"Nathan?" I say.
He's just as I remember him from the pictures: fattish, with a ruddy sort of face. Nice shoes. Black suit pants that look expensive but are badly wrinkled and nearly ruined. In his matching black jacket and tie, he looks like a corpse dressed for the casket-undead and standing right in front of me, watching me with a sort of vague disinterest. I hope he can see me all right as I slide my .44 back into its chest holster and raise both hands toward the ceiling, trying to convey a truce.
"I'm working for your father, Nathan," I say. "Are you hurt?"
Nathan watches my movements but says nothing. He almost looks disinterested, staring right through me.
"I don't know the whole story here, and I don't know what you've done, or haven't done, or why," I tell him. "But I'm no cop, so it doesn't much matter to me. Your father just wants to know what happened to you. Nobody else needs to die. Let's put an end to it."