A bronze-painted sports car with a long foreign nose was standing at the curb in front of the County Annex building. I parked in my regular space, a few yards behind it. So far as I knew, there was only one bronze Jaguar in town. It belonged to Abel Johnson. I wasn't surprised when Fred Miner, Johnson's driver, emerged from my second-floor office and started down the outside steps to the street.
[more]Fred reached the sidewalk and turned in my direction, a stocky man in his middle thirties who walked with a peculiar stiff-backed roll. The faded Navy suntans he always wore had darker patches on the sleeve, where his Chief's stripes and hash-mark had been removed. His only concession to his civilian occupation was a black, peaked chauffeur's cap, which shadowed his eyes. He passed my car without seeing me, his face closed in thought.
There was a yelp and a flurry of movement from the sports car. A small boy with a head of bright red hair scrambled over the door and launched himself like a missile at Fred's legs. The man's face opened in a laugh of pure delight. Taking the boy under the arms, he swung him upside down in the air and set him back on his feet:
“Knock it off now, swabbie. This is no time for games. Come to attention.”
“Okay, Fred,” the boy chirped. “Aye, aye, sir, I mean.” He brought his feet together and arched his back.
“Now wipe that smile off your face or I'll break you down to apprentice seaman and take away your privileges for fifteen years.”
