He was shaking. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a tissue, and wiped his nose.

I finished writing and looked at him.

“Did you talk to your supervisor?” I said. “This Frank Ellinger guy?”

“Yeah,” Brian Sandler said, pulling himself together. “I told him I’d been to see the Gorkins. He says, ‘Hey, you can cut them some slack. They’re just trying to make a go of it here.’ If I looked after them, they’d look after me. I said to him, ‘They tried to fry my fucking finger.’ And you know what he says?”

“What?”

“He says be glad that’s all they fried. But the thing is, it’s not just the Gorkins. They’re connected with some other places, run by their Russian or whatever friends. They do all other kinds of shit on the side. Drugs, I’m pretty sure. It’s like a dropoff point or something. A shipment comes in, they leave it with the Gorkins, someone else comes to pick it up. They figure, they have this legit business, the burger joint, makes them look less suspicious, since people are coming in and out all the time anyway.”

“How many others in the department are being threatened or taking bribes?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it with anyone. But this other guy I work with, Harry? He’s been buying all this hot-shit electronic stuff the last few months. Gadgets. Going out, partying, new clothes. We don’t make that kind of money. He didn’t used to have it. Now he does.”

“What about the cops?”

Sandler craned his neck around, checking the parking lot for strange cars. “I’ve thought about it. But what if they start checking around, can’t prove anything? What’s going to happen to me then? The Gorkins figure out it was me, or Frank rats me out to them, what happens? But if there’s a story in the paper, if you guys can blow the lid off this all at once, the city, the mayor and council, they’ll have to take action. They’ll demand an investigation. It’ll all be out there, in the public. They won’t be able to do anything to me then, or to my family. Right? And then, the cops will have to protect me. Won’t they?”

“Probably,” I said.

“Can you do this story?”

“I think so.” I decided not to tell Sandler that I was not, technically, a reporter at the moment.

“What do you mean, you think so?”

“I mean, yes. This can be done. Why are you telling me all this? As opposed to some other reporter.”

“When you called, about your son, and the incident at Burger Crisp, I figured it was only a matter of time before the shit hit the fan. I want to get out in front of this. I don’t want to be dragged down by it. I’d rather be the guy who blew the whistle than get caught in this with everybody else.”

I asked him a few more questions. Names and dates, as many specific details as I could pull out of him. Plus where I could reach him.

“You gotta be really careful how you go about asking questions,” he said. “I don’t want anyone knowing where all this came from, not before the story hits the paper.”

“I understand.” I paused. “Does your wife know what’s happening?”

Sandler shook his head. “I’m too ashamed. Maybe, when it comes out, it’ll give me some of my pride back, and then I can tell her.” He looked at his watch. “I gotta go.”

“Listen,” I said, “I have a couple of other things I have to deal with first.” I was thinking of my trip to Canborough and beyond. “But in a day or so, I’ll start looking into this.”

Unburdened, he said thank you, asked me for an e-mail address, which he wrote down, then slipped out of my car and back into his Buick. The tires of his car crunched the gravel and he backed out, turned around, and drove out of Bayside Park.

I sat there, a plan taking shape in my mind, a plan that could get me, and Sarah, our rightful jobs back. If I had a story about rampant corruption in the health department, about restaurant owners offering bribes, making death threats, I’d-

The passenger door opened abruptly. Before I could even think, I’d shouted, “Jesus!”

Lawrence Jones settled in next to me. “You always that jumpy when a black man gets in your car?” He pulled the door shut, looked at what I was driving. “Wow. This makes my Jag look like a piece of shit.”

“WHERE WERE YOU?” I asked.

“What do you mean, where was I?” Lawrence said. “I was hiding. Did you want me to sit on the hood of your car?”

I waved at him dismissively. “Okay, you’re brilliant. But thanks for keeping a watch on things.”

Lawrence Jones shrugged. “Everything looked pretty harmless. You hardly needed me around. From where I was watching, the guy appeared to be doing a bit of blubbering. They seem a lot less threatening when they’re blubbering.”

“He unloaded,” I said. “Sorry if I dragged you out here for nothing.”

Another shrug. “Whatever. I only had to cancel some highly lucrative corporate surveillance stuff to do this.”

Lawrence was looking, as usual, trim and fit and immaculately turned out. Even to hide in the bushes and keep a watch over me, he wore perfectly tailored black slacks, leather shoes, and a dark green windbreaker with a Hugo Boss emblem stitched to the collar. This one outfit was worth more than everything in my closet.

I’ve known Lawrence a couple of years now. I was doing a feature on a day in the life of a private detective, and Lawrence, a former cop who’d gone out on his own, had agreed to let me tag along with him. That encounter turned into much more trouble than either of us ever expected, and nearly left my new friend dead. Lawrence credits me with saving his life. Not because I warded off his attackers. I just showed up in time to get him to the hospital before he lost his last drop of blood.

And more recently, he’d been there for me, and my father, when my dad was having a bit of trouble with his neighbors.

“I’m starting to worry that I’m becoming a nuisance,” I said.

“Becoming?” Lawrence said.

I smiled. “You got time for a coffee? I’m buying.”

“I’d rather you bought me lunch,” he said. “You mess up my day and think you can make it all better with a coffee?”

He had to go back and get his car, so we agreed to rendezvous at a nearby diner. He ordered an open-faced roast beef sandwich and mashed potatoes, smothered in gravy. With coffee. I got a BLT with extra mayo.

“So,” Lawrence said, “you keeping out of trouble?”

How could you not laugh?

I gave him the quickest possible summary. Trixie missing. Body in basement. Me handcuffed next to it. The Flint investigation. Possibly a couple of stun gun-selling bikers on Trixie’s tail. It appeared that she had a daughter she’d never told us about. Me suspended from the paper. Sarah demoted. Wasn’t sure she still wanted me around the house. Paul fired from his job. Nasty Russian ladies putting people’s fingers into deep fryers.

“Other than that,” I said, “things are pretty good.”

Lawrence’s expression never changed the whole time. He kept eating his roast beef and mashed potatoes. Finally he put down his fork, picked up his napkin, and daintily dabbed at the corners of his mouth.

“Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing?” he asked.

I waited a moment. “How are things with you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Pretty good. Kent and I are still off and on.” Kent, who owned a restaurant in the city, and Lawrence had been seeing each other for a couple of years. “Work is good. Fairly steady. Like I said, I’ve got some corporate stuff. They throw money around like nobody else.” He waved the waitress over for a coffee refill.

He sipped some, ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and said, “You are seriously fucked up.”

“Yes.”

Lawrence shook his head back and forth sadly. “Even by your standards, you are seriously fucked up.”

“Yes,” I said again. “I can see why you’re a topnotch investigator. You size things up right away.”