A Certain Justice

'It worries you…?' Glitsky barked a laugh, cut short.

'I know, I know, it worries you, too. Hey, who doesn't worry a little? And you, since Flo – '

'It's not me.' His voice was sharp. 'It's not my fault this is going on here. And it's not about Flo. It's me and them. Flo's not part of this.'

Nat put a hand on his son's knee. 'Flo is the whole thing, Abraham. Don't be kidding yourself.'

'That's bullshit, Dad.' Then, more strongly. 'That's pure bullshit!' He swatted the hand away, standing, striding across to the window, breathing hard, his face set.

'I think this is the first time you swear at your old man, huh?'

Abe tried to focus on his sons, the game outside. They were doing precision drills, the two older boys taking rebounds and feeding lay-up shots in to Orel. The patter was barely audible, though clearly loose and playful. 'I can't lose any more, Dad. I can't.'

Again, Nat crossed the room to his son. He stood behind Abe, much shorter, seeing the boys outside. 'We ca

Glitsky turned. 'All right, but what if-?'

Nat cut him off. 'That is what you are thinking and it doesn't mean anything.' Putting a hand on his son's arm, he went on. 'Abraham, think. What if they are locked in at home all day and someone decides to start a fire on your street? This is not in your control, none of this. There is nothing you can do here except second guess yourself to death. Let me take them. We go have some fun, come back when this is over.'

Glitsky's shoulders slumped as he let himself down onto the corner of the desk. 'When's life going to start feeling real again, Dad? I don't know what the hell I'm doing.'

'I know. When Emma… well, you remember.'

'You never changed.'

A short laugh. 'Abraham, I don't think I ever changed back. What I tried not to do was change how I treated you, how I acted. I kept up the motions, the habits, so how I was feeling wouldn't affect you, that's all. You had lost your mother. That was enough for you to deal with.'

Glitsky motioned outside. 'Like them now. That's the message, right?'

His father nodded. 'There are similarities. So now, you do your job, you keep at it, things get to feel normal in a new way maybe. It never does go back to the way it was. That's over.' He paused. 'And that's the hard part to accept. It isn't going back. So what is it going to be now?'

Glitsky brought a hand to his eyes and rubbed them. He stood again, walked a few steps, looked outside. 'If you go to Monterey, stop by the pier and pick me up some saltwater taffy, would you? I love that stuff.'

40

'You guys again?'

Ridley Banks stood gri

'Yeah, glad to meet you.'

Banks turned half-around. 'What did I tell you? You ask nice, you get a response. This is the kind of witness we should get to interview every day, makes life sweet. What do you say?'

'What do you guys want this time?'

'We want to talk to you a couple of minutes, discuss your statement of the other day.'

'Who's that, Petey?' A young woman with lank blonde hair appeared behind McKay in the doorway. A worn, flesh-colored tank top barely concealed boyish breasts. Ski

'Oh, excuse us,' Banks said. 'I didn't realize you were entertaining.'

McKay backed up a step. This is my wife, Patsy.'

'Your wife? I didn't know… how do you do, ma'am? How's the arm, by the way, Pete?'

McKay twisted his wrist, flexed his fingers. He was wearing a fla

'Bandage off?'

'Not yet. Couple more days.'

'Is Petey in trouble?' Patsy asked. She had a smoker's voice.

She'd moved forward a step into the light – Banks didn't think she looked fifteen. But, he noticed, there was a gold band on her finger.

'No, ma'am, not now. We're just double-checking a few things he said last time he talked to us.'

'Like what?' She got in front of her husband.

Marcel Lanier spoke from behind Banks, over his shoulder. 'Like how he hurt his arm, for example?'

'He cut it on a door,' she said. 'The glass broke.'

'Well, that's what he told us.' Marcel was jockeying for position on the stoop, stepping up now behind Banks. 'But the thing is, we went back – well, actually, my partner Ridley here did – he is kind of thorough, kind of like Colombo, remember him? Always that "uh, just one more thing." Drives us all crazy sometimes but there you go. Anyway, how the arm got cut… You mind if we come in? It is definitely not warm, and you look a little chilly yourself.'

Accompanied as it was by a glance downward, Lanier was being more antagonistic than he sounded – Patsy McKay's nipples were protruding like gumdrops, poking at the thin fabric of the tank top.

'Why don't you go put on a shirt, hon,' McKay said. 'You guys got a warrant or we can talk right here. What about my arm?'

But Patsy didn't leave, so Banks spoke over her. 'About your arm is that your cousin Brandon Mullen said you both cut yours falling through your sliding back door and when I was by here yesterday I happened to notice that the door isn't broken. You get it fixed right up? Got a receipt for the repair?'

But Patsy was shaking her head. "That was at Brandon 's, not here.'

Banks half-turned, glanced at Lanier. ' Brandon said clear as a bell that you both came back here to have your own private wake for Mike Mullen. To Petey's, is what he said.'

McKay moved forward. 'First-'

'Shh.' Patsy held a hand out, spoke gently but firmly to her husband. 'Hush now.' Back to the inspectors: 'I had a bad headache. They kept waking me up so I asked them to please go over to Brandon 's, which is what they did.'

Banks begged to differ. ' Brandon said they came here.'

'They came here first. Then they went there. Why don't you go ask him again? We'll even go over there with you. Petey didn't do nothing wrong. We got nothing to hide.'

Brandon Mullen was home and acted for all the world as though he had been expecting them. He lived in a lower duplex on 22nd Avenue in the Richmond District, five blocks from the McKays. The sliding glass doors that led to his tiny patio were brand new. And why, yes, inspectors, he did just happen to have a receipt right here for it – two days ago, isn't that right, signed and all? Reardon Glass and Screen.

'I'm going to go bust some chops.'

'Can't do it, Rid.'

They were sitting outside of Brandon Mullen's place, waiting – for nothing. Marcel had the driver's side window down, his elbow on it. 'McKay told Brandon about you coming by his house. Somebody put it together about the window.'

'The wife.'

'Maybe. Anyway, they figured they better break some window.'

'I already figured that out. Thanks.'

'You want to go talk to Reardon of Reardon Glass and whatever the fuck else it is?'

'See if he made the repair yesterday or two days ago, the date on the invoice? No. I don't think he'd be honest with us.'

'I'm shocked. A good Irish Catholic boy?'

'Welcome to police work,' Banks said. 'Shocks abound.'

Working by himself, Carl Griffin took another tack.

He knew he wasn't going to get squatola from any of the other good ol' boys – O'Toole, Mullen, McKay, Shea – the black Irish pulling close round their own men.

His first thought had been to try the emergency rooms at the various local hospitals, but one or two calls had disabused him of that notion – with the city's upheavals, the emergency rooms were, if anything, more swamped than the Hall of Justice, and there weren't many people with the time, inclination or memory to be of much help.