Howard Trimble wore a Patagonia vest that zippered down the middle over a denim shirt tucked into khaki pants a size smaller than the belly that hung over his belt. Trimble's handshake was fleshy and moist when he greeted Mason and Blues as his secretary showed them into his office, a disorderly and disheveled space where coffee cups and donuts competed for desk space with official business. Trimble gestured Mason and Blues to be seated in the two chairs opposite his desk.

Blues led off. "I'm Wilson Bluestone. This is my attorney, Lou Mason. You sent me this notice that my liquor license has been suspended," Blues added as he handed Trimble the notice he had received in the mail.

"That's because you violated our regulations," Trimble said. "From what I've seen in the news, your liquor license is the least of your problems."

Trimble showed no interest in Blues's situation. He was simply reporting the news with the inevitable disinterest of civil servants.

"I haven't violated any of your regulations," Blues said.

Mason heard the edge creeping into Blues's voice. Blues had less patience with regulations and regulators than Mason did.

"Well, now," Trimble said, sensing the rising tension. "Liquor control regulations require that a license holder be of good moral character. That generally excludes murder, don't you think?"

Mason stepped into the conversation between Trimble and Blues. "Mr. Trimble, all charges against my client have been dropped. The city is about to erupt in a major political scandal. You've got a chance to avoid getting caught up in that mess by reinstating my client's license."

Trimble slid the zipper on his vest up and down as he considered Mason's advice. "You don't mind if I check your story, do you, Mr. Mason?"

"By all means," Mason said. "Call Patrick Ortiz at the prosecutor's office."

Trimble dismissed Mason's suggestion. "I don't mess with the middleman, gentlemen. I go right to the top floor of City Hall. The mayor's chief of staff is a personal friend of mine."

Trimble called Amy White while Mason and Blues gazed around his office, examined their cuticles, and generally pretended not to eavesdrop. Trimble's eyebrows dropped and gave him twenty push-ups while he cupped his hand over the receiver and turned his head to muffle his end of the conversation.

"Good news, Mr. Bluestone," he said after hanging up the phone. "I'll reinstate your license just as soon as I can." He spoke as cheerfully as a man could who had just lost the perk of giving bad news.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Blues asked, naturally suspicious of too much good fortune in one day.

Trimble's hands fluttered to his zipper in a failed effort to be casual. "It's just a matter of completing the paperwork. It's all about forms, you know."

"Well, let's get it done right now," Blues said. "I've got to be open tonight and I can't take the chance that some overexcited cop busts me because he didn't get the word."

"Don't worry about it. I'll see to it myself."

Blues wasn't satisfied, and Mason didn't blame him. If Trimble worked his zipper any harder, the friction would start a fire.

"I want to see my file," Blues said.

A red stain began to creep up Trimble's neck as he tugged at his collar. Trimble was devoted to the bureaucratic dodge, but was running out of places to hide.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Trimble said.

Mason interjected, "I'm afraid that's not possible, Howard. Mr. Bluestone's file is a public record and we have an absolute right to see it. My client has been held in jail for a month for a crime he didn't commit. You suspended his license and put him out of business. There's a lawsuit headed your way, Howard, if you don't come up with that file."

Trimble gave up on his zipper and resorted to hitching up his pants to untangle his underwear. "There's no need for threats, Mr. Mason. I'm not refusing to show you Mr. Bluestone's file. I just can't. Not right at this moment."

Blues asked, "And why not?"

Trimble shifted his weight and lifted his butt off his chair, grimacing as if he'd just given himself a wedgie. "Amy- Ms. White-has your file," Trimble confessed.

"Which regulation says it's okay to give my client's file to the mayor's chief of staff but not to my client?" Mason demanded.

Trimble stuffed his hand down his pants, rearranged his balls, and wiped a thin film of sweat from above his lip.

"Listen to me," Trimble pled. "I've known Amy White since she was a young girl. Her father, Donald Ray White, was the director of liquor control when I came to work here. Amy and her sister Cheryl used to come down here to visit their daddy. They took to me like I was some kind of an uncle. Then things turned bad for them."

Trimble paused and poked the inside of his mouth with his tongue, choosing his next words carefully. "Amy had a hard road and has come a long way. I'm real proud of her, and I don't want her to get into any trouble."

Mason's gut tightened as he wondered what Trimble was getting at. "How could she get in any trouble over my client's liquor license? The file is a public record." Mason chose a conciliatory approach, hoping it would keep Trimble talking.

Trimble let out a sigh. "Her having the file isn't a problem. I mean, I know you want it right now, Mr. Bluestone. And I don't blame you."

Mason said, "Mr. Trimble, you sure sound like a man who's trying to tell us something without saying it. Like I told you, the charges against my client have been dropped. If that's what this is all about, you'll help yourself and Amy if you just tell me why she has the file."

Trimble hesitated, struggling with his answer, uncertain whether he should give it up, but not strong enough to hold it in. "I hope you're right. Amy called me at home late one night last month. It was a Friday night."

Blues looked at Mason, silently telling him to take the lead as he got up from his chair and took a slow tour of Trimble's office. "You remember the date?" Mason asked.

"December seventh," Trimble said. "Pearl Harbor Day. I remember because my grandfather was killed at Pearl Harbor." He kept his eyes firmly on the floor.

It was also the night of Blues's confrontation with Cullan at the bar, Mason thought to himself. "Did she tell you why she wanted the file?" he asked Trimble.

Trimble shrugged. "She only told me who wanted it, not why." Mason waited, letting his silence ask the next question. "She said Jack Cullan wanted it. It was late. I asked her why it couldn't wait until Monday morning. She said that Mr. Cullan wanted it right away. So, I met her down here and gave it to her." Trimble kneaded his hands like a kid who'd been caught shoplifting.

"What time was that?" Mason asked.

"Around midnight, a little after."

Amy had told Mason that Cullan had called her that night and demanded that she get him Blues's liquor license file. She had told Mason that she had put Cullan off until the following Monday. Trimble's version could put Amy in Cullan's house the night he was killed if she had picked up Blues's file and taken it to Cullan. Yet that didn't square with Amy still having the file.

"Do you know what she did with the file?"

Trimble shook his head. "I didn't talk to her about it again until today."

Mason asked him, "What did you mean that Amy had a hard road?"

Trimble looked up at Mason, uncomfortable with answering, but more uncomfortable with being pushed. "Amy's father died when she was fifteen. A tough time for a girl to lose her father even if he wasn't much of a father. That's when I took over this job. That was eighteen years ago."

"How did he die?"

Trimble sighed again. Mason thought Trimble would hyperventilate and pass out if he did it one more time. "Amy's sister, Cheryl, shot him to death," Trimble said softly.