Page 11 of Blood Moon

“On this particular occasion.”

Mitch grinned. “You didn’t score. Either that or it was a record-breaking quickie.”

“She bailed. No loss.” He gave another uncaring shrug. “How’s Angela? What does she think of the Fu Manchu?”

Mitch stroked the mustache, which extended a couple of inches below his chin. “Hates it.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and stared down at the floor. “The mustache will be the first thing to go as soon as I get enough on these guys to win an indictment.” He raised his head and looked across at John. “I’m getting out.”

John lowered his hands from the top of his head. “You’re leaving the agency?”

“Yep.”

“You’re serious?”

“Angela’s pregnant.”

John sputtered a soft laugh. “Congratulations, man.”

His friend smiled sheepishly. “Thanks. It’s a boy,” he added with obvious pride.

“How far along?”

“Five months.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Angela and I wanted to make sure everything was okay, find out the sex. And, sorta, you know, savor our secret.”

“You’re still sappy over that woman.”

Mitch placed his hands over his heart. “I confess.” But after a moment, he resumed looking down at the floor and turned serious. “You uh… you know how you felt after the Mellin girl’s case? Fed up? Disillusioned?”

The pleasure John had felt over Mitch’s happy news drained from him. He went as still as stone and said nothing.

“Shortly after the book was closed on that, I took you out in my bass boat. Remember? You were in pretty bad shape. About as low as you ever got. I thought a day on the water might help. I’d brought along a six-pack. You brought a bottle of Patrón.

“The bottle was almost empty when you asked me—I doubt you recall, you were so drunk—but you asked me, ‘Why do we do it, Mitch? What’s the point?’

“You said that we were spinning our wheels, fighting a war that’ll never end because the bad guys just keep getting badder. You said the justice system was a joke and that seeking justice was an exercise in futility.”

“I was shit-faced on straight tequila. Blubbering. Nothing I said was worth listening to.”

Mitch shook his head. “Drunken ramblings, maybe, but when Angela told me about the baby, I thought over everything you’d said. I want to see my son grow up. I want to grow old with my wife. I don’t want to take a forty-five-caliber bullet in the back of my head and have my bodydumped in a swamp by some punk doper who got wise to me.”

“No explanation necessary. I get it,” John said quietly. “What do you plan to do?”

“I’ve got some irons in the fire. A position in Florida is looking good. Generous benefits, regular hours. Angela wouldn’t have to eat dinner alone every night.”

“You’re an adrenaline junkie,” John said. “You’ll miss the rush.”

“I’ve thought of that, sure. I’ll take up motocross, white water rafting, hang gliding. Something that keeps my battery charged. Do you miss it?”

“The rush? Naw.”

“Liar. What’s Butthole Barker got you doing these days?”

“Let’s see. Follow-up on a home burglary. The thief got away with a lawn chair. Last week I was sent to check out a report of rabid skunks under someone’s house.”

“Jesus. What a waste. Who’re you partnered with?”

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