Catch a Falling Knife by Alan Cook

held off. It seemed that weather forecasts were particularly inaccurate in this part of the country.
    “Stop; this is it,” Tess said.
    I pulled my old Mercedes into the gravel driveway because there wasn’t any room to park it on the street. I glanced at Tess, who looked neat and put-together in a casual dress that said she wasn’t a casual person. I had told her not to dress up, but this was about as dowdy as she got. I wore slacks, which I preferred because of my varicose veins. We both had lightweight coats to protect us from the breeze and possible rain.
    “Let’s review,” I said. “We’re with the Institute for Family Values. We’re interested in Mr. Hoffman’s website, on which he publishes license-plate numbers of the strip-club patrons. Let me do the talking.” Tess didn’t keep silent if she had something to say, which was most of the time.
    “Don’t worry about me,” Tess said. “I’m not terribly anxious to interact with this Mr. Hoffman. The only reason I’m going in is to protect you.”
    That comforted me. We exited the car and crunched along the 100-foot driveway toward the house, which was small but tidy; it had known the feel of a paintbrush. A thick oak tree stood tall in the center of the front lawn, with smaller trees surrounding it.  All were still winter bare. A couple of old cars sat on the other side of the driveway. We walked around a pickup truck, not unlike Albert’s. I felt right at home.
    A loud bark stopped us in our tracks. We hadn’t seen the huge dog because it had been hidden by the truck. It growled at us from the end of a chain attached to something like a clothesline. If the dog decided to come after us I wasn’t sure the line would hold it.
    “It’s okay; we’re friends,” I said to the dog but I stayed carefully out of its reach.
    “I’m don’t think it agrees,” Tess said, looking as if she wanted to retreat to the car.
    The front door of the house opened and a man came out, using a cane. “Monster, sit,” he yelled at the dog.
    Monster didn’t sit, but continued to growl at us. The man limped over to him and took hold of his collar. “He won’t hurt you,” the man said.
    Famous last words. “Hello, I’m Lillian Morgan,” I said. “This is Tess Upchurch. We’re with the Institute for Family Values and we’d like to talk to you about your website.”
    “Well, come on in.” The man beamed. “I’m Eric Hoffman.”
    Mentioning the website had done the trick. He held Monster by the collar while we gingerly walked past them to the front door. Then he followed us, his limp giving an irregular cadence to his steps. Once we were all inside, he said, “May I take your coats?”
    We took off our coats and handed them to him. At least he wasn’t going to kick us out right away. He hung them in a closet and ushered us into his comfortable living room, filled with furniture that had been around for a while. My nose told me that mildew lurked in the corners.
    Mr. Hoffman had also been around for a while, but not nearly as long as we had. He wore unfashionable khakis and a flannel shirt. His once-dark hair was streaked with gray and his face was lined with living. The most pronounced thing about him was his limp.
    He offered us coffee, which we refused, although I don’t ordinarily refuse coffee, but I wasn’t used to the role of impostor and didn’t believe I’d earned the right to have it.
    “I’m sorry my wife isn’t here,” Mr. Hoffman said. “She’s at work. I’m on disability. Mr. leg flared up about a year ago. I got hit in Viet Nam and it hasn’t been right since.”
    We expressed our sympathy for his leg. Then I said, “On your website it stated that you worked out of your house, so we took a chance that you’d be here.”
    “Well, I’m here a lot of the time,” Mr. Hoffman said, “except at night, of course, when I’m out on patrol.” He smiled a grim smile. “I do that from my truck so I don’t have to walk