The Mercy Rule

‘You’re probably right,’ Hardy said.

After Graham left, he tried calling Jea

It wasn’t his night. He was going home.

When he opened the door to his house, it was almost eerily silent and he listened for a minute, then called out. ‘Fra

Furtive noises from the back of the house. ‘Fra

In seconds he was in the kitchen. ‘Anybody here?’

Muffled giggling – at least recognizable as benign – from farther back. He walked through the master bedroom and into Vincent’s, which had been transformed into an impenetrable maze of blankets, pillows, ropes strung from bed to chairs to bookshelves. He lifted up one of the blankets and looked under. ‘Hey, guys.’

Rebecca held a finger to her lips. ‘Shh!’

‘Where’s Mom?’ he whispered.

‘I don’t know. Shh!’

This was not Hardy’s favorite answer, but since a game was obviously in progress he didn’t want to be a spoilsport, so he stood up and turned around.

‘Mr Hardy? Hi.’

It took him a moment. This was Mary, their baby-sitter, having come out of hiding from wherever. What was she doing here? ‘I’s Fra

The girl’s face was all confusion. ‘I guess so. Weren’t you meeting her someplace? That’s what she said.’

It was all coming back to him. It was Wednesday night. Date Night. He was picking Fra

He looked at his watch – seven-twenty – and gave Mary an apologetic grin. ‘Sorry to break in on you like this. My brain’s turned to mush. I’ve got to use the phone.’

They were at Stagnola’s. Hardy and Fra

He also felt like he’d traveled a hundred miles in the past three-plus hours – from the Hall of Justice to the fire department main office, back to the Chronicle. Then the jog to the Federal Building and back. His office. Driving his own car all the way across town to his home in the Avenues, almost to the beach. Now halfway back downtown to the Shamrock to meet the long-suffering Fra

Until at last he was settled at his table, Chianti poured, tucking into an antipasto plate – pepperoncini, salami, mortadella, provolone, artichoke hearts, olives, caponata. Hot sourdough rolls by the basket. Heaven.

She’d given him several rations of grief since he’d finally arrived to pick her up. ‘No, I understand, lots of times I’ll get caught up in things around the house and forget that you exist too. Then I’ll snap my fingers and go, “Oh, that’s right, Dismas.” ’ Et cetera.

Since Hardy felt he basically deserved it, he’d let her go on. Except now it had all wound down, she was holding his hand over the table, glad they were together. He had to tell her, bounce it off her, see where he didn’t have it right.

She listened carefully, then went another way. ‘I think you should turn it over to the police.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘Whatever you’ve got. Let them go with it. Give it to Abe. This is what he does, Dismas.’

But Hardy was shaking his head. ‘No, it’s not. He’s got to have a murder, a case.’

‘How about Sal Russo? Doesn’t he count?’

‘Sure, he counts. But I don’t have any proof of anything that would get him involved. All I’ve got is this hose-and-ladder belt, a fire in this place eighteen years ago, a dead fireman who might or might not have been at this fire.’

‘And fifty thousand dollars.’

‘So what? Nobody stole that from Sal, as a matter of fact. He had it when he died. Or Graham did, which is the same thing.’

Fra

A nod. ‘They’ve got to be. I’ve just got to find out where a few things co

‘Just.’

He shrugged.

‘All I’m saying is you might want to run it by Abe. Have him look up this Palmieri, call the woman in Eureka-’

‘Hassle a sitting federal judge.’ He knew Abe, knew he didn’t have enough. ‘Abe won’t do it, not yet, maybe not ever.’

Fra

But he didn’t yet think it was Giotti. Or rather, he didn’t want to think it was Giotti, although he was convinced that the judge had some information that would move things along. Information that, whether he knew it or not, he’d somehow kept out of Hardy’s scrutiny. That’s all he needed – to talk to him.

The waiter had earlier introduced himself as Mauritio. He was one of those personable, talk-your-ear-off, swarthy and handsome older men in a tuxedo that you’re either in the mood for or not. Now he came up to ask them about their di

Hardy broke his most disarming smile, squeezed Fra

‘Oh, yeah. They’re in here a couple of times a week for lunch, he and his wife. You a friend of the judge’s’ – he pointed at the Chianti – ’that bottle’s on the house.‘

‘I don’t know if he’d call me a friend. I’m a lawyer. But he’s a good judge. He raves about the food here.’ Hardy motioned down at his empty plate. ‘This antipasto, he’s right. He’s a great guy.’

‘The best,’ Mauritio replied.

‘Did I hear this place used to be in his family?’

‘Yeah. Long time ago. Used to be Giotti’s Grotto.’ Mauritio’s tired face took on a little more life. ‘Believe it or not, I used to bus tables back then.’

Hardy shamelessly flattered the man. ‘Before they had child labor laws?’ Fra

Mauritio’s brow darkened briefly, but cleared when Hardy explained that he was the lawyer who’d gotten Sal’s son off.

‘Well, damn,’ Mauritio said, ‘that bottle is on us. That was good work. Poor Sal. Pray to God my son could do what his son did, I ever need it. What’s your name again?’

They went through the introductions. Then Hardy asked if Sal had been around during the Grotto years.

‘Oh, yeah. He and the judge, they were like this.’ Two fingers together. ‘Salmon Sal.’ A shake of the head, a wistful tone. ‘What happened to him, huh? But at least it was over fast. Any more time on the street, something worse might have happened.’

Hardy shot a look at his wife, went back to Mauritio. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, you know, at the end, the last few months, the guy was a real pain. Last time I snuck him a lunch here, back in the kitchen, he wound up wanting to fight me over some bet we must have made twenty years ago. I didn’t even remember it, something about Roberto Clemente, for Christ’s sake. So I break him the news that Roberto’s been gone awhile and suddenly he’s all over me, I owe him a large one, he’s go

‘It’s all right.’ Her brilliant smile. ‘If I hadn’t heard it before, I wouldn’t know what it meant, would I?’

Hardy figured Mauritio was halfway to abiding love for his wife. He was going on. ‘Anyway, the poor guy. He makes a scene, I kick him out, so he’s yelling at me by the back door, says he go