Drink," Charlie commanded.

Odgen pounded some water. When that didn't do the trick, he got up and jumped up and down a few times. He was wearing Charlie's Yankees sweatshirt and a winter parka with the hood up over pajama bottoms. He looked weird and needed a bath, but Charlie didn't like to bother him about things like that when every bite was a life-threatening peril. Still, the outfit was pretty funny and reminded him of the Sales lady who'd called the cops on him. He smiled at the thought of the crazy woman who was as bad as his dad.

"What's so funny? You laughing at me?" Ogden's face cleared, and he sat down.

"No, of course not. I was thinking about a girl I met yesterday."

"You met a girl?" Ogden's eyes lit up.

"Not a girl, really. I'm working on a case of a wine importer. Perfectly run-of-the-mill tax returns. Nothing out of the ordinary. It's a big operation, but not one of the giants. The guy reports good profit, doesn't take huge deductions, and pays pretty much what it looks like he should. But… you okay, Dad?"

Ogden nodded. "So you think this is an ATF case," he said, nodding sagely. He was so proud when his son worked the big cases that made it to the newspapers.

Charlie laughed. "Well, not ATF, yet, Dad." But he wouldn't be a bit surprised if it came to that.

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms did rigorously control the many regulations that had to be met when distributors moved alcohol in and out of the country, and even from state to state and buyer to buyer. Regulations were so strict in New York that a private collector could not sell to another private collector unless the buyer happened to have a retailer's license. It was a whole big thing. Every case of wine and liquor had to be tagged and checked and reported and rechecked. Still, it was just amazing how much stuff disappeared one way or another, off trucks and out of warehouses. These cases were never reported either stolen or sold, just disappeared.

"So, how did you meet the girl?" Ogden asked.

Charlie was still thinking agency protocol. "This case may have some connection to OC."

"Organized Crime, wow," Ogden said.

"So both Justice and local would be involved. The whole enchilada." Charlie's heart soared just thinking about it. His supervisor, Gayle, had given him the case, advising him not to tell anyone at Sales what the IRS was actually investigating. And it was perfectly legal to keep mum. The IRS didn't have any obligation to tell anyone what they were up to.

Gayle also told him definitely not to inform D.C. or the district special agents branch, or even ATF, what he might be on to. Her feeling, and he agreed, was that the CID would be all over it, taking over the case from the get-go. That way, Revenue wouldn't get the credit for bringing it in. Neither of them wanted that. He'd open the doors as soon as he had something solid. That was the deal.

"Are they mob girls?" Ogden asked, back on the girls. The possibility of his son's meeting hot girls impressed him hugely. "Got to watch out for those mob girls, Charlie. Those guys will kill you for sure if you touch one of their girls."

"Could be." One of them could be. The Mona one. Could be a mob girl, no doubt about it. Charlie had already been thinking about turning her. "Do you want to hear about the tip?" he asked to distract his father.

"Yeah, yeah, tell me about the hit." Ogden took a bite of cereal.

"Tip, Dad. Not hit. You okay?" Charlie gave him a sharp look.

Ogden's eyes watered. He got up and hopped hard on one foot. "Go on," he ordered, waving away his distress as soon as the crisis was over.

"We get a tip that this Sales guy has been moving out cases of his best wine. Some of it disappears into his own secret cellar. Really good stuff. This he reports stolen and takes a tax loss. Sometimes his insurance will reimburse him for the loss, so he's getting it both ways. The story is, the guy also gets paid in cash for at least part of many of his restaurant accounts, and totally in cash for some of his restaurant accounts that aren't on the books at all. That would definitely be ‘way in' for local."

"A way into the mob?" Ogden said delightedly. "Oh, that's great, Charlie. Tell me about the girls."

"One of them was about your age." The one who crashed into the mailbox, but Charlie didn't want to go into that now.

"A mob girl, my age? What does she look like?" Excitedly, Ogden took a large bite of cereal and Charlie braced himself for disaster.

"Got to go," he said quickly. Sometimes he could take his father's eating travails and sometimes he couldn't. Today, no.

But surprisingly, Ogden swallowed just fine this time. "Already? You didn't eat your breakfast," he complained.

This was Ogden's favorite time of the day. The morning news, the newspaper, browbeating Charlie about getting out and enjoying life more, meeting girls, maybe getting married again. He wanted to debate Taj's offer to sell Charlie one of his gently used, four-year-old light blue Lincoln Town Cars for an overpriced twenty-five thousand. Or at least borrow one for a few weeks while he got the Buick repaired by one of Taj's mechanic relatives. Preferably the one who put the car in this condition in the first place. Charlie was too excited by his new case to linger.

"You take it easy, Dad," he said. He patted the old guy on the shoulder, then worried about the parka. "You okay? You want me to turn up the heat?"

"No, the place is boiling. I don't know how you stand it this hot."

"It wouldn't be so hot if you took your coat off," Charlie told him.

"And freeze to death?" Ogden took an indignant bite of apple and oatmeal. Charlie went out the back door before its fate was decided.

The spring sunshine was intense and the air was fresh as he went to inspect the Buick. This time, Ogden had tied the muffler up with something that looked like piano wire, so now the trunk couldn't be opened without a wire clipper. Charlie shook his head. At that moment a robin yanked a worm out of the lawn and took flight with it. He turned to watch it and quickly surveyed his yard in the process. He had an acre in this pleasant old neighborhood close to the beach, a lot of space. Along his fence were rosebushes, inside it a lawn with a gazebo in the center. He noticed that the hydrangeas around the house and gazebo were showing signs of life. The rosebushes were filling in and budding nicely. He was proud of his yard, but it was nothing compared with the much smaller Sales place. Charlie had been particularly impressed by the orchid house in the middle of the backyard. He wondered if it might be hiding something in plain view, and wanted to see it again.