They took Chase and Tina back to the station. Despite Tina's worry, Chase ended up wearing less than an ounce of éclair, and that was mostly on his face. He was a little disappointed that he wouldn't be allowed to let the ducks nibble it off his cheeks, but Hank managed to convince him that it would be a lot more like pinches than kisses.

On their way back out, they Trey waved them over. "Hey, Ranger Dude--someone's been looking for you. Devin Tarnower told me to be on the look-out for you." He pointed over toward the coffee shop. "He's in latte la-la land."

Hank and Logan made their way over to the coffee shop. Devin was sitting at one of the little tables, trying to maneuver a large cup and a newspaper. He looked up as they approached, and his professional, plastic smile became a little more genuine as he saw Hank. "Hey, it's the Red Cross! Have a seat. Can I get you something? They've got a mocha-orange frapuccino that's pretty decent."

"Thank you, but no. I already had dessert," said Hank as they sat. "How are you? How's that hand?"

Devin glanced ruefully at his heavily bandaged hand. "You were right to insist that I go right to the hospital. They did surgery, and the doctor is pretty sure that there will be no nerve damage. Still, I'll probably have a good bit of therapy ahead of me later on."

"That's a shame," said Hank.

"I think of it as more of an outrage. I was trying to decide who to sue--the furniture supplier, whoever chose the set dressing, or maybe maintenance for screwing up on a repair job. Then the cops told me that it looks like it was done deliberately."

"We heard that," said Logan. "Devin, can you think of anyone who'd have a reason to try to hurt you that way?"

Devin shrugged. "Probably. I'll be honest--I'm not always a likable guy. It's part of my professional persona, okay? Some entertainers are smooth and charming, I'm borderline offensive. Maybe someone decided I stepped over the line."

"Anyone in particular?"

Devin took a sip of his drink. "Let's see..." He grinned. "Pogey Penneman hates my guts. I clipped playing cards to the spokes on his wheelchair once. And I tried to sneak Alpo onto a tray of canapés that Hunter Overend had made up for his show."

Hank's expression was stiff. "I wonder why Tina didn't include this in her description of what was going on here at the station."

"You mean the other mysterious incidents? Because I was open about it. I always am with my pranks. Hunter caught it before it got to the audience--and I have to give the man credit. Quite frankly, the only reason I could tell it wasn't rough pate was that I'd notched the toast points where it was only visible if you knew what to look for."

"Do you think that Hunter might have...?" Logan trailed off when he saw the look Hank was shooting him.

Devin was oblivious. "Overend? Nah--he's cool. He just warned me that I'd better not ever put myself in a situation where he'll be handling my food. I can respect that. Who else? I made a call for viewers to send in possible careers for the Domestic Divas." He chuckled. "Couldn't read a lot of them on the air, and those gals don't have a big sense of humor. Then there was the Find Cerise a Boyfriend contest." He laughed again. "Oh, that's a good one! I hope no one got rid of that last bunch of photographs."

"I remember you mentioning that right before you were hurt," said Hank. "What was it all about?"

Devin waxed enthusiastic. "It's one of my best! Cerise, to the best of my knowledge, doesn't date. Concentrating on her career, or some crap like that. So a couple of weeks ago I announced the Find Cerise a Boyfriend contest. I invited all the men out there who were interested to send in a photograph, and maybe an essay telling her why they were prime boyfriend material, and I'd do my best to set them up on a date with her." He shook his head, smiling. "You should have seen some of those photos. The gallery could look like the cast of a combination biker/porno/Deliverance movie. I wouldn't be able to show most of them without decency stickers, and the essays... I had no idea it was possible to have five misspellings in a six word sentence."

"Cerise wasn't involved in this?" asked Hank.

"Only to the extent of sitting there and looking pissed off as I showed the photos and read the essays. But that was eighty-percent of the bit--seeing her react."

"But you were upsetting her, weren't you?"

Devin shrugged. "She could have played along, and it would have been fantastic publicity for her. I bet she could have landed in the Sunday supplement magazine--maybe even on the cover. But she's short sighted. She thought that such a stunt was beneath the dignity of a national host, and that's what she's shooting for. All, or nothing."

"Those photographs--you brought them in with you that morning?"

"No. I got them in my morning mail the day before, and I took them up to the studio at lunch and put them in the drawer." He frowned. "There wasn't anything wrong with that drawer then. At least I don't think there was. I'm pretty sure I would have noticed it if there was a big ass nail sticking up."

"So it had to be done sometime between lunch and that morning."

"It's more likely it would have been that night, after they got through taping or running the live shows. I'm pretty sure the crew would have noticed someone banging a nail into the furnishings."

"The rooms aren't locked up at night?"

