The Best American Mystery Stories 2005

George V. Higgins Jack Duggan’s Law

From The Easiest Thing in the World

late in the morning, the Coupe de Ville — slate gray, black vinyl roof, five years old — emerged from the road in the woods and moved too quickly down the curving highway. There was a building at the bottom of the hill. It was low, one-story, painted white, and peeling. It was surrounded by an eight-foot board fence which had been barn red at one time but had not been painted for years. The fence enclosed a trapezoidal area. The enclosure was filled with old tires piled two and three feet higher than the fence. The fence sagged and bulged around the tires. There was a marshland which surrounded the fence. It was crowded with cat-o’-nine-tails and scrub brush.

The Cadillac swung around to the front of the building and stopped with some hastiness. There was an old Texaco gas pump in front, the mechanism exposed from the midsection to the top, the top crowned by a white disk emblazoned with the fire chief hat symbol. There was a sign on the front of the building, above two sagging barn doors. One of the doors was ajar. The sign read: TEXACO. GIFFORD’S. BRAKES, SERVICE, LUBRICATION. The letters had started out black, but had faded to gray. There were old tires scattered around the outside of the fence, and a row of old automobile batteries against it.

The driver of the Cadillac backed it up slightly and ran over the signal bell hose again. The bell rang in the stillness. The driver opened the door of the car and got out. He was in his middle forties. He had dark hair and he was getting thick in the middle. He wore a white shirt with french cuffs and onyx links that were too large. He wore a red tie that was too shiny. He had left his suit coat in the car; the pants were dark blue and well-cut. They did not look appropriate with his brown jodhpur boots. He wore wraparound mirror sunglasses and a Texas Instruments calculator watch. He ran his right hand through his hair, making it stand up. He put his fists on his hips and stared at the garage. He slammed the door of the car and started toward the garage doors.

When the driver was about eight feet from the doors, a very large chow-chow emerged with immense dignity. The dog had a mane and a black tongue. It stood half-in, half-out of the space between the doors and slavered. It looked at the driver with interest, as though it had not had a square meal in some time.

“Nice boy,” the driver said politely. He continued to approach the doors. The dog continued to stare at him. The driver reached a point about six feet from the doors. The dog roared and lunged at him, rearing up on its hind legs. It was snubbed up by a chain with half-inch links. The dog sat down. The driver backed up. “Nice boy,” the driver said. The dog hung its black tongue out and slavered, measuring the driver.

“Halloo,” the driver said to the building. The dog panted. “Halloo,” the driver said to the building.

The dog lurched backward, jerked off its front feet, and vanished into the building.

“Is it OK to come in?” the driver said. There was no reply. The driver advanced tentatively toward the doors. He peered around the edge of the one that was ajar. He went inside. The interior was dim and it took him a moment to regain his vision. Dead ahead there was an old man in a khaki cardigan and a dark blue wool ski hat. He was sitting in an old maroon armchair. There was an old floor lamp to the right of the armchair. There was a kerosene heater next to the armchair. It was stiflingly hot in the garage. To the left there was a double rack of new tires. To the left there was a double rack of new batteries. Behind the man in the armchair there was a wooden case, fronted and topped with glass, filled with candies. The dog sat beside the man in the armchair. The dog was still slavering.

“Careful,” the old man said. “Grease pit, front of you.”

The driver looked down. There was a lubrication pit in front of him.

“Help you?” the old man said. He was reading something, or had been. The magazine was open in his lap. It was open to a double-page spread of a naked woman.

“Yeah,” the driver said, “I need some directions.”

“Ain’t seen you before,” the old man said.

“Ain’t been here before,” the driver said. “What I need’s directions.”

“No gas,” the old man said.

“Nope,” the driver said, “no gas.”

“Just as well,” the old man said. “Ain’t got any. Quit pumpin’ that stuff six year ago. Damned nuisance.”

“Directions,” the driver said.

“Directions,” the old man said. “Montreal’s north. Go to the border. Turn left. You want Quebec, turn right. Simple.” He cackled.

The driver did not laugh. When the old man had finished, the driver said: “Ellis house.”

“Ellis house,” the old man said.

“Yeah,” the driver said.

“You from Boston?” the old man said.

“Yeah,” the driver said.

“Thought so,” the old man said.

“The Ellis house,” the driver said.

“Never heard of ’em,” the old man said, complacently.

“Bullshit,” the driver said.

“Seen my dog?” the old man said.

“Yeah,” the driver said.

“Big dog,” the old man said.

“Seen my car?” the driver said.

“Nope,” the old man said.

“Out front,” the driver said. “Big car. Bigger’n your dog.”

“No foolin’,” the old man said.

“Yup,” the driver said. “I bet I could fire that sucker up and run right over your big dog in about twenny seconds, and peel right outta here and scrape him off the wheels onna first turn.”

