“I looked at the main account this morning,” I said.

Static hissed down the line for two seconds.

“Did the hazard pay come in early?” she asked.

“I saw a hundred-and-eighty-dollar charge at Prime Grill.”

“Oh, that.” Her voice jumped up half an octave.

“That was a military spouse support potluck.”

I threw the oily rag onto a metal workbench.

“A potluck at a fancy downtown steakhouse,” I said.