"They put the valuable equipment in storage and lock that up, but otherwise--no."

"So anyone could have had access to the desk."

"Pretty much. Now that you say it like that, security sucks around here. Maybe I should sue."

Hank stood up, and Logan followed him. "I'm glad that things aren't any worse, Mister Tarnower. You be sure to do what your doctor tells you."

He waved. "Please. I'm popping antibiotics like a Hollywood matron pops Valium, and her husband pops Viagra. I'll be okay."

As they started off, Logan headed for the door, but Hank veered back toward the desk. "I'll be right with you, Logan." Beau looked up questioningly as Hank approached. "Mister Trinity, do you have a moment?"

Beau pointedly looked over both shoulders, and then said, "I'm free."

Hank smiled. "You don't look a thing like Mr. Humphries."

Beau's face split in a smile. "You got that? I was beginning to think I was the only one in California that liked Are You Being Served?"

"You might be. Remember my state of origin."

"You like British Humor?"

"I own that series on tape, and I'm working on my Red Dwarf collection. I got dish television mostly for the sports, but I've figured out how to use the VCR record-while-watching-something else specifically for BBCAmerica. We can discuss Monty Python versus The Goodies sometime, but right now I need to ask you a couple of quick questions."

"Shoot."

"How long have you worked here?"

"Oh, I'm pretty much the most senior employee here, if not the most powerful. I started working this desk from the first day they were open for business."

"So you weren't on the original security shift while they were finishing up construction?"

He snorted. "You know, I've heard what a shrewd businessman Tobias Clutterbuck was, but you couldn't prove it by me. Usually when a place this size gets almost to the point of opening for business--you know, furnished, and down to just the fine points of decorating--they'll leave at least one night watchman on duty. Him? He hires a security company to drive by a few times a night and check the doors. The man's lucky that some gang didn't scope the place out, pull up a U-haul between patrols, and just load up."

"You think they could have done that?"

"Man, as long as they didn't run around with their flashlights bobbing or haul the damn plants out of the lobby, the hired heat wouldn't have been able to even tell anyone was in here till the crew came in the next morning and started to find blank places where property should have been."

"That doesn't sound like what I've heard about him."

"I think he was having trouble getting the extra funding approved. He was having trouble with the ladies in his life at the time, and they were holding the purse strings." He smiled. "Just gossip, you know."

"And we shouldn't listen to gossip. Thanks, Beau." As he walked away, Hank muttered, "But the bad thing about not listening to gossip is that sometimes, just sometimes, there's a grain of truth in it."

Logan was standing outside the building, speaking on his cell phone as Hank came out. He gestured to his friend to hurry over, and Hank broke into a lope. As he approached, he heard Logan saying, "Yes, miss. I got your boss's number from another gentleman he's been negotiating with about the very same thing. Yes, Wilson Bates." He frowned at Hank. "No, I hardly think I'd be able to sway Wilson about any financial decision. Is your boss available to talk--? Miss, you can appreciate that I don't want to discuss business like this over a phone: particularly over a cell phone. No, I can't say. I'll need to speak with Mister Montrose in person. Miss, I am a lawyer. I can appreciate that. You just give Mister Averill my number again, and we'll see about setting up a meeting. You're welcome. You have a nice day." He shut off the phone. "Guess who?"

"Either Averill is a girl, and other clues in your speech would tend to disprove that, or that was a secretary."

"Please--personal assistant. Secretary is so politically incorrect. From the sound of it, Mister Averill hasn't been able to locate all the other shares, and he has a sizeable boner for them. He may check around a little on me, but judging from her tone of voice, I think we should be hearing from him soon. After all, I don't think he'll find out anything that might put him off me. I don't have any official attachments to BLAB! Hank, there's a little paper work... It's not vital, but I ought to take care of it soon. Would you be all right on your own for a few hours?"

"Well, I don't know." He straightened to his full height of 6'3", and spread his arms slightly. "Do I look like I need a keeper?"

"Physically? No. Mentally might be another matter."

"I won't deny it." Hank held out his hand. "Mind if I borrow your phone?" Logan handed it over. Hank said, "Pardon me for a moment." He walked a few yards away, turning his back as he dialed. After a couple of rings, the person on the other end picked up. "Hello, Hunter?"

"Hank! Good to hear from you," there was obvious pleasure in the young man's voice.

"I wanted to check and be sure you were still all right."

"Fine, fine. I've always had iron digestion. It would take a lot to unsettle my stomach."

"I'm pretty sure syrup of Ipecac would do it, though."

"Damn!" His tone was incredulous. "Is that what it was? I was thinking that maybe one of the helpers had left a mayonnaise or egg dish out too long."

