This morning, Hardy had run into Arnie Tiano and Elizabeth Pullios in the hallway, laughing so hard their sides hurt.

‘…so this poor son of a bitch, the victim, Leon, he’s trying to get some hubcaps back on this car in the middle of the day. It’s his car. Red, you know, an old Ford. So the perp, Germaine, sees him, comes out and asks what he thinks he’s doing messing with his, Germaine’s, car, which in truth is parked around the corner. Looks a lot like Leon’s car, I guess. Same model, red and all. But Germaine is so loaded he can’t see that well, and Leon says fuck off, it’s my car, which it is. So Germaine goes inside and comes out with a gun, and Leon says, “What you gonna do, shoot me?” and Germaine says, “Yeah,” and pumps four shots into him.’

Pullios howls. ‘Get out of here!’

‘Swear to God, I mean, there’s ten witnesses hanging around the curb and this guy just blows Leon away, walks back inside and takes a nap, which is what he’s doing when we get there.’

Both Arnie and Elizabeth laughing, laughing, laughing.

But it beat bartending.

Not that there was anything wrong with bartending. Working behind the rail was an uncomplicated and stress-free life. He’d taken pride in the way he mixed drinks, getting along with everybody, sleepwalking.

Then suddenly it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough. After he’d broken his routine, once trying to help the Cochrans, once trying to save his own life, he realized that he’d changed. Survival wasn’t enough. He’d fallen in love. His new wife now had a baby that he’d treat as his own even if it wasn’t.

There was a future again, not a succession of days in half a Guinness haze. It surprised him how good it felt.

The time behind the bar had begun to weigh heavily. The regulars, the pickups at the bar, the stupid Irish fights over darts or whether Jameson, was better than that Protestant piss Bushmills. It was all the same ol‘ same ol’, the alcohol discussions laden with a profundity that never stood the scrutiny of the next sunrise.

So it was back to the law, to a real job, to something he cared about to go with the new life he was building.

Frannie was pregnant again, too.

The coroner’s office was in the same building Hardy worked in, on the ground floor. To wheel the gurneys in, there was easy access from the parking lot. The public could enter without being frisked, without going through the detector at the back door to the Hall of Justice.

Hardy was sitting on one of the yellow plastic chairs in the outer office. It was four-thirty and he was meeting Esme’s attorney at five in his office, so he took a break and decided to go check on the hand.

The receptionist was one of those rare marvels of civil service. Sixto was about twenty-five, wore a tie and slacks, combed his hair, spoke English politely and with some grammatical precision. A miracle.

‘I don’t think they’ve found anything yet, Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘It hasn’t been a good day. Mondays never are.’

‘Bad weekend?’

Sixto nodded. ‘Two homicides. This drive-by stuff. What gets into people?’ There wasn’t any answer to that and Sixto didn’t expect one. ‘So I doubt if they’ve gotten to anything with the hand, but I’ll keep on it, okay? I’ll let you know.’

Hardy thanked him and got up. Outside the door, in the June fog, he stopped to take in the parking lot, the freeway blocking the horizon to his right, which was starting to sound like rush hour. Walking toward him from the back door were Detective Sergeant Abe Glitsky and Chief A.D.A. Art Drysdale.

‘Guys,’ Hardy said, nodding.

The guys were not in good humor. Coming abreast of him, Drysdale said, ‘We don’t want to talk about it.’

‘The hand?’

Glitsky, as big, black and mean looking as the lanky, white Drysdale seemed benign, snapped, ‘What hand?’ He reached behind Hardy and pulled at the door.

‘We’re not talking,’ Drysdale said.

They were walking in the door. That’s what I like,‘ Hardy said, ’the free and easy flow of information, the genial give and take of ideas…‘

The door had closed on him. Hardy stood a moment, shrugged, and went up to meet Esme’s attorney.

Aaron Jaans crossed spit-shined shoes over his well-creased pants, showing a bit of the red garter that held black socks halfway up his calf. The thought crossed Hardy’s mind that Jaans might be Esme’s pimp as well as her attorney. Hardy didn’t have any moral problem about prosecuting pimps. He hated pimps.

‘I guess the basic problem here is the priors,’ Hardy said. ‘Esme doesn’t seem to be getting the message.’

Jaans leaned onto the back legs of the chair across from Hardy’s desk. He pulled the cuff of his pants down over the distracting garter. The lawyer had a broad, elastic, dark black face, high forehead, aquiline nose, straight hair starting to go a little gray. There was still a trace of a rogue British accent from somewhere.

‘She’s a working girl, Mr Hardy, and you and I both know that you can arrest her every other day and she’s still going to go on the street when she’s out.’

‘Not if she’s in jail she won’t.’

Jaans rolled his eyes, but quickly, deciding against too much histrionics. ‘In jail?’

‘We’ve got felony grand theft here. Four hundred and sixteen dollars. That’s jail.’

Jaans leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. ‘Mr Hardy, you and I know that no judge wants this kind of rap going to trial. Clogs the docket horrible. It also ties up your vice witness for the better part of a day or two, gets him off the street and what good is he doing? You start taking all these people to trial… well, you know this as well as I do.’

Hardy was getting a little tired of the civics lesson. He shuffled the folder in front of him, pretended to be reading. ‘The offer,’ he said, ‘is felony probation, ninety days in jail or a five-thousand-dollar fine.’

‘Are you serious?’

Hardy nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘Is there some new policy going down?’

Hardy shook his head.

‘Where’s my client going to get five thousand dollars? Do you think she’s going to go out and get a job typing somewhere? Managing a McDonald’s? She won’t do that. She has no skills, Mr Hardy. You know what she’ll do, don’t you? She’ll have to be on her back for a month to make that kind of money. Do you want that?’

‘I’m sure her pimp could get her that money in two and a half seconds. But she’s not talking about her pimp. She says she doesn’t have a pimp. So, I ask myself, how can we get a handle on this pimp, close up his shop?’

Jaans took a breath. ‘You know, Mr Hardy, some of these pimps are not nice men, I grant you, but they do provide protection for their girls, abortions if they need them, that kind of thing.’

‘They’re keeping their assets productive, that’s all. Simple business.’

‘You know how long a lone girl on the street is going to last?’

‘You’re telling me that pimps are solid citizens, is that it?’

Jaans turned his palms up. ‘They provide a service.’

Hardy leaned forward, fingers laced, elbows on his desk. ‘What they do, Mr Jaans, what pimps do,’ he paused, ‘as you and I both know, is take these ignorant, poor, sad, really helpless women and keep them degraded, stoned, and on their backs until their looks go at twenty-five. After which their life span, due to needles and disease and just generally getting the shit beaten out of them, is about six months.’ Hardy took a breath, calming himself down. ‘So maybe this five thousand will make Esme decide to give up her pimp, and then maybe I can have a little fun.’

Jaans nodded. He uncrossed his legs, stood up and reached his hand over the desk. Hardy, surprised, got up himself, hesitated, then decided to take it. ‘I’ll convey your offer to my client,’ Jaans said.