Two more minutes on this side and then he’d flip it and give it four more. Then let it sit for ten. Tracy looked at the wall clock, a utilitarian thing very like one you’d see in a school or government office. Little wonder, because this very clock had been hanging on the wall at his FBI bureau and, when he retired, the chief had given it to him as a joke—Tracy Calvert had often been the last man to go home. “Since you never looked at the son of a bitch while you were working, maybe you should get an eyeful of it down in Florida.” His scruffy orange cat, Max, would have normally been watching him from his post under the table, but the cat went shortly after Edna. Edna had named it Marzipan, but that’s no name for a cat, so he called it Max. Might as well call them two names, it’s not like they listen. Eighteen years under his belt, the fat, two-name scoundrel had been old enough to order a beer. He looked at the clock.