"Nope. It was the wine punch--that's why I was worried about you, but I suppose you didn't get enough of it to affect you."

"Thank goodness. I'll tell you the truth--I didn't really swallow any of it. I got a taste, and then let the rest of it slip back into the cup before I took it down from my mouth. It's a talent I've developed because I included a section on home wine making in one of my books, and everyone I meet who read it seems to want me to sample their efforts. How they can manage to screw up such a simple process amazes me, but they do it. Any idea on how the medicine got into the wine?"

"Not really, except that it sure as hell didn't happen by accident. That punch was sitting up on the bar, within easy reach of anyone passing by. I'm pretty sure that there must've been a good flow around the bar, so it's not hard to believe that someone just casually tipped it in while the bartender was either getting supplies or busy with other guests. If they got clever and put it in a cup first, I doubt if anyone would have noticed anything unusual." Hank glanced at Logan. "Look, I can't talk much right now. I was just wondering what you had planned for this afternoon."

"I'm visiting my butcher, then I have to go to Choyez for the evening." His voice dipped suggestively. "Want to come look at meat with me?"

Hank chuckled. "I'd complain about you trying to corrupt me, if I wasn't enjoying it so much. If you can drop me off at Logan's later, I can get him to drop me off at your butcher's."

"How about getting him to drop you off here? I don't have to be there for an hour or two. I could fix you something."

Hank thought for a second, then, his voice low, said, "I had a big lunch. Maybe you can think of something else we could do to pass the time?"

Hunter's voice was teasing. "Maybe, though I can't promise you it won't still involve nibbling. See you in a little?"

"I won't ask him to run red lights, but I won't say anything if his foot gets heavy on the gas." Hank hung up and walked back to Logan. As they started toward the truck Hank said, "Can I get you to drop me somewhere?"

"Sure." Logan grinned. "What's Hunter's address?"

"Was I talking loud, or is it just that obvious?"

"I've just noticed you get a certain look on your face when you're going to see him. I haven't seen that sort of look on your face often enough, Hank. It's nice. Hunter's a good guy."

They got into the truck, and Hank gave Logan Hunter's address. "I think his is," said Hank quietly, "But..."

"But? What but?"

"He's kind of young."

"This is a bad thing? Besides, I think he's in his early thirties. Yeah, that's sort of young for a man to get the kind of rep he has in his chosen profession, but... Tina and I have socialized with him a little. He's not some sort of naive kid, Hank. He knows what he wants, and he goes for it. And he's not flighty." He glanced over at Hank, and his voice became quiet. "His lover died in a car accident a little over a year ago, and he's just now started going out again. He was with the same man for seven years, Hank--monogamous--and Gerard was twenty years his senior. You're not going to be able to use the age difference as a reason for not letting him get closer."

Hank shrugged. "I'm not trying to keep him at a distance, Lo. It's just... You know how I am."

"I know. And I think that both of you are damn lucky that you've happened onto each other."

"We've only been out with each other twice, Lo, and you know what happened the second time."

"Yeah. Well, maybe that will turn out to be the story you two tell years and years from now." He pulled up in front of Hunter's house. The door opened and Hunter leaned out. He held up a bottle of beer, pointed at it, pointed at Hank, and crooked his finger invitingly. "Frankly, I'll think you need an IQ test if you don't do all you can to get to know that man. Anyone who will meet you at the door with a cold beer without having been asked is worth some effort."

About an hour and a half later Hank came out of the bedroom, buttoning his shirt. Hunter was sitting on the sofa, talking on the phone. He smiled at Hank as the big Texan came to sit beside him. "No, I'll be there in about fifteen--twenty minutes. Don't you dare let that lamb go to anyone else, Arturo. I'm serious. Yes, I have an anniversary couple coming in tomorrow night, and they specifically requested a crown presentation of the rack of lamb. That's right, paper booties, and all. I agree that's very sixties, but they were married in 1963. This is their fortieth, and they deserve something a little special, don't you think? Yes, I'm doing a flaming Baked Alaska for them, too. Who cares if other people think it's kitschy?" He rolled his eyes. "No, we won't go quite as far as having the wait staff sing 'Happy Anniversary' to the tune of The William Tell Overture. Right. And the beef? Sounds fabulous. See you soon." As he hung up, Hank took a comb out of his pocket, reached over, and began to smooth it through the younger man's hair. Hunter smirked. "Am I being groomed?"

"I know that the 'just rolled out of bed' look is supposed to be fashionable, but my Mama would still lock the door and throw brushes at me if I tried to leave the house with my hair messy," said Hank, putting away the comb.

Hunter leaned against him, and Hank slipped an arm comfortably around his shoulder. The chef studied the older man, his smile becoming a touch more serious. "I don't usually let things go this fast, Hank. But since you're just visiting..."

