Truth to tell, I was now ravenous, said,

“Sure, long as I can have me some grits.”

He looked at me, asked,

“They do grits?”

“Get fucking real, Clint.”

I chilled for a few hours, the pills coasting me back to the land of hunger, near normality, and light. Moore sighed, said,

“I can see you’re improved, and it’s time we grabbed some chow.”

He was out the door, his boots echoing in the hall like a rumor that was only half understood. I caught up with him on the street, said,

“Tell you what, I’ll buy breakfast, see if you can open up a bit about Reardon.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

The GBC does the best fry-up.

Lots of neon cholesterol.

Runny eggs

Fat Clonakilty sausages.

Black pudding like the pope ordered (cross me heart)

Thick streaky rashers

And a pot of Barry’s tea like the childhood you never had. I ordered all of this for two and then, under the table, pushed the snub-nosed.38 to him, said,

“Think you mislaid this.”

He reached for his back, where I’d relieved him of it during my stumble. He was as close to impressed as a stone jackal got, asked,

“You learn that in the Guards?”

I waved at Frank Casserly, the chef, then said,

“I learned it on the streets.”

The tea and thick buttered toast arrived and he asked,

“So, want to know what you missed while you were. . away. . for five days?”

I had to focus, trying to measure how long it had been since Stewart. . since Stewart, said,

“The Olympics.”

He poured the strong tea, bit down on a hefty wedge of dripping toast, said,

“You guys got five medals, gold for the Taylor lass in boxing.”

Jesus.

“Really?”

“Yup, no shit, Sherlock, you guys can fight.”

The food arrived, freaking mountains of it. Moore said,

“Man, gonna flood some major arteries here.”

But he dug in, like he had a shovel rather than a fork. He said,

“Lots of folks bought the farm while you were AWOL.”

I felt the food lodge in my throat, spat,

“Besides my best friend?”

He shrugged, said,

“Yeah, well, condolences and all that good shit. Gore Vidal, Helen Gurley Brown, Ernest Borgnine.”

Like I could give a fuck.

I said,

“So you’re to babysit while I’m running on experimental meds.”

He was having a second mug of tea, seemed to be liking it, said,

“Reardon wants to ensure you don’t end up like your best bud.”

“I’m touched.”

He laughed, said,

“Hell, Taylor, you ain’t shit to shinola to him but Kelly, she seems to have some weird shine on you. Go figure, huh?”

I simply muttered,

“C33.”

He stopped,

Actually held his mug mid-frozen, asked,

“What did you say?”

I was about to tell about Westbury and he grabbed my arm, snarled,

“Not the whole fucking saga, the number, you said a number.”

“C33.”

He put the mug down, shaken, murmured,

“I’ll be fucking hog-tied.”

“What?”

“That’s the name of the pills-the crap you’re swallowing.”

I think that’s what they call a showstopper.

Jesus.

My mind racing to all sorts of scenarios.

. . Reardon was C33?

Playing at vigilantism like he fucked around with everything else. And what a perfect rat fuck, to dabble in serial killing. Just the kind of sick shit he’d relish. Would explain the initial letters to me. Reardon was stuck in every aspect of my life. Did Stewart surprise him and just happen to be collateral damage?

As my mind jumped through a maze, Moore stood up, said,

“Gotta go jam my head under some real cold water.”

The bill was on the table. I said,

“You picking up the tab?”

He grimaced, said,

“Been picking up the freight on you for five days, hoss. Time you paid some dues.”

He was heading out. I said,

“Moore?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me hoss again.”

27

Like most people raised on American movies, I have poor access to my emotions but can banter like a motherfucker.

— Josh Bazell, Wild Thing

Rumor is always more exciting than truth.

I was in Crowe’s pub on Prospect Hill, the borderline between that and Bohermore, probably the only true neighborhoods remaining in the city. Like in the awful theme from Cheers, people here did know your name.

Ollie Crowe was arranging a post party for the crowds attending Eamonn Deacy’s testimonial and a young guy near me was regaling his girl with a line from the new Joan Rivers biography.

Like this:

Joan Rivers’s mother asked the doctor, “Will the baby live?”

Meaning Joan.

“Not unless you take your foot off her throat.”

His girl looked at him, asked,

“Joan who?”

A guy staring at a pint of Guinness, as if he might find some answer, then looked at me, said,

“You hear about the new trend?”

Jesus, kidding or what?

Could be anything from The Rose of Tralee being fixed to Galway losing the minor semifinal.

It wasn’t.

He said,

“Mirror fasting.”

WTF?

I asked,

“What the fuck are you on about?”

He smirked, delighted to have that Irish prized possession, knowledge, especially knowledge you don’t have, said,

“Women are trying not to look in mirrors for certain amounts of time, as it only pressures them if they do it daily.”

I’d have laughed if my spirit wasn’t so overladen.

Ridge arrived looking. . forlorn. . but gorgeous. Dressed in black leather jacket, black jeans, boots, she could have passed for a mild dominatrix. I kept that to myself, asked,

“Get you something?”

Her eyes were on fire. I knew I’d be catching some sparks. She said,

“Your answer to everything, a drink.”

Spurred,

“Not really. I was just trying to inject some civility.”

She gave a bitter smile, said,

“Make a nice change.”

The guy who’d made the Joan Rivers joke leaned over, asked,

“That your wife?”

Shocking the be-Jaysus out of us equally, I said,

“God forbid.”

Said,

“Maybe a bit of mirror fasting, eh?”

Her face was a blend of bile and reined violence.

I did the real smart thing. I began to leave. Ridge in that bitch mode, head for the street, fast. She snapped,

“Where are you going?”

I turned, stared, said,

“The hell away from you, Sergeant.”

“Superintendent Clancy wants to talk to you, and I mean now.”

“Tell him I was doing my usual solving.”

“What?”

“You know, drinking.”

She grabbed my arm. I looked at that, said,

“Bad idea.”

She let go, asked,

“Please?”

Ground it out between her teeth. I smiled, said,

“See, not so hard. Let’s go see the super.”

Clancy and I had such bad history, we nigh forgot most of the reasons he hated me. Dressed in his full True Blues, he cut an impressive figure, at least he thought so. I asked,

“Been watching Tom Selleck, I guess.”

He surveyed me, not much liking a single thing he saw, said,

“This C33 nonsense you’re spreading has got to stop.”

I sighed, then,

“Best tell that to C33 is my shot.”

He shuffled some papers, said,

“You might remember I told you we were investigating some cold cases.”

Let me savor that. He’d threatened to show my beloved dad had stolen funds from the railway pension fund. Destroy any decency our fragmented family weakly held. Now he let me see which way I wanted to jump.

As if I’d a whole load of choice. I asked,

“And for. . the. . um. . railway case not to be a priority, so to speak?”

He smiled, a thing of pure ugliness, said,

“I’m surmising your interest in C33 is. . waning.”

I asked,

“Who’s C33?”

He leaned back in his full leather chair, said,