Inside was an envelope that I hadn't put in there. I opened the envelope carefully, and, with my fingernails at the edges, pulled out a sympathy card. I opened it, and it read,TOBY HINSHAW AND ANGIE McGUIRE, YOU ARE DEAD MEAT.YOU WON'T KNOW WHEN OR WHERE, BUT YOU WILL BE DEAD.I turned ashen-faced, and nudged Angie. She looked over, and I showed her the card. She gasped and looked at me. I held my hand up, and Miss Lily called on me. "Miss Lily, Angie and I need to be excused RIGHT NOW to go down to Mr. Robinson's office." She didn't argue, so I grabbed Angie and got the hell out of there. I called Dad on my cell phone and told him what happened. He said he'd meet us in Mr. Robinson's office. He arrived shortly, and had a fingerprint expert with him. The expert dusted the card right there, and rushed it back to the office. Within ten minutes, he called me with the identity of the culprits whose prints were on the card-they were the two guys involved in the hand-to-hand drug. .. those tiny, yet consequential vignettes of cuisine that separated the more sophisticated from the lesser. And when the Chateaubriand for two would be served, she would not stuff herself, though it had been two weeks since she'd anything as delectable as a piece of piping hot meat steaming in front of her.Between sips of her Fuisse Pouissy, Chris and Francois stared out over the blackened night, watching the ships slip by announced only by the low throaty moan of the fog horn. He'd been in merchant marine at one time, he told her through his mellifluously enunciated accent, and since then had made yearly trips back to the old sea port by the bay where he's spent many a memorable evening parading up and down Broadway Street, watching the pimps, the barkers, and the prostitutes.He asked about her background; the obvious questions a man who's paid for an evening of womanly companionship wants to know. Had she traveled? Had she gone to school? And through it all, he hadn't pried, hadn't.
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