“Ellis house,” the old man said.

“Ellis house,” the driver said.

“Third white house on the left,” the old man said. “There’s a farm pond just before it. It’s on the hill.”

“Thanks,” the driver said.

“I’m Gifford,” the old man said. “Dog’s Magician.”

“I believe in magic,” the driver said.

“Who’re you?” the old man said.

“Duggan,” the driver said. “Jack Duggan.”

Mrs. Ellis was elderly and she wore an apron and she peered at Duggan through thick spectacles so that she resembled the Easter Bunny, but she was not stupid. She sat him down in the kitchen and put the black kettle on the black iron stove to boil, and she gave him a homemade blueberry muffin. The tablecloth was a gingham pattern, but it was done on oilcloth. There was a vase of flowers in the middle of the table, but they were plastic flowers.

“I haven’t seen him,” she said. “I have not seen Frederick.”

“Mrs. Ellis,” Duggan said, “of course you haven’t seen Frederick. Frederick is in the slammer down in Boston town. It is not an overtime parking ticket. Frederick is in the cooler because the police are under the impression that he went and killed a guy, and they think that they can prove it. If it is not too much trouble, while we are waiting for the blasted water to boil, I’d like a few facts here and there.”

“I haven’t seen him,” she repeated.

“I have,” Duggan said. “I didn’t want to. I was appointed by the court to represent Frederick Ellis on a murder charge because he doesn’t have enough money to get his own lawyer. Now I see that his mummy has a whole lot of prime land and a pond to go with it, not to mention some cattle.

“Jerseys,” she said.

“Frederick,” he said. “He can get his own T-shirts. Tell me all about Frederick, or I will go back into that court down in Boston and recite to that judge that Frederick Ellis may be a thing you might see floating in the gutter, but his family has some money. And then prepare to mortgage the cows.”

“Jerseys,” she said.

“Cows is cows,” Duggan said.

Duggan in the First Session, Criminal, Suffolk Superior Court, waived the reading of the indictment. He stood next to Maurice Morse, a young black man, while the clerk, Don Sherman, informed Morse that he was charged with the forcible rape of Rose Walters.

“What say you?” Sherman said. “Are you guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” Morse said.

“Counsel?”Judge Shanahan said.

“May I have thirty days to file special pleas, Your Honor?” Duggan said. “As you know, I have the Ellis case to prepare as well.”

“Ten,” Judge Shanahan said. Sherman wrote on the docket file.

‘“Your Honor,” Duggan said, “I haven’t had a chance for a real conference with my client as yet. As the court is aware, I am presently on trial in a capital case. May I press my request for thirty days in which to file special pleas?”

“You are not presently on trial, Counselor,” Shanahan said, “you are about to be presently on trial. Presently you will file any motions that you may have in Commonwealth versus Morse, presently meaning: within ten days. During that time you can press your requests or your pants, just as you choose. You’d look better if you chose your pants.

“The Commonwealth,” Judge Shanahan said, “will furnish all statements of the defendant, all material which may be exculpatory in nature, all transcripts of wiretaps, a list of all laboratory tests or other scientific tests which the Commonwealth has conducted and intends to introduce at trial, a list of all witnesses whom the Commonwealth may call at trial, all photographs and other physical evidence, to be inspected at the convenience of defense counsel. So ordered.”

“Your Honor,” Edie said, getting up, “I scarcely know what the case is about myself. And I also have the Ellis case. I don’t know whether there’s any of the evidence that you describe. I haven’t even seen the file. As the court is aware, I too am, currently on trial.”

“Work nights,” Shanahan said, “same as him. Bail?”

“May I be heard, Your Honor?” Edie said.

“Most likely,” Shanahan said.

“This is one of several cases of rape in the same neighborhood,” she said.

“Right,” Shanahan said. “This is one case. This man is charged with one rape. Go ahead.”

“The women in the neighborhood are extremely fearful for their safety,” she said.

“Can’t help that,” Shanahan said. “This man hasn’t been convicted of harming a single one of them.”

“This is a serious charge,” she said.

“Certainly is,” Shanahan said. “I’d imagine the defendant would wholeheartedly agree with you on that point. The Constitution of the United States is a serious document. It says the purpose of bail is to ensure that the defendant shall appear for trial. Doesn’t say anything at all about making nervous ladies feel better, no matter where they live. What are you asking for bail?”

“One hundred thousand dollars, with surety,” she said.

“Ten grand for the bondsman,” Shanahan said. “Counselor Duggan, what have you got to say about this?”

“Your Honor,” Duggan said, “the defendant has a steady job. He has roots in the community. He’s never been charged with anything before. There’s no reason whatsoever to believe that he will not show up as ordered by this court.”

