"Nathan?" I say.
He's just as I remember him from the pictures: fattish, with a ruddy sort of face. Nice shoes. Black suit pants that look expensive but are badly wrinkled and nearly ruined. In his matching black jacket and tie, he looks like a corpse dressed for the casket-undead and standing right in front of me, watching me with a sort of vague disinterest. I hope he can see me all right as I slide my .44 back into its chest holster and raise both hands toward the ceiling, trying to convey a truce.
"I'm working for your father, Nathan," I say. "Are you hurt?"
Nathan watches my movements but says nothing. He almost looks disinterested, staring right through me.
"I don't know the whole story here, and I don't know what you've done, or haven't done, or why," I tell him. "But I'm no cop
