A Matter of Time by Glen Cook Page B

in a call to New York, have him clean this up. You notice how he always gets the job done in a couple days?"
     
    "Don't pay any attention to the rules, either. Just busts people up." He snorted. "Long as we're wishing, why not go for a psychic? There's that fat English broad out in the County…"
     
    Cash thought about it. It was straw-grabbing time, and there were precedents. Then it struck him. "We wouldn't dare. We'd be up to our necks in reporters. That's their meat."
     
    "Norm, I'm getting close to retirement. I don't need this."
     
    Close? Cash thought. More like five years. Matter of viewpoint, he supposed. "I didn't ask for it either."
     
    "You sure as hell did. You had to keep poking and poking."
     
    What was keeping John? Cash had wanted to talk to his partner, but did not feel like listening to Railsback while waiting around. He also wanted supper and time to put his heels up before the refugee placement interview.
     
    "Look," he said, "we've had it this long and nobody's popped a cork. Why don't we just keep it canned? There's no pressure. Meanwhile, put a hold on that stiff. We've got a print from the old lady's house now. We can put some heat on."
     
    "Yeah? All right." Railsback was unimpressed. "Wish we could just bury him. That's what I'd do with most of them if it was up to me. Often as not, they need what they get." He rose. "Give my best to Annie. Have to have you over sometime."
     
    "Right. Same to Marylin." Cash hoped he would never receive a more definite invitation.
     
    The lieutenant left without responding. Toward the end of the day he always grew depressed and remote, especially when he had no work to keep him overtime.
     
    Annie got to Cash sometimes, as all wives do to their husbands, but, he felt, if she came on like Marylin Railsback, he would have bailed out years ago.
     
    John wasn't going to show, Cash decided. He left.
     
    "Fish again?" he grumbled as he walked in the door. "I could smell it clean out in the street."
     
    "You were expecting maybe filet mignon?"
     
    "Bad day?" He stalked Annie across the kitchen, put his arms around her from behind.
     
    "Not really. Just nervous."
     
    "Second thoughts?"
     
    "And thirds and fourths. What's your problem?"
     
    "You can still back out." Then he explained about the case.
     
    " 'Curiouser and curiouser,' as Alice said. I thought you'd given up on that one."
     
    "We never give up. We just put it away for a while. Getting sorry we came back. Oh. Don't tell anybody about it. Hank told me not to tell you."
     
    "Okay." She twisted free, commenced setting the table. "What do you want to wear?"
     
    "You going through with it?"
     
    "All the way. A little buck fever, that's all."
     
    He was not sure she understood the relationship of Michael to refugee in her own mind, but asked no questions. He never would. It was hers to work out.
     
    "When's this guy supposed to show up?"
     
    "Around eight. They were real nice when I told them about your job."
     
    "Sure."
     
    "What's that supposed to mean?"
     
    "Just that they're having trouble finding people. You know me. Always the cynic. Bureaucrats don't make things convenient to be nice. They got a Moses somewhere who brought down a tablet telling them to be horse's asses."
     
    "You're right. You are a cynic. Don't get going tonight."
     
    The bell rang a minute after eight.
     
    "That's them already!" Annie exploded in a frenzy of last second seam-straightening and hair-patting. "They're early."
     
    "It's eight." He went to the door. Startled, he said, "Yes?" to the man he found there.
     
    "Jornall Strangefellow. From the Relocation Office."
     
    "Oh. We've been expecting you." Someone, anyway. But not a six-foot-four-inch, roly-poly black man with a bizarre name. Cash tried to cover his reaction. "Come in." He led the way to the living room. "Annie, this's Mr. Strangefellow. From the Board. My wife, Ann."
     
    She did a less competent job of concealing her surprise. Strangefellow