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girlfriends. Y chromosomes required, no exceptions.
    When he steps into the card room, all eyes meet his. Taylor A. Gatling is the alpha wolf in this particular setting, well aware of his status. Thirty-eight years of age and just recently edged over into the billionaire level. Fit and trim, focused and self-contained, confident of his rarely expressed but deeply felt opinions. This is his place, his party, and the endless ribbing and mutual insults are all part of the camaraderie. The world being what it is, he keeps a security detail outside on thegrounds, but here in the boathouse he’s just one of the boys, and he’s careful never to play at being the owner, or to show his cards unless called.
    â€œYou in?” asks one of his boys, dealing smartly, snapping the cards.
    â€œNext game. I need a refill.”
    He puts down the spittoon to mark his seat—that’s become the tradition—and heads over to the bar. Nothing fancy about it. Just a thick mahogany plank, three feet wide—hewn from a single tree, of course—a few wooden stools, a standard bar cooler for beer, a shelf of liquor displayed against a mirrored backing. Mostly high-end vodkas and some ridiculously overpriced bottles, a few oddly shaped, of single malt Scotch. Gatling pours two fingers of Macallan 18 into a fat-bottomed glass, and is about to return to the table—Jake the Snake is calling five card, jacks or better—when Lee Shipley sidles up the bar, puts a hand on his arm, briefly.
    Lee, a retired New Castle cop old enough to be his father, keeps his raspy voice low and says, “Something you should know.”
    Gatling sips from the glass. “Lay it on me, Chief,” he says, ready to make a joke of it, knowing the old man’s penchant for one-liners.
    Lee glances at the table, where the first round of betting is under way—cash is the rule, no effing chips—and says, “I got a call from a brother officer, an old pal of mine who’s still on the job in Cambridge, Taxachusetts, and you’ll never guess who’s just been named in a murder inquiry.”
    â€œNo idea,” Gatling responds, playing along. “Mother Teresa? Martha Stewart?”
    â€œThis is serious, Taylor,” Lee says. “Randall Shane. They expect to have him in custody any moment.”
    Taylor looks blank. “Sorry, Chief, I don’t get it.”
    â€œShane. That FBI jerk who testified against your dad.”
    â€œThat was twenty years ago. Lots of witnesses testified against him.”
    â€œYeah, but this guy Shane, he was the one got your father convicted. That’s what your dad believed. Told me so himself.”
    â€œYeah? Well, he never told me. If you recall, we weren’t exactly on speaking terms at the time. I was eighteen that summer—I’d just enlisted with the Marine Corps so I could get away from all that crap.”
    Lee looks at him, can’t quite meet his eyes. They both know how it ended for Gatling’s father.
    â€œJust thought you’d want to know.”
    â€œThanks, Lee. Best forgotten, though. Water under the bridge, or over the dam, or wherever it’s supposed to go.”
    â€œSorry,” the old man says, shrinking a little, now embarrassed.
    â€œHey. No need to be sorry. I appreciate your concern. You were his good and loyal friend when times got tough, and I’ll never forget that. Get yourself a glass, we’ll have a little toast.”
    Lee Shipley, relieved, pours a splash from the same bottle, raises his glass.
    â€œTo the old man,” Taylor says. “May he rest in peace.”
    â€œAmen to that.”
    They sit down to play poker, and not another word is said about his late father. But inside, behind his bad boy smile, Gatling is very pleased by the news. Randall Shane, the so-called hero, is down for a count of murder in the first degree, a charge long overdue.
    Good.

Chapter Nine
What the Cat Lady Said
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