“Lemme see that file, Don,” Shanahan said to Sherman. He put on pince-nez glasses and leafed through it. He looked up over the glasses. “Morse,” he said, “Mr. Morse, are you really broke, like you told the clerk?”

“Yessah,” Morse said.

“Never mind that plantation talk,” Shanahan said. “You broke or not?”

“I can ‘t afford a lawyer, Your Honor, ‘ Morse said.

“Mr. Morse,” Shanahan said, removing the glasses, “nobody can afford a lawyer. The question is whether you’re broke. If you’re not broke, Mr. Duggan doesn’t have to represent you at huge expense to the taxpayers. If you are broke, he does. You broke or not?”

“I only make a small amount of money, Your Honor,” Morse said. “I make two hundred and ten dollars a week, take-home. My rent’s sixty a week. I pay maybe forty a week for food and stuff. I haven’t got any money or anything.”

“You own any real estate?” Shanahan said.

“No, sir,” Morse said.

“You got a car?” Shanahan said.

“Yes, sir,” Morse said.

“What is it?” Shanahan said.

“It’s just a car,” Morse said.

“One of those rectangular things with a wheel on each corner, right?” Shanahan said. This drew a laugh from the regular spectators. “Is there a brand name on it?”

“Yes, sir,” Morse said.

“What does the brand name say?” Shanahan said.

“Pontiac,” Morse said.

“Good,” Shanahan said. “Now we are making progress. You own a Pontiac. What model is it?”

“It’s a two-door,” Morse said.

“That isn’t what I asked you,” Shanahan said. “Let me try again. What model is it?”

“It’s a Firebird,” Morse said.

“See?” Shanahan said. “We’re making progress left and right here. Let me see if I can speed things up a little more. Is it by any chance a Firebird Trans Am?”

“Yes, sir,” Morse said.

“Time passes so quickly when you’re having fun,” Shanahan said. “What is the year of its manufacture? When was it made, in other words?”

“Last year, Your Honor,” Morse said.

“Did you buy it new?” Shanahan said.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Morse said.

“How much did you pay for it?” Shanahan said.

Morse sighed: “Eleven thousand, three hundred and change.”

“Where did you get the money?” Shanahan said.

“From the bank,” Morse said.

“Did you borrow it?” Shanahan said.

“No, sir,” Morse said, “I took it out of my account, I saved up for that car.”

“You don’t owe anything on it, then,” Shanahan said.

“No, sir,” Morse said.

“How much is it worth, do you figure?” Shanahan said.

“I dunno,” Morse said.

“Eight thousand?” Shanahan said.

“I doubt it,” Morse said.

“How about seven thousand?” Shanahan said.

“Maybe,” Morse said.

“And that’s the only thing you own,” Shanahan said.

“Well,” Morse said, “I got my furniture and stuff.”

“What does the stuff consist of?” Shanahan said.

“My bike and stuff,” Morse said.

“Let’s deal with the bike,” Shanahan said. “We’ll get to the stuff as need be. It is a ten-speed bike?”

“Ten-speed?” Morse said.

“Yeah,” Shanahan said. “What kind of bike is it?”

“It’s a Kawasaki,” Morse said.

“Oh,” Shanahan said, “when you say bike, you mean it’s a motorcycle.”

“Yeah,” Morse said.

“Yeah,” Shanahan said. “When’d you get that and how much did it cost you?”

“Last year,” Morse said. “Thirty-eight hundred dollars.”

“Borrow the money?” Shanahan said.

“No, Your Honor,” Morse said.

“Get it out of that bank account?” Shanahan said.

“Yeah,” Morse said.

“What?” Shanahan said.

“Yeah,” Morse said, louder.

“I can’t hear you, Mr. Defendant,” Shanahan said. “You get that money out of your savings account?”

“Say “Yes, Your Honor,”‘ Duggan whispered to Morse.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Morse said.

“That makes over fifteen thousand dollars you took out of that bank account to buy wheels last year,” Shanahan said. “That’s a pretty nice bank account. I wish I had one like it. Where is it?”

“I got the book home in my apartment,” Morse said.

‘Which bank?” Shanahan said.

“Oh,” Morse said. “River Trust.”

“How much you got in that account now?” Shanahan said.

“Your Honor,” Morse said, “I worked hard for that money and I saved it up.”

Shanahan held up his right hand. “Spare me, Mr. Morse,” he said. “I’m sure you denied yourself many of life’s pleasures in order to prepare for your future. You are asking me to confirm Mr. Duggan’s worst fears that he will be forced to represent you for small change paid late by the Commonwealth. This will require Mr. Duggan to deny himself many of life’s pleasures in order to represent you. How much money is left in that bank account?”

“I’m not sure,” Morse said.

