PART TWO

14

'He'd be the perfect bartender.'

Not that Glitsky had applied for the job, or ever would, but Hardy thought his friend might profit from a spell working behind the bar at the Little Shamrock – give him something to do while he waited out his suspension, keep him from going stir crazy, polish up those people skills that cops kept getting lectured about.

He was in the driver's seat, stopped at a red light, trying to sell the notion to his brother-in-law, Moses McGuire, who not incidentally was the majority partner in the bar -three-fourths to Hardy's quarter.

McGuire looked across the seat at Hardy as though he were a Martian. In fact, the two men had been in each other's lives for nearly thirty years, since they'd platooned together in Vietnam, where Hardy had saved Moses' life. Later, when Hardy's first marriage and life had fallen apart after the death of his son Michael, McGuire had returned the favor by giving Hardy sanctuary – a bartending job at the Shamrock that he'd kept for nearly a decade. So the two guys were connected, but Hardy's suggestion – even in jest – that Abe Glitsky work behind their bar was still too much to abide. 'Perfect? In what way perfect?'

'Honest…'

'Hey, there's an idea. We could call him Honest Abe. I bet he'd love that.'

'I'm serious. He'd work hard, show up on time, take no abuse from customers-'

'Because he'd have driven away all the customers?'

'Why would he drive away customers?'

'Gee, I don't know. Could it be because he's scary, intimidating, unfriendly…'

'Abe?'

'We are talking about Abe Glitsky, aren't we? The guy we're on the way to pick up? Black, mean-looking, scar through his lips, never drinks, never smiles? Him?'

Moses, atypically, was dressed in a somber brown suit with a black shirt and black tie. Not so atypically, he was having a morning tipple – one of the airplane-issued one-shot bottles of Lagavulin that he was carrying around with him in the pocket of his suit coat. He was drinking early because he'd declared it more or less a holiday – he wasn't opening the bar today. He'd assigned the shift to one of the regular night guys because of the memorial service.

Not that he had known Elaine Wager. But his wife Susan, a cellist with the symphony, had been hired with several other musicians to play at the service and he wanted to hear her. The acoustics of the cavernous Grace Cathedral were legendary – Art Garfunkel had once sung his vocals for an album there, just him and a microphone and the vibrations off the old stones. Terrific stuff. When he'd heard that his brother-in-law was going to the service too, it cinched it for him. They could make it a road trip, a very short one, true – only thirty blocks or so – but McGuire made it a point to take his fun when he could get it.

The car moved through the intersection. 'He's a good guy, Mose.'

McGuire was clean-shaven this month. He hadn't been in a fight since before Christmas. The last broken nose had somehow set straight, and with his salt-and-pepper hair combed back, he looked almost dashing, albeit twenty years older than his chronological age. 'I know he's a good guy,' he said. 'Often I'll say to myself, "That Abe Glitsky, what a good guy." But that doesn't mean he'd be a good bartender. You know why?'

'Tell me.'

'Because bartenders, in theory, should have personalities.'

Hardy threw a glare across the seat. 'Abe's got a personality.'

'OK, let me rephrase it. Bartenders should have good personalities. Warm, inviting, even charming, much like myself.' He savored a mouthful of Scotch. 'Even you, on a good day in your youth, from time to time would achieve the lower rung of charming. But Glitsky? I don't think so. No.'

Hardy turned the car onto Lake, pulled to a stop at a once-in-a-decade curb-side opening almost directly in front of Glitsky's duplex. It was nine thirty on a bright, cold and sunny Monday morning, one week after Elaine's murder. Hardy let himself out of the car, then leaned back in, an afterthought. 'I don't think we need to bring it up, OK?'

'I'll be my usual sensitive self,' McGuire assured him, and tipped up the tiny bottle.

In spite of his promise to be sensitive, McGuire started providing hot job tips almost as soon as Glitsky got into the car. He'd already opined that maybe Abe could find work selling real estate, setting up web pages on the Internet; he could open a chop house – with all the great gourmet restaurants in the city, the place was crying out for a good, old-fashioned chop house.

Glitsky, in the back seat, dangerously calm, started rattling them off. 'Alfred's, John's, Jack's, Little Joe's…'

'OK, then, OK, forget the chop house. How about maybe private investigator for Diz?' It went on and on. Maybe it wasn't too late for Abe to go back to school, become a doctor or lawyer or something. An accountant? Was Abe good with numbers?

Like McGuire, Glitsky was in a business suit – although he rarely saw the need for it, the lieutenant could dress when he wanted to. Adjusting the knot on his electric blue tie, he squinted out the back window, then reached into an inside pocket, removed some sunglasses, put them on.

McGuire happened to catch the move. 'I like it,' he said. 'Very Samuel Jackson.' He was twisting the cap on his third little bottle. A thought struck him and he stopped, snapping his fingers. 'Hey, maybe acting…'

Hardy glanced sideways, wishing his brother-in-law would shut up, but he was shooting more Scotch, oblivious. Until suddenly – Hardy didn't even see it – Glitsky was leaning over the front seat, his gun in his hand, up against McGuire's head. His voice rasped, but the tone was one of exquisite calm. 'I'm going to blow your fuckin' head off,' he said.

McGuire swore violently, pulled himself away, banging his head against the passenger window, dropping his Scotch. His face was a mask of terror. Hardy was startled too, slamming on the brakes, tires squealing. He swerved right. 'Jesus, Abe…!'

But, quick as he'd come forward, Glitsky was leaning back into his seat, getting comfortable, replacing the gun in his shoulder holster. In the rearview, Hardy saw the scar burning white in his lips. Glitsky was actually smiling enough to show a few teeth, which was almost unheard of. 'Acting,' he said, nodding. 'I think I could do that. I had you guys for a minute there, didn't I?'

The rest of the way downtown, McGuire didn't say a word.

Parking on a normal day was bad enough, but Elaine's memorial service drew a substantial crowd. Hardy couldn't find anyplace within five blocks. Since Grace Cathedral is at the summit of Nob Hill, they had a long walk, all of it steeply up. When they rounded the last corner and came in sight of the church's steps, they stopped, and McGuire took the opportunity to tell them he wanted to go inside early, make sure he got a spot where he could see his wife.

Glitsky and Hardy hung back. Hardy didn't think it was because they needed to catch their breaths. 'That was a nice little moment back there. Subtle. Though I did almost crash the car.'

'I knew you wouldn't. I wasn't worried about it.' Glitsky's mouth lifted a quarter inch.

'Well,' Hardy said, 'that made one of us.' Hardy felt as though he wanted to say a little more about it, but realized that the subject had been thoroughly covered. All issues resolved, messages delivered.

They stood together awhile in silence. Glitsky got out his sunglasses again. Put them on, perhaps against the glare of all the people he recognized from his work. Police brass were showing up in significant numbers.

'You sure you want to do this?' Hardy asked.

There was no trace of a smile now. 'I've got to do this.'

This was what he'd told Hardy over the weekend. He hadn't been there for his daughter's birth, or in her life. He was damn well going to be here for this. And this was the only reason Hardy had decided to come – moral support for his pal, who in the wake of recent events could certainly use some. Now, though, catching some sense of the mood of the place, Hardy wondered if it would turn out to be a good idea after all. 'Yeah, but you don't have to be seen here with me.'