"Well, shit," Bobby said with some surprise.

"You're right."

So Bobby had a beer. First from Walt, who had to congratulate him on a job well done.

"I heard it straight from the horse's mouth-Lieutenant Jachrimo himself. You did what you had to do. And through glass no less. Shit, Bobby, that's some serious shooting."

Then Donny, also BPD, wanted in on the glory. He refreshed Bobby's drink and contributed his own two cents.

"Just goes to show, money doesn't buy happiness. Walt, how many times have we been out to that place? Three, four, five? We're just sorry we missed the party."

It occurred to Bobby for the first time that both Walt and Donny were also part of Boston 's SWAT.

"How'd it play in Revere?" he asked.

"Same old, same old," Donny said.

"Guy shot up the roof of his own house. Drank a six-pack. Shot up his house some more, and then, just when the LT was getting really pissed off at the lack of progress, passed out cold. We went in and wrapped him up tight while he snored. Kind of boring really. We didn't even get to yell."

"But you've been to Back Bay?"

"Sure, Jimmy and his lady liked to spark the fireworks. He'd get drunk, she'd get mad, and off they'd go."

"He beat her?"

Donny shrugged.

"We never saw and she never said. They're not the ones who called it in anyway. It was always the neighbors who complained."

"Didn't like fighting in their neighborhood?"

"Jimmy liked to throw things," Walt said.

"Once he hurled a chair off the balcony and onto his neighbor's Volvo. The neighbors really didn't like that."

"When you were called out, what'd you do?" "Not much. Couple of uniforms would go by, talk to the happy couple. I caught the call once. Jimmy apologized and, being of a generous sort, offered me a beer. The wife never said much of anything. Cold fish, if you ask me, though maybe if you're married to a guy like Jimmy, you learn to keep your mouth shut."

"He was violent?"

"Time I was there, I saw a hole punched through the wall," Walt said.

"Wife didn't say anything, but it looked to me the exact same size as a man's fist."

"And the kid?"

"Never saw him. I think they had a nanny. Probably better for the kid."

Bobby's second beer was getting low. Donny flagged Gary down for a refill and Bobby didn't complain.

"You'd think a judge's son would know better," he said tersely.

Walt shrugged.

"Way I hear it, Jimmy gets in a little trouble and the judge makes a little call, and it all goes away. If only we were all so lucky."

"Didn't go away this time," Bobby said sharply.

"Nope. Fine piece of shooting, Bobby. Honestly, if it wasn't for you, that wife and kid would probably be dead right now. That was some really serious shit."

More guys were coming up. Someone clapped him on the back. Someone else bought him another beer. Bobby could no longer feel the rim of the glass coming to his lips. He was aware of sliding a little, disappearing into a vortex inside the loud, overheated bar. But at the same time, he was hyperaware-of the guys who didn't come up to him, of the eyes that peered at him from across the room, of the way some people looked over, saw his face, then quickly shook their heads.

And now he noticed something he hadn't before: the way both Walt and Donny regarded him. With respect, yeah, and awe, maybe, but also with genuine pity.

"Cause he was a cop who'd killed a man. And at the end of the day, it probably didn't matter what the DA's office finally ruled or what the department issued as its official finding. They were living in the media age, and in the media age, cops didn't get to fire their weapons. Cops were honored if they got themselves killed in the line of duty, but they were never supposed to draw their guns, not even in self-defense.

Another beer arrived. Bobby picked up the glass. He was well on his way to being completely, shit-faced drunk, when his LT found him and gave him the news.

Jesus shitting bricks. What the hell are you doing, Bobby? Half this city is watching you and you go and get drunk?"

Lieutenant Bruni was dragging him around the corner from the tavern. He had one finger crooked around the collar of Bobby's jacket and was literally pulling him down the street.

"Not… on the… clock," Bobby managed to slur out. Christ, it was cold outside. The raw November night slapped him across the face, making him blink owlishly.

"Camera crews are coming. Someone leaked to the goddamn press that you were holding court in a pub. But by God, you must have a guardian angel somewhere, because the chatter got picked up on the scanner and I was sent to bail you out. Bobby, listen to me."

Lieutenant Bruni suddenly jerked to a halt. He was panting, his breath coming in frosty clouds that floated across Bobby's vision. He had both hands on Bobby's collar, shaking him.

"Bobby, you're in trouble."

"No… shit."

"Listen to me, Bobby. Today's been a busy day downtown. Judge Gagnon is not happy his son is dead, and he's not about to listen to reason or circumstance. The judge is gunning for revenge, Bobby, and he's got you in his sights."

Bobby couldn't think of anything to say. The world was swimming around him. Air cold upon his cheeks. The stench of beer ripe in his nostrils. He needed to shower. Christ, he needed to sleep.

Thank you, the woman had said. Thank you.

And then it came to him: What a fucking bitch! Thank him? She shouldn't be thanking him. She should've left her drunken husband years ago. Or she should've said something to calm the man an hour earlier. Or never let go of her son. Or never taunted her husband in such a way to make him smile that cold, vengeful smile. She'd been the one in that room talking to Jimmy. She should've done a million and a half things differently, so Bobby would never have had to pull the trigger. So Bobby would never have had to kill a man and ruin his own goddamn life. So Bobby wouldn't be here now, drunk and exhausted and ashamed. What the hell kind of man killed a guy in front of his own kid anyway? Oh God, what had he done?

The bitch, the bitch, the bitch.

He pulled away from his lieutenant. He walked in small, random circles, still feeling crazy with rage. He wanted to take a bat and smash every fucking window in every fucking car on this street. And then he'd take a tire iron to every door and a blade to every tire. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted… Oh Christ, he couldn't breathe. His chest had locked up. His lips were open, gasping, but nothing was coming, no air would draw in. He was having another heart attack. He was dying in South Boston because it was November and he'd always known it would happen like that. The summer was safe, fall not too bad, but November… November was a killer month. Shit, shit, shit.

"Head between your knees. Come on, Bobby. Bend over, deep breath. You can do it. Just concentrate on the sound of my voice."

Bobby felt hands on his shoulders, hands forcing his head down. Stars were building in front of his eyes, brilliant white spots blooming in a sea of black. The stars would burst soon, fade away, and then there'd be only the black, rushing to greet him.

Then, as quickly as it started, his chest unlocked, his compressed lungs suddenly gasped to life and inhaled a rush of oxygen. He staggered into the middle of the street, barely missed a passing car, and gulped a deep lungful of icy night air.

Bruni was still beside him, dragging him out of the traffic and talking low and fast.

"Pay attention to me, Bobby. Pull yourself together and pay attention."

Bobby found a streetlight to cling to. He wrapped his arms and legs around the cold metal. Then he hung his head and fought to get a grip.

"All right," he said.

"I'm together."

Bruni looked skeptical, but he grunted in acquiescence.