“Take a guess,” Shanahan said.

“About nine thousand dollars,” Morse said.

“OK,” Shanahan said, “that saves us from going into the value of the furniture and stuff. Mr. Sherman: The court finds that the defendant, Maurice Morse, is not without resources with which to retain counsel, that he is not indigent. The case is continued for one week so that Mr. Morse may secure counsel. Bail is set at twenty-five thousand dollars, with surety. Case on trial.”

“Your Honor,” Morse said, as the court officer started toward him.

“Mr. Morse,” Shanahan said, “you are remanded to the custody of the sheriff of Suffolk County. Your case is continued for one week so that you may secure counsel.”

“I want Duggan here,” Morse said.

“I’m sure Mr. Duggan will be happy to confer with you at the Charles Street Jail,” Shanahan said. “You will want to discuss a fee with him, no doubt. Mr. Duggan is currently on trial. If you want to see him, make an appointment that will suit his convenience. For the time being, you have lots of convenience, at least until you make bail. Case on trial. Afternoon recess.”

Morse was led away.

The judge stood up and marched off the bench. The spectators moved toward the doors. Edie approached Duggan. “Nice, huh?” she said.

“In my next life,” Duggan said, “I am going to make my living doing something easy. Brain surgery, I think.”

“Yeah.” she said. “But in this one?”

“In this one,” Duggan said, “I am going back to my office to see Fred Ellis, because thanks to your incompetence, he got out.”

In the early evening, Duggan parked the Cadillac in front of the bait shop at Neponset Circle in Dorchester. The bait shop, which advertised its appointment by the Commonwealth as an official fish-weighing center, occupied the ground floor of a three-story wooden building. The building was covered with tarpaper that was supposed to resemble brick. The window frames and doors were painted cream. There were apartments for single old people on the third floor. Duggan, a bill collector named Mullins who called himself the Commonwealth Adjustment Agency, and the law firm of Kunkel and Concannon had offices on the second floor. Kunkel was over eighty. Concannon was Kunkel’s daughter. They specialized in divorce law.

Duggan used his key to open the door in the center of the building. He shut it and locked it firmly behind him. The floor in the hall was linoleum. It had buckled badly and he was careful of his footing. It was lighted by one 6o-watt bulb. He reached the stairway, which had a curved banister with knurled supports on the right and a dowel banister on the left, and climbed it. The steel treads were loose and creaked under him. At the top of the stairs he turned right, into the corridor leading to the offices. The corridor was lighted badly. The door to his office was half-frosted glass. There was scroll painting on it: JOHN F. DUGGAN. ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR AT LAW. He opened the door and went in.

There were two people in the reception area. Cynthia, Duggan’s secretary, was at her desk, which was synthetic blond mahogany. Cynthia had an extremely good figure and an extremely slow brain. She chewed gum. Her husband made a halfway-decent living as the manager of a hamburger stand on Morrissey Boulevard, about seven hundred yards west of the bait shop. Cynthia was incapable of conceiving a child. She was twenty-six years old and she was restless. Cynthia’s husband was agreeable to allowing her to do poor work for very little money, so long as it was close by and he thought her boss was harmless. This arrangement was agreeable to Duggan, especially the part about the small salary.

The second person in the reception area was Frederick Ellis. He was sitting on a sofa-bed slipcovered in beige. The sofa looked as though Duggan had slept on it. He had. Ellis had a two-day growth of beard and he did not look good in it. He had dark hair that stuck up and looked greasy, and he wore a denim jacket and jeans which also could have been improved by washing. He looked disdainful. There were two cops seated next to him.

Duggan spoke to Ellis first. “You’re sitting down already, and you haven’t said anything yet. Therefore, keep up the good work.” Then he said to the cops: “Whadda you guys want.”

The two cops were in full uniform in Duggan’s reception area, along with Frederick Ellis. One of the cops was Panther Ahearn, a stern man in his middle forties with heavy jowls and a permanent expression of exasperation. The other was Roderick Franklin, a man in his late thirties, who sat with his hands clasped in his lap and looked at the floor. Franklin’s holster was empty, and the strap which secured the revolver which belonged in it hung loose. Roderick Franklin was black.

“Ahearn,” Duggan said, “I needed you like a sore tooth this day.

Tell me what is on your mind and make it fast. I’ve got a living to make.”

“Done and done,” Ahearn said. He gestured with his head. “Franklin here has got a little problem.” He nudged Franklin with his elbow. “This is correct, is it not, Roderick?”

Franklin nodded, miserably.

“Roderick,” Ahearn said, standing up and hitching his pants higher, “Roderick shot a fellow last night.”

“Shot a fellow,” Duggan said.

“Exactly,” Ahearn said.

“Where, precisely, did he shoot the fellow?” Duggan said.

