"Could you tell us what you were doing at about ten-thirty that night, the time that Mr. Mullen died?"

"I was in an upstairs den on the phone," said Neubauer, without hesitation. "This I remember very well."

Nadia Alper tilted her head in surprise. So did Mack and I.

"Is there a reason, Mr. Neubauer, why you remember a phone call so vividly yet have no recollection about a fight with your wife?"

Nothing seemed to shake Barry Neubauer. "For one thing, it was a very long call, a little more than an hour. I even remember feeling very guilty about being away from our guests for so long."

"He's just a goddamned caring human being," said Macklin under his breath.

"Do you have any proof of the call?"

"Yes, I've brought a copy of the phone bill. It shows a seventy-four-minute call from three past ten to eleven-seventeen p.m." Neubauer passed the record to Alper.

"Could you tell us who you were talking to, Mr. Neubauer?" asked Alper.

When Neubauer hesitated slightly, Montrose barked, "Objection."

Both attorneys looked toward Lillian.

"Overruled," said the judge. "Please answer the question."

"Robert Crassweller Junior," said Neubauer. The slightest trace of a smile crossed his lips. "The attorney general of the United States," he said.

This final answer drained whatever energy and tension remained in the courtroom. Some spectators got up and left, as if this was an Islander game and the fat lady had just sung. Barry Neubauer's eyes casually roamed the audience. When he found me, he offered up a lazy smile. Amateur hour is over, boys.

After a few more questions, Nadia Alper excused Neubauer. Then both lawyers informed the court that they had presented their list of witnesses.

Judge Lillian made a show of adjusting his robes before somberly addressing the court.

"Normally," said Lillian, "I would withhold my decision until the morning. In this case, however, I can't think of anything that requires further reflection. It is the finding of this inquiry court that on May twenty-ninth, Peter Mullen drowned by accident or suicide. This inquest is now completed, and this court adjourned."

THE COURT ADJOURNED at about 4:40. When I got to the Shagwong, it was five on the nose. I took a seat at the end of the bar and asked Mike to pour out six shots of Jameson.

Without raising an eyebrow, he grabbed two handfuls of glasses and, with practiced precision, lined them up and filled them to the rims.

"They're on me," he said.

"I would have asked for seven, then," I told him. I smiled for the first time that day.

Mike put down a seventh and filled it also.

"I was joking."

"Me, too."

As Mike laid out my full course of Irish medicine, I saw again that smug little smile Montrose flashed me on his way out of the courtroom. It showed more disgust than joy. Why, he seemed to be asking, was I the only one in the room who couldn't understand that justice is neither a mystery nor a crapshoot, but a major purchase? Spend your money thoughtfully and secretly, you walk free. That was the way it was in America these days. Who knows? Maybe it had always been that way.

Over the next hour and a half to two hours, I steadily worked from left to right. I tossed back shots for each bought witness in the parade of perjurers. I lifted a glass to Tricia Powell, no doubt the Mayflower Employee of the Month, and another for the good Dr. Jacobson, the coroner magician from Los Angeles. Or as Mack described him, "a whore with a resume."

My old honey Dana rated two shots of Jameson. The first for coming all the way back from Europe just because she missed me. The second for her Oscar-worthy performance that afternoon.

Hardly acknowledging anyone around me, I sipped and stewed until my level of numbness nudged ahead of my rage. I think that happened somewhere around my second Dana shot, my fourth in forty minutes.

Although I'm probably not the most reliable witness, I recall that Fenton and Hank came up and each threw an arm around me but, sensing I wasn't up for a group hug, soon left me to my self-medicating. They were just trying to do the right thing.

When I put in my order I'd counted on a toast for Jane Davis, but by the time her turn came, I was more worried about her than angry. On the way back from the bathroom, I stopped at the pay phone and left a slightly incoherent message on her machine.

"It's not your fault, Jane," I shouted over the din, "it's mine. I never should have gotten you into this mess."

That was when I saw none other than Frank Volpi. He was standing in back, waiting for me to get off the phone. "Congratulations, asshole," he said. Then he grinned and walked away before I could get off a shot.

Back at the bar, I toasted Frank. He'd been there for us from the start, and his performance had been flawless. "Volpi," I said, and drank.

Numero six was for Barry Neubauer himself. The river of whiskey had opened up my poetic side, and I came up with a couplet for the occasion. Barry Neubauer, scumbag of the hour.

That was meant to be my last, but thanks to Mike, I had one glistening silver bullet left. I was afraid I was going to have to drink to something vague and amorphous like the System. Then I thought of Attorney General Robert Crassweller Jr. Even I had to hand it to Montrose for the way he set up the big punch line with his phony objection. What panache. He had played Nadia Alper like a Stradivarius. What class! What a winner!

After the last toast, the vertical and horizontal on my picture started to wander. In fact, the whole room was spinning. I treated the problem with a couple of beers. Hair of the dog. Then I made a few attempts to leave Mike a forty-dollar tip. He kept stuffing it back in my shirt pocket until I finally stumbled out the door.

Two blocks later I stopped at a pay phone and called Jane again. That awful look on her face wouldn't go away. I was planning to leave a slightly more intelligible version of my first message when she answered.

"Its okay, Jane," I said.

"No, it's not okay. Jesus, Jack. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. They came to my house."

"It wouldn't have made an iota of difference."

"So what!" She sounded hysterical.

Four weekenders walked by and got into a Saab convertible. "Jane, you've got to swear to me you won't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry. But there's something I have to tell you. I didn't before, because I didn't see the point. When I did all those tests on Peter, I also did blood tests. Jack, your brother was HIV-positive."

THE TWO-MILE WALK and the ocean air did me a world of good. By the time I passed the parking lot for Ditch Plains Beach and cut across my damp lawn, I was close to sober again.

It's something I'll always be grateful for. Sitting on the porch and leaning back against the front door in one of my old tattered sweaters was Pauline.

It was about 10:30. The street and lawn were enveloped in a light ocean mist. It's a weird analogy, and I have no idea why I thought of it, but seeing Pauline blocking my path to the door brought to mind Gary Cooper waiting patiently in the street in High Noon. Something about her stillness and her "here I am, what are you going to do about it?" smile.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Pauline."

"You, too, Jack. I watched from the back of the gym today. Then I drove all the way back to the city. Then I drove all the way back out here. Crazy, huh? Don't try to deny it."

"Did you do something awful that made Macklin kick you out of the house?"

"No."

"You just wanted some fresh air?"

"No."

"Am I getting warm?"

"No."

Most no's aren't too good, but these were about as good as no's could be. I sat on the cool flagstone and leaned back against the red wooden door of our house. I touched Pauline's arm. It felt electric against mine. She took my hand in hers, and my mouth went dry.