Her father pulled at the jumpsuit. ‘Don’t you think the outfit’s a little conspicuous?’

‘Goddamn it,’ Jane said. ‘Will you two cut it out.’

‘You’re right, I’ll have to think of something else.’

The judge got serious. ‘You’d really do something? Why?’

Hardy shrugged. ‘At least until one of Freeman’s wonders shows up. At least you’d be represented. I could pass it off after you decided who you wanted.’ Hardy straightened in his chair. ‘Not to mention, I wouldn’t mind getting in the face of a few of these people here -they seem to have pissed me off.’

‘Can you get him out tonight, Dismas? On bail or something?’ Jane looked at her father. ‘You cannot stay here overnight.’

Fowler reached out and patted her hand. ‘It’s all right, honey. I spent a night in jail once before – voluntarily, I admit – and it wasn’t so bad. I wanted to see what we were putting people through. I’ll survive, I promise you. Besides, I might as well get used to it. It could be longer than that if bail is denied.’

‘They couldn’t do that!’

Her father and Hardy shared a glance. The guard outside the door gave a knock.

‘I’ll call Freeman, keep him on it,’ Hardy said. ‘And I’ll be there tomorrow… You sure you want me representing you, even temporarily?’

Andy appeared, for really the first time, to consider it. ‘Maybe more than that.’

‘Why, Andy?’

The judge looked around the tiny room, then at his daughter, as though looking for verification of something.

He knew he’d written Hardy off too easily before, when he thought he had betrayed his trust. There had been a mistake. He knew Hardy and he hadn’t blown any whistle on Andy Fowler. Hardy didn’t betray trusts and he didn’t give up. ‘The devil you know?’ he said, smiling.

He left Jane at the fourth floor. Getting out of the elevator, he walked down the hallway and turned into Homicide. If Glitsky was in maybe they could stop in at Lou’s for old times’ sake. But he wasn’t around. Hardy leaned over his desk and was writing him a note when he heard some heels on the tiles and looked up.

Pullios stopped in the door.

‘Hi, Bets,’ Hardy said. ‘Getting any… exciting cases?’

Her smile was glacial. ‘How are you, Dismas?’

‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’m writing my memoirs.’

She didn’t react. Her eyes searched the back of the open room. ‘Anybody seen Lanier?’ she asked. One of the guys said he thought he was downstairs having some coffee with a witness. She came back to Hardy. ‘Well, take care of yourself.’

She started to turn and Hardy spoke. ‘I hear Judge Fowler’s been arrested.’

She stopped. ‘My, news travels fast.’

‘Tribal drums. We’re kind of family.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s right.’

‘You really think he killed Owen Nash?’

‘The grand jury thought there was enough evidence to issue the indictment.’

Hardy folded his arms, leaning back against Glitsky’s desk. ‘I have it on good authority that if the D.A. wanted, the grand jury would indict a ham sandwich.’

Pullios nodded. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you.’

Hardy caught up with her out in the hallway. He turned conversational. ‘I guess there’s some new evidence, huh?’

Pullios stopped. ‘Are you representing Fowler?’

‘I’m merely a curious citizen who wonders what you’ve got new since Shinn?’

‘Quite a bit. I’m sure it’ll be in the newspaper.’

She started walking again.

Hardy found himself planted to the floor with roots of rage. It just came up over him. His stomach turned over and he heard his blood pulsing in his ears.

Don’t do it, he told himself. Don’t say any more. Don’t chase her through the halls. Nothing to be gained.

He watched her elegant figure disappear around the corner of the elevator lobby. Where had the air gone? Feeling as though he’d stopped breathing, he sucked a strained lungful. He needed a drink.

Or four. Or five.

On top of the three Guinnesses he had had before Jane had arrived at the Shamrock. He had the first couple of Irish whiskeys at Lou’s, but then the guys started showing up. Guys that knew him, that wanted to know what he was doing, how he was getting along.

Yeah, he was busy, working on stuff, was looking into opening a second bar maybe, even a restaurant. No, he didn’t want to go into private practice, wind up defending a bunch of scum.

Leaving Lou’s, he remembered that he had forgotten to call David Freeman. He’d call him from the next place. And Frannie too. He couldn’t forget to call Frannie. She would worry. She’d been worried for a couple of months now – worried about him, about them, their future, their baby, the pregnancy. Everything. Their wavelengths had ceased to coincide somehow. It worried him too, made him doubt himself. Sometimes he thought it was making him sick. Drinking seemed to cure it.

Entertaining the possibility that he should cut down on his intake, and forgetting his own oft-uttered advice that beer on whiskey was mighty risky, he stopped at a place down Seventh Street and ordered a Rainier Ale. The bar didn’t have a pay phone.

He brought the bottle of green death over to a small table next to the door and stared up at the television screen broadcasting the evening news. The financier, the judge and the prostitute again. He moved to the other side of the table, where he didn’t have to look at the damned set. White noise.

They’d enjoyed the vacation. The two weeks had been good for them. They’d come back refreshed, reinvigo-rated, reconnected. They’d purposely put off discussing his career plans – there would be plenty of time for that. Instead, they talked about babies and childbirth, about whether Moses and Susan were an item, about food and their past lives – Eddie and Jane. And if they should move to a bigger house before or after the next child came along.

Hardy had run daily on the beach. A couple of days of rum drinks, then he’d surprised himself by going on the wagon for the rest of the trip. He was tan and lean and liked it.

Then, the first week home, catching up with Abe about Owen Nash and May Shinn and Andy Fowler. Cleaning out some tanks at the Steinhart with Pico. Pouring a few shifts at the Shamrock to keep his hand in.

At first it was a nagging unease, a touch of insomnia. He hadn’t wanted to admit how much he’d invested, how great had been the risk, when he’d given up bartending right after Christmas to go back to the law. But now, in the long and formless days stretching before him, he was starting to come to the numbing realization that he’d failed in one of the fundamental decisions of his life.

He’d been fired. His services were not wanted. It wasn’t that the people he worked for were so honorable or talented or better at their jobs than he was, at least he didn’t think so, but the fact that he’d been judged by those people and found unacceptably wanting. Never mind their standards. He was out, they were in.

It got to him. He found himself internalizing the rejection. More, he couldn’t seem to get it out of him. Who was he at forty, anyway? A castoff, a reject. He had told Frannie what the hell, he didn’t want to be underfoot all day, he’d go out and interview a few places, get some work, try to get some feeling back that he was doing something worthwhile – that maybe he was worthwhile.

People were nice. Men and women – lawyers and office managers – in business suits like he was wearing. But they didn’t hire him. They’d call him back, it was just a slow time. Maybe he could try the public defenders.

He thought he was a logical man, and logic was telling him that in terms of the marketplace, he was worthless.

Well, shit, he wasn’t going to accept that. He’d lived a pretty good life, thank you, and it damn sure wasn’t over yet. The hell with the rest of you.