"I know." He rubbed Hunter's shoulder. "I've never been exactly a social butterfly myself. Hunter, I know this is early days yet, but what do you think of long distance relationships?"

He rested his chin on Hank's shoulder, looking up at him. "They can work. There's a lot of obstacles, but they can work, at least for awhile."

"I've still got about a week and a half before I go back to Texas. Would you do me the favor of considering it? I like you a lot, Hunter. I'd like the chance to see if maybe there could be more to it than that."

Hunter leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of Hank's mouth. "I'll consider it Hank--very, very seriously." He patted Hank's thigh. "Now, come on. If I don't lay in my meat supply, there are going to be some very upset carnivores. Let's go."

Arturo's Fine Meats was an old fashioned butcher shop. He made a nice living selling to upscale restaurants, caterers, and the occasional ambitious celebrity who had aspirations to haute cuisine. Arturo looked like Hank thought a butcher should look. He wasn't tall, but he was stocky, and his arms were muscular enough to be the envy of most bodybuilders. His cheeks and his fingers were a little red, a little chapped from time spent in freezers and coolers. He shook hands with Hank when Hunter introduced him, and grinned. "I really enjoyed that comedy bit you did with your armadillo. My granddaddy told me about eating them during the Depression. He said they were called Hoover Hogs. You know, I've even had a call once or twice for 'dillo meat from someone trying to be really exotic."

"You're not getting anywhere near Chill Pill," Hank said firmly.

Arturo laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it. I never could butcher an animal that I might have known personally. That's one reason why I'm at the end of the meat processing. I never could have been a farmer. I'd get too attached to whatever I was raising."

"There's nothing wrong with getting fond of farm animals," said Hank, "But it can sort of limit your diet, if you're the sensitive sort."

Hank and Hunter were given disposable paper gowns and slippers. "I keep it as clean as possible, but when you're working with blood..." Arturo shrugged.

Hunter was snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "I'd prefer to do this bare handed, but one must adhere to health regulations." They stepped into the freezer, and Arturo led Hunter to a back corner and began pointing out different animal carcasses. Hunter became all business, examining each with stern concentration. He rejected one sheep carcass, telling Arturo, "Sorry, friend, but that's a little more mutton than it is lamb. Now this one... Lovely. This I can imagine gamboling next to a cud chewing mammy sheep. And I'll take that, too. I'll get some nice hams and chops off that pig. Oh, and Arturo! Why didn't you tell me you had suckling pig this week?"

"Lewis at Tingles said he might be interested in it."

"When did he say that?"

"Last night."

"And it's past lunch, and he still hasn't come by and committed? Has he paid in advance?"

"No."

"Then it's mine. That's going to be the hit of a buffet I'm setting up for later this week. Now, let me see that sirloin. Hank, check out this marbling."

Hank did. "That's as pretty a piece of meat as I've ever seen."

Hunter smirked, raising his eyebrow, and Hank blushed almost hot enough to raise steam in the cold air. "I'll take that, too, Arturo. But slice me off a couple of steaks..." He held his finger and thumb a generous two inches apart, "about like that. I'll pay for them on my own card. The rest goes on the Choyez account."

Arturo was making notes in a small book. "What else?"

"I want a half-dozen good bones and about ten pounds of trimmings for stock. I'll take all the chicken feet you can give me... What? Hank, you're looking a little green. Please don't throw up in here."

"I'm okay, Hunter. But... chicken feet?" He looked hopeful. "Are you going to use them for compost?

He shook his head. "For stock. I also use any bones and skin I get when I trim for other dishes. You get a lot of good flavor that way." He grinned. "It isn't always good for the appetite to know exactly what goes into what you're eating, is it?"

"I should have known better," said Hank. "I learned way back in junior high not to look inside the hamburgers at school. That way I could pretend they weren't oatmeal burgers."

As they left the freezer Hunter said, "Don't you mean turkey burgers? I know a lot of schools use ground turkey to stretch their beef these days. Or maybe soy burgers? They use soy as a filler in just about everything in institutional cooking."

"I have no doubt, but our lunch ladies dated back to before the fifties. Turkey was just for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and they wouldn't have known anything to do with soy beans but boil 'em up with bacon. No, they made oatmeal burgers. Don't look skeptical. I looked inside one once, and I could clearly see the flakes in the patty."

"What did you do?"

"I shut the burger, added extra ketchup and mustard, and ate it anyway." He shrugged. "No one was fool enough to trade with me. It tasted okay, and my Mama would have gone upside my head if I threw away wholesome food after it had been paid for. I just never looked too close at anything from the cafeteria again."