Dismas Hardy, Abe's pal, was informing whoever the caller might be that he and his family had gone away for the weekend to Ashland, Oregon, for the Shakespeare Festival, where they would not have access to a telephone. Would the caller please call back after next Monday?

He remembered – the Glitskys and the Hardys had gone up to Ashland together two of the past four years. Camping (that dirty word). Frannie, Hardy's wife, had even begged Abe to bring the boys and come up with them this year. But, somehow, without Flo, Abe hadn't felt right about it. Ashland had been more Flo's thing, he'd told Frannie, although that wasn't really true. Glitsky loved Shakespeare, theatre, had even taken a shot at opera and found it fascinating. He took a lot of grief at work about this stuff – these were supposedly non-cop interests – but he was comfortable with them, with who he was.

Nevertheless, he'd told Frannie they couldn't make this year. So the Hardys were up in Ashland now and he was here in a burning city losing rules committee meetings with his children even after he'd rigged them all to go his way.

Glitsky left his usual terse message on Hardy's machine, then forced himself up, back through the kitchen. Everybody was in the larger bedroom of the two younger brothers, watching the other television, some inanity with a laugh track. Isaac and Jacob were sprawled across the floor. Orel slept open-mouthed, leaning against a sleeping Rita.

'Hey, guys,' he said, and the older boys glanced and said, 'hey,' waiting, resenting the intrusion.

'Nothing. Just checking in.'

They shrugged and went back to the program and Glitsky gave up the effort of making an effort and headed for his bedroom, falling across the bed with his clothes on.

Isaac was shaking him. 'Dad! Dad! Come on!'

He forced an eye – it weighed the proverbial sixteen tons. 'What?'

'The phone.' His son seemed truly concerned over his lack of response.

'Phone didn't ring, Ike.' Glitsky didn't hear the phone, and it was right next to his bed. He always heard the phone. It was his primary wake-up medium. He rolled over again, closed his eyes. He was nearly back asleep.

'Dad!'

God, why wouldn't the kid let it rest? 'What?'

'The phone. Some emergency. They need you. Some senator or something.'

That got through. A shiver of adrenaline got him up, his son handing him the receiver. 'Glitsky,' he said.

He listened a minute. It was Marcel Lanier, pulling a late one. He needed his boss downtown. Immediately or sooner. All hell was breaking loose again. Chris Locke, the district attorney, had been shot. Killed. Someone in another mob. Senator Wager, who was in the same car, had barely escaped herself. She was down at the Hall now, in shock, waiting in one of the interview rooms, asking for Glitsky himself.

Glitsky put a hand to his throbbing head. 'Lord.'

Isaac was still standing there, watching him. 'What, Dad? What?'

Into the phone. 'I'll be right down, Marcel. See if there's a black-and-white nearby, send them here to pick me up. Call me back if you can't.'

The connection went. Abe laid the receiver back down and noticed Isaac striking an I-don't-believe-this pose. The boy said, 'You're not goin' out again?'

Glitsky swung off the bed. 'Got to.' But he softened his voice, reaching a hand to bring the boy nearer, give him a little physical contact. Isaac ducked again, glaring.

'What are we supposed to do now, Dad? When are you coming home?'

Glitsky checked his watch. A little after ten. He must have hit the bed and died. He wondered what time Locke… then it struck him again.

Jesus. Chris Locke dead.

Isaac was still glaring, breathing hard with emotion. Glitsky's mind was racing, covering too much territory, losing track of where he was. He tried to focus on his son. 'I'm sorry, Ike, what?'

Isaac's eyes filled with tears, then fury. Swiping at his eyes, he turned, swore and ran from the room.

'Isaac!'

Glitsky was up, following, but before he'd gotten out of the room he heard Isaac's door slam on the other side of the house. Rita, hair tousled, wrinkled smock askew, rudely pulled out of her own sleep, faced him in the doorway to the kitchen. 'I've got to go out again,' he said. 'Please keep them inside, I don't care what they say or how you do it.'

She was shaking her head, a deep frown creasing her face. 'I don't know, Abe. Orel, I can keep him, but the other boys…' She motioned back with her head. 'What do I tell them?'

She was right and that, too, was terrifying. Beyond any consideration of the disorder out in the streets, the realization suddenly that the older boys were old enough – they could just disobey and walk out and Rita would be powerless to stop them.

He nodded. 'I'll tell them.' And they'd either obey him or go out into the streets. Authority – he either had it or he didn't. He was going to find out.

He gave Rita a weak smile and walked past her toward the back bedrooms.

Another Irish bar – the Little Shamrock, oldest one in the city – on a slow Wednesday night. Nobody out at all. Streets dark. Curfew in half the town and the rest content to stay indoors, which was probably smart.

Wes should be in himself. Probably would head back after a couple more, but this was pleasant, sitting here. These Sambucas kind of put him in mind of his days in Italy when he'd been an exchange student, nights under the stars with Lydia, back when she'd loved him.

Sambuca Romana. Pretty much the same stuff as Pernod, or ouzo in Greece, which they drank with ice all over Europe, the clear stuff turning milky with the ice and water. Here, he'd asked Moses McGuire to put the Sambuca on ice and got a full second of hesitation before he'd said okay.

McGuire was around the same age as Wes, a simpatico guy, if a bit of a purist around his drinks. That was all right. Wes considered himself a kind of purist, too, regarding his drinking. If it didn't have alcohol in it, he didn't drink it. So there was a bond there.

He smiled, took another sip, watching the television, which normally wasn't turned on in this bar. But tonight was real slow, and it was just Wes and a couple of hardcore darts players and McGuire, bartending. Besides, since last night every television in the country was going full time. He didn't blame McGuire. The country was coming apart and everybody wanted to see it live on five.

Wes had missed the opening volleys, the lynching, the first riots, the fires, Kevin's problem. He'd slept in (as he did every morning). Last night he'd been out in North Beach, did a little Brasilia Club cha-cha and tango and the parts he remembered had been fun. He woke up at home on the futon in the living room, his brain, by the feel of it, about two sizes too large for his skull.

He'd had some vodka and orange juice. Not too much vodka – a little hair of the dog was all. And then Kevin had called him before he'd even read the paper, which he still did out of some perverse sense that something might happen that might make a difference or that made sense. About four months ago he had made the decision that he wouldn't cut his hair again until something made sense – the mane had reached his shoulders, graying but still thick on top. He sported a ponytail from time to time, but mostly let it hang free, as it did tonight.

When Kevin hadn't shown up after an hour's wait at the church at USF, Wes drove out through Golden Gate Park, had a Foster's Lager, then took a nap in the Shakespeare Garden, getting away from the tent cities they seemed to be erecting in any area bigger than a softball field. He then treated himself to a piroshki dinner at a fast-food place on 9th before finally putting in his appearance at the Shamrock a little before seven. He was riding a slow buzz, wearing a T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting khaki shorts, which now that the fog had descended was decidedly the wrong attire. He would freeze his nuts getting home, if he wound up staying unlucky and going home after all. The T-shirt said 'Ask Somebody Who Cares.'