“Why do you talk like that? Like a sailor?”

“Why should men have sole ownership of swear words? Why should you be the only ones who get to express your anger?”

“It’s un-”

“Don’t you dare say ‘unladylike.’”

“All right. It’s unbecoming. And unprofessional.”

I stood up and stepped onto the seat of my wooden chair and shouted, “Any man in this room who has never said the word ‘fuck,’ please raise your hand.”

Dead silence, broken only by the sound of the Teletypes. No hands went up. I saw Wrigley move to his office door. He was looking at O’Connor and grinning.

“Thank you,” I said. “O’Connor believes you are all unprofessional. Take it the fuck up with him.”

There was laughter and applause, a lot of hooting and hollering at O’Connor, who left the room as I got down off my chair.

I went back to writing, and the newsroom settled down-as much as it ever did.

Max called. I arranged to meet him at the Ducane place that evening. He didn’t have a problem with Lefebvre joining us. “Bring O’Connor, too, if you’d like.”

“I’ll see,” I evaded. “He’s out at the moment.” I asked if the power was still on at the house, and when he said yes, I arranged to meet him there at eight o’clock. “I’ve got a story to get in, and I won’t be able to stay long-I’ve got to get home to my dad.”

“To your dad?”

“Yes. He’s ill. I’ll explain it all later.” Which in a way was a lie, because I couldn’t fully explain it to myself.

I called Lefebvre, who thanked me and told me he’d try to return the favor. The weird thing was, even though I acted cheerful when I called him, I had the distinct feeling that he had read my true mood, anyway. Over the phone. Scary.

I used Lydia’s notes to figure out who was the most talkative of the heirs of Griffin Baer. I called him and got the names of a few of Baer’s friends. I even learned the name of a bar Baer used to hang out in.

Who else do old men talk to? I wondered.

I asked if he golfed, but the answer was no. I asked if he used to get his hair cut by a barber. This time, the answer was yes-in fact, the barber had come to his funeral. With a little searching through the Yellow Pages while I waited, the grandson was able to come up with the name of the barbershop. I thanked him and ended the call.

It occurred to me that it would help to have some of the photos from O’Connor’s collection with me. I was wondering if I should try to find him, or just leave him alone and ask about it tomorrow, when I got a call from Aunt Mary.

“How’s your friend?” she asked.

“My friend?” Did everyone in Las Piernas know I had gone to lunch with Max Ducane?

“The one you sent by to check on Patrick at lunchtime today.”

I felt a cold sense of dread roll through me from my shoulders to my knees. First question. “Is Dad okay?”

“He’s sleeping. Doing fine. He enjoyed the visit. In fact, he answered the door.”

“Dad did?”

“Yes. Patrick was up for a little while, you know-walking around the house a bit like he’s supposed to-and he answered the door.”

“Oh.”

“When he told me that you had arranged it just to give me a little break, I have to admit I was surprised, since you never mentioned a word to me. Well, I don’t mean to criticize. That was very thoughtful of you, Irene, but not necessary. It did allow me to get a little grocery shopping done-”

“You’re sure Dad’s okay?”

“Why, yes.”

“Uh…a couple of people have offered to help out. What did this friend look like?”

“A big man, dark hair with gray in it.”

“A streak of gray?”

“No, more salt-and-pepper.”

“He was from the newspaper, then?”

“No, he wasn’t wearing a suit. Dressed more casually than that. But that was probably because of the lawn.”

“The lawn?” I said, totally baffled now.

“Yes. He mowed and edged the front and back lawns. Made me realize how much I’ve neglected Patrick’s garden.”

Maybe it was O’Malley, I thought. Dad would have let him in. But why tell Mary he was a friend of mine, and not just call him an old high school buddy?

“You haven’t neglected Patrick,” I said. “That’s the main thing.” And I spent some time telling her how much I loved and appreciated her, which is the kind of thing you start doing when someone close to you has rung death’s doorbell and run away.

“You sound worried,” she said, cutting past all that. “Patrick is fine, and I am, too. Honestly, Irene. Patrick enjoyed the visit. You should be telling your friend how much you appreciate him.”

“I would if I knew who it was.”

“Drives a Nash. Does that help?”

“A Nash? A Nash? A Nash Rambler?”

“Didn’t I just say so?”

“Thanks, Mary. I know who it is now.” I told her about my schedule for the day. As usual, she was fine with it. She wanted, she told me, all the time she could get with Dad.

I hung up and sat there thinking that I wanted to quit my job. I wanted to go home and read to Patrick Kelly, and laugh with him, and mow his lawn.

But first, I decided, I needed to find O’Connor.

Mary thought I should thank him.

I had a different idea. I wanted to kill him.

I TRIED THE PRESS CLUB FIRST. HE WASN’T THERE. SOME OF THE NEWSROOM boys were already knocking ’em back, and it took me a little while to turn down offers of drinks without causing offense. Wildman, of all people, came to my rescue, telling the rest of them to back off and escorting me to the door. “You might try O’Grady’s,” Wildman said. “And you be sure to tell Conn I was a perfect gentleman.” This last came out as “gennelmum,” but I assured him I’d convey the message.

O’Connor wasn’t at O’Grady’s, either. The place was almost empty. I asked the bartender if he’d seen him, and he said O’Connor hadn’t been in all week. I took my roll of dimes and went to the pay phone, which was in the hall outside the gents, and called Helen.

The problem was, by the time I reached her, I was out of steam. So when she asked me if anything was wrong, I told her, “Not with him. I, on the other hand, have lost my mind.” I gave her a brief rundown of the afternoon. “So I was going to tell him off for sneaking behind my back to visit my dad, but-somewhere along the way, I guess I started to hear what Mary was trying to tell me.”

“That your father enjoyed the visit. That it was a relief to her.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to share him, won’t you?”

“Yes.” I took a deep breath and tried to change the subject. “How are you?”

“Rough day. But I’ll be all right.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No, and you have enough to contend with-but listen, if you’re looking for Conn when he’s upset, try Holy Family Cemetery.”

“What?”

“Jack’s grave. He goes out there to have a word with him once in a while.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I said. “I’ll catch up with him later.”

I wasn’t far from Griffin Baer’s favorite barbershop, so I drove over to it. It was a clean little shop, with the traditional pole mounted outside the door, revolving in a pattern that must have inspired early psychedelic art. I walked into a room of white linoleum, maroon leather chairs, chrome, and mirrors. A thin, gray-haired man was sitting in one of the chairs, reading the sports section of today’s Express, but he quickly stood when I came in. He looked at my shoulder-length hair and said, “Good afternoon! Two dollars to trim off those split ends and even it up a bit. The length is good on you, so we won’t take off much.”

Normally, I have to work up some courage to let anyone with a pair of scissors in his or her hand come near me, having had a couple of bad experiences with hairdressers who couldn’t control their impulses-but this old guy didn’t strike me as the type who felt the need to experiment on humans. “A deal,” I said, taking a seat in a comfy chair. “But I want to be honest with you-I didn’t come in here for a haircut.”