“In the chest,” Ahearn said. “Just like we are trained. Right below the heart. Three in a circle you could cover with a quarter. Roderick is a damned good shot.” Ahearn looked at Franklin. Franklin did not look up.

“I presume there was some reason for all of this commotion,” Duggan said.

“There was that,” Ahearn said. “There was a silent alarm going off at the all-night grocery, and me and Roderick were dispatched thereto to see if perhaps there might be something going on. When we got there in the blue-and-white, there was sure-God something going on. So we drew our service revolvers and we exited the official vehicle and we entered the establishment and there was quite a lot going on. There were two young gentlemen in there, who had entered posing as customers. One of them had a rather large knife. The other one had a revolver.

“The young gentleman with the knife,” Ahearn said, “is a reasonable fellow, and that is why he is still breathing air. As soon as he saw my revolver, he saw the wisdom of obedience to my command to drop the stinking knife. The other gentleman, the one with the revolver, was not as agreeable. He brought it up and pointed it at me. Thereupon, Patrolman Franklin plugged him. Three times. I was very glad of it. Roderick blew him back to last Wednesday.”

“Ahh,” Duggan said. “I see that Patrolman Franklin does not have any revolver on his person.”

“They took it away from me,” Franklin said. He did not look up.

“He’s up on charges,” Ahearn said.

“Charges,” Duggan said.

“Departmental hearing,” Ahearn said.

“Indictment to follow,” Duggan said.

“If the department says he shouldn’t’ve plugged the kid,” Ahearn said.

“And?” Duggan said.

“You are going to make damned sure that hearing comes out the right way,” Ahearn said.

“Ahearn,” Duggan said, “you must be losing your memory. You hate my guts, remember? You told me so. If there was one miserable piece of stuff floating in at low tide tomorrow, it’d be better’n I am. Remember that?”

“That was different,” Ahearn said. “That was when you got a little snotbag off on a case that he should’ve gone to jail.”

“That’s what I do,” Duggan said.

“Right,” Ahearn said, “and that is what you’re gonna do for Roderick, here.” He put his hand on Franklin’s shoulder. “You got that, Counselor? You are gonna work your magic in behalf of Roderick, who saved my everlasting life. And you are gonna get his gun back for him. And you are gonna see that Roderick does not get indicted. That is what you are gonna do.”

Franklin spoke. He did not look up, but he spoke. He said: “I don’t want any favors from this honkey.”

Ahearn lifted his hand and slapped it down hard on Franklin’s shoulder. “You just shut your mouth, cotton-chopper. I got a wife and I got kids, and they go through groceries like they were lawn mowers. I’m on the earth this morning, not in it, and that is thanks to you. You did me one, I’ll do you one.”

“You’re gonna pay me, I assume,” Duggan said to Ahearn.

“Right,” Ahearn said. “Cup of coffee? I’ll go for a doughnut, even.”

“Nifty,” Duggan said.

Franklin looked up. There was misery all over his face. “He don’t want this case, Terry,” Franklin said. “I can’t pay him. You told me already, long before this, what a rat he is.”

Ahearn did not look at Franklin. He stared at Duggan instead. He spoke slowly and softly. “He is a rat, Roderick,” Ahearn said. “He walked a guy on me the last time I brought in a guy that should’ve burned, and then he laughed in my face afterwards. You did that, Duggan.”

“I did that, Ahearn,” Duggan said.

“Roderick,” Ahearn said, “this Duggan is the biggest rat in the Western world. He bites and he’s probably got rabies too. You need a rat, my friend. You need something that will bite and get the other guys infected. Duggan is your rat.”

Franklin looked up again. “I can’t afford to pay you anything, Mr. Duggan,” he said.

Duggan started to speak. Ahearn silenced both of them. “Nothin’ to worry about, Roderick,” he said. “Mr. Duggan isn’t charging for this one.”

“You’re not charging?” Franklin said.

“He’s not charging,” Ahearn said.

“I didn’t ask you,” Franklin said.

“I’m not charging,” Duggan said. “And the rest of what he said is also true.”

Duggan then spoke to Cynthia. “What bad things have happened today that I do not wish to know about but people called me about?”

Cynthia snapped her gum. Duggan said: “Don’t do that.”

She paid no attention to him. She riffled through a stack of telephone messages. “Well,” she said, “they’re mostly all from people in the court, and I’m not sure.

Duggan interrupted her. “It’s after six, for the luvva Mike, I’m at least three hours late, trying to get back to somebody in the courts.”

“There was one,” Cynthia said, reflectively, snapping the gum. “Said she’d wait for your call.”

“There’s a happy note,” Duggan said. “Who the hell was it?”

“Said her name,” Cynthia said, frowning, “said her name was Edie and you’d know her.”

“Edie,” Duggan said.

“Edie,” Cynthia said. “From the DA’s office.”

“Uh-huh,” Duggan said. “OK, I’ll call Edie from the DA’s office.” He turned to look at Ellis. “For your information, Mr. Ellis, Edie from the DA’s office is Assistant District Attorney Edith Washburn, and she has got a strong inclination to fit your very large tail into a very small crack. If it is all right with you, I will excuse myself for a moment and call her.”

Ellis stared at him. Ellis did not look happy. “You already kept me waiting a long time,” he said.

“Put it on my bill,” Duggan said.

The district attorney was Harold Gould. He was a large and powerful man in a large and powerful office. He was in his early sixties, and he knew what his values were. He also knew that some other people did not share his values, and he resented it. His office in the New Courthouse at Pemberton Square was spare. There was one glass-fronted bookcase which contained a selection of lawbooks that he had not opened in years. His diplomas from Boston College and the Harvard Law School were on the walls, along with his membership certificates in nine organizations. There were two pictures of Harold Gould shaking hands with John F. Kennedy. Harold Gould wore a PT-109 tie clasp. There were two pictures of Harold Gould with Richard Cardinal Cushing. There was one picture of Harold Gould with Francis Cardinal Spellman. There was a certificate attesting to the elevation of Harold Gould to the rank of Knight of Malta. There was a large oak desk that was covered with file folders. Harold Gould sat in an oak chair that creaked. His visitors sat in oak chairs that did not creak. Harold Gould, in the early evening, was not happy.

Edith Washburn was uneasy. She was in her early thirties and she had a lawyer’s job in a town full of lawyers; she wished to keep it. She disliked Harold Gould, who had appointed her to the job she wished to keep. Once married and divorced, with custody of a son who had not yet seen his sixth birthday and an ex-husband who had managed to elude his child-support payments — there had never been any alimony payments, because she was too proud to accept those or even ask for them — she needed the job that Harold Gould could take away from her if she became too saucy.

“You booted it,” Gould said. He had a voice with an edge like a pitted razor blade. “I told you I didn’t want that Ellis punk on the street.”

Edie controlled herself. “Boss,” she said, “I did not boot it. I am not Judge Wilcox. I did not release him on personal recognizance. I asked a hundred thou bail, and Judge Wilcox let him loose. Judge Wilcox is black. He thinks all defendants’re the unfortunate victims of society. That’s not my fault, either.”

“That punk,” Gould said, “is a murderer.”

She sighed. “So I’m told,” she said.

“He should be in jail,” Gould said.

“So I’m told,” she said.

“He isn’t,” Gould said.

“He hasn’t been convicted yet,” she said.

“Who’s got the case for trial,” Gould said.

“Judge Shanahan,” she said.

Gould nodded. “Good,” he said, “good. Shanahan’s a standup guy. No continuances. Get that little scumbag in here and convict him and put him in the damned can. Right?”

Edie sighed again. “Boss,” she said, “Duggan just got the case. He’s gonna want time to get ready. He’s gonna ask for it and Shanahan or any other judge’s gonna give it to him. The guy’s appointed, for God’s sake. He’s not making any money off this. He’s got to eat. He’ll be out on the street.”

“Who’d Duggan kill?” Gould said.

“Far as I know,” she said, “nobody.”

“Right,” Gould said. “So therefore I don’t care if Duggan’s onna street. I don’t like him, but he ain’t dangerous. Ellis is dangerous.”

Duggan tilted back in his desk chair and looked at Frederick Ellis with extreme distaste. The chair was a tufted Naugahyde Fames model. The desk was a large construction of blond mahogany. Ellis slouched in an armchair upholstered in nubby cerulean blue fabric, and smoked a thin cigar. The walls of Duggan’s office were absolutely bare, painted white, and somewhat dirty.

“You, my friend,” Duggan said, “you are more trouble’n you’re worth. That lady is really mad at you, and I think you are going to go away for a while if she has anything to say about it. Which she does.”

Ellis tipped the ash from the cigar onto the brown tweed rug. “I can do time,” he said.

“So can Big Ben,” Duggan said. “Any jerk can do time, just like any clock. Clocks’re made of metal. Some of them’ve got glass onna front. They’re made to do time.”

Ellis shrugged. “Maybe I was, too” he said.

“Maybe you were,” Duggan said. He allowed his shoulders to slump. “And in the meantime, I’ve got to do time for you, because that lady wants to see me. Tonight.”

In the remnants of the twilight, Frederick Ellis emerged from the door next to the bait shop, turned right, and walked rapidly along Gallivan Boulevard until he came to the International House of Pancakes. He stopped at the entrance to the parking lot and looked around. There was a maroon Cougar XR7 in one of the spaces, pointing toward the street. Ellis approached it, glanced around, opened the passenger door, and got inside.

There was another man inside, sitting in the driver’s seat. He was smoking a cigar, and the car was filled with the smoke of it. Ellis did not look at him directly, but it would not have mattered if he had.

“I am in the gravy,” Ellis said. “I am in the gravy up to my belt-buckle. They are heating up the gravy. I think they are planning to cook me. I am getting nervous.”

“Not good,” the driver said. “Not good to get nervous. Makes the Man nervous when people get nervous. That is very seldom good for the nervous people.”

“Look,” Ellis said, “all right?” He turned his body in the passenger’s bucket seat so that he could look at the cloud of smoke around the driver. He gestured with his hands. “I got some problems, all right? This guy Duggan that I win, you know what he did? He drove up to see my mother, for God’s sake. I haven’t seen my mother since the Chicago Cubs won the World Series, for God’s sake. 1 can’t stand my mother and she can’t stand me and he goes to see her and eat one of her damned muffins and now I got that to think about. This guy Duggan takes things serious, Franco. He wants to win this case and he tells me he does not think that I am telling him everything I know.”

“Umm,” the driver said through the smoke.

“It gets worse,” Ellis said, slumping back against the seat and facing the windshield. “This broad they got prosecuting me? Duggan makes me think she is another one of those eager types that always plans to win. Between the two of them, I am going to end up at the wrong end of the chain saw.”

“You got problems,” the driver said.

Ellis became angry. “Problems?” he said. “I had problems before. I bite my fingernails sometimes and I have been constipated. I borrowed some money off a guy and I didn’t have the dough to pay him back. Those, I thought that those were problems when I had them. Now I am looking at all day in the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Walpole because I borrowed some money off a guy, and you are telling me I got problems? Compared to me, the president has got it easy.”

The driver leaned forward and started the car. “I think,” he said, “I think we’d better go and see the Man.”

Duggan escaped from the darkness of Tremont Street into Dini’s restaurant. The light inside was tinted rose colored, and there were pictures of fish and aquariums in strategic locations. There was a truculent woman in a tight pink jersey dress at the door, with a sheaf of menus. She challenged him. “Yesss?” she said.

“Look,” Duggan said, “I had a hard day. I’m supposed to meet a lady here. Her name is Washburn.”

The woman clearly did not believe this. “What is your name, please?”

“For God’s sake,” Duggan said, “have I got to get references to meet somebody for dinner in a place of public refreshment? What difference does it make, who I am? I told you who she is. Is she here? I’m not trying to cash a bum check or anything.”

The woman’s face grew stern. “I’m merely trying to help you, sir,” she said. “There are several ladies sitting alone tonight. I don’t know any of their names. If you would give me your name, I could inquire whether any of them is waiting for you.”

Duggan sighed. “I got a better idea,” he said. “Lemme look around,” He brushed past the woman and turned to his right, walking up a slight incline into another rosily lighted room. It was lined with small booths on the right and larger booths on the left. There was one person in the room. That was Edith Washburn. She was seated at one of the small booths. She was drinking a glass of white wine. Duggan caught her eye as he walked down the narrow corridor between the small booths and the large booths. She smiled, wanly. He gestured with his head toward the large booth across from her. She looked quizzical. He grinned. When he reached her, he said: “I don’t like these tables. When they put me in one of them, I feel like I’m a dog getting into one of those pet carriers the airlines use. Move.”

Edith Washburn got up swiftly and crossed the aisle. They sat down simultaneously at one of the large booths. She grinned at him.

“Hard day?” he said.

“An absolute bitch of a day,” she said. “Yours?”

“I could use a drink,” he said. “Do they have any waitresses left tonight that aren’t candidates for autopsies?”

“I saw one a while ago that seemed to be breathing,” she said. “I can’t be sure, though. Didn’t take her pulse.”

“OK?” Duggan said. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly.

“Good heavens,” Edie said. She started to laugh. “You mustn’t have any trouble getting cabs.”

“Or birds, neither,” Duggan said. “Called in a penguin once, from Antarctica. Walked all the way, poor little critter. Took him to the zoo.”

An alarmed and elderly woman appeared at the door leading into the room. Duggan waved her toward them, using the traffic cop’s signal.

“How did he like the zoo?” Edie said.

“Wonderful,” Duggan said. “We had such a good time, next day I took him to the ball game. Sox lost.”

The waitress reached their table. “Just two of you for dinner?” she said.

“That’s a quorum, ma’am,” Duggan said. “But first I would like about a pail of vodka martinis. Put some ice in it.”

“Vodka martini on the rocks,” the waitress said. She wrote it down. “But if you’re not expecting anyone else, I’ll have to ask you to take one of the smaller tables.”

“Go to it,” Duggan said. “Ask away, we’re not going to move. There’s room enough in this joint tonight for the Second Armored Division. When they show up and the place gets crowded, we will meekly move. Until that happens, I would like my drink and enough space to sit comfortably.”

“We do have rules, sir,” the waitress said.

“I do have a nasty disposition, begging your pardon and all, ma’am,” Duggan said. “I am not moving. My drink, please, and the menus.”

The waitress hobbled away. Duggan leaned toward Edie. “Tell you what,” he said, “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

She began to laugh again. “You were mean to that woman.”

“OK,” Duggan said, “I show mine first. My guy will not plead out. I think he should. If I had a reasonable client, we could belt this thing out on a second-degree in a minute. He is not reasonable.” “He confessed,” she said.

“He made a statement,” Duggan said. “I have read that statement, which you so kindly provided to me.”

“He had his rights read to him,” she said.

“Yup,” Duggan said. “Signed a document to prove it. Said he’d been to the tidal creek. Said he knew Thomas Monaghan. Said he knew Monaghan was dead. Said he believed Monaghan’d gotten shot by somebody.”

“Oh, come on, Jack,” she said. “He led the cops to the scene.”

“Right,” Duggan said. “Now you are going to tell me that the cops didn’t know there was a tidal creek there until he told them about it.”

“No,” she said.

“No,” Duggan said. “And probably the cops didn’t know about Monaghan being dead until they pulled him out of the water, all green and swollen, and he wasn’t breathing very much. You are going to tell me that.”

“No,” she said.

“Edie,” Duggan said, “it was in all the papers. Frederick Ellis, my esteemed client, is dumber’n some rocks that I have met. But he can read. He can listen to the wireless and he can watch the television. Everybody who ever laid eyes on Monaghan knew he wasn’t getting around much anymore. This is not proof beyond a reasonable doubt that Frederick Ellis did him in.”

“Jack,” she said, “I have some more bad news to improve your day.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “Everybody else has.”

“Gould won’t take a plea,” she said, “He wants murder one.”

The waitress limped down the aisle with Duggan’s drink. “Oh good,” he said as she arrived. “That is extremely good. That was just what I needed. I’ve got an unreasonable client and you’ve got an unreasonable boss.” The waitress set the drink down on the table. Duggan picked it up immediately and swigged from it. “Another one of these little buggers,” he said, “and some fried clams, french fries, slaw.” To Edie he said: “Order.”

“Same thing,” she said.

“Martini also?” the waitress said.

“White wine,” Edie said. “White wine.”

The Man was short and thin and wizened. He was in his late sixties. He had a shock of white hair that he combed straight back. He wore a white broadcloth shirt with a medium spread collar and a tie made of dark blue silk. He wore a well-cut Ivy-League suit, dark blue, just slightly nipped in at the waist. He wore black wing-tipped shoes. He sat behind an ornate antique desk, made of oak and carved with elaborate scrolling. He sipped at a pony of anisette and then from a cup of coffee. He did not show any expression on his face.

The cigar-smoking driver was in his middle forties, rather flush of face and somewhat overweight. He wore a blue blazer and tan slacks. He sat in an armchair, padded and then covered with tufted leather. Ellis had a straight chair opposite the driver.

“He is worried, Mr. Caruso,” the driver said. “Frederick here tells me that he is worried.”

Caruso shifted his gaze to Ellis. He spoke mildly. “Worry is bad for a man, Freddie. Worried people tend to die before their time.” Ellis’s tone betrayed considerable anxiety. He spread his hands and leaned forward in the chair. He spoke earnestly. “Mr. Caruso,” he said, “it is not just me who should be worried. Walsh should be worried and Charlie Carnival should be worried.”

“Walsh and Carnival are not around,” Caruso said. “They are vacationing and cannot be reached.”

“They should still be worried,” Ellis said.

“And Francesco,” Caruso said, nodding toward the driver, “should he be worried?”

“Probably,” Ellis said.

“And I, perhaps,” Caruso said, “should I perhaps be worried?”

“Considering what’s happening,” Ellis said, “you should think about it at least.”

Caruso glanced at Francesco. He looked back at Ellis. He leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “You have succeeded, Freddie,” he said. “Now I also am worried, and I am an old man who must think also of his health. How can we end all of this worry?”

“The cops haven’t got a hard case against me,” Ellis said. “They got all excited when they got the tip and they left a lot of things out.”

“Then there is no worry,” Caruso said.

“It’s the lawyers,” Ellis said. “This guy Duggan that I got is some kind of a crazy man, I think, and he is beating all over me that I am not telling him the truth. The DA is this broad that is beating all over Duggan because I will not plead out. One or the other of those damned lawyers is going to get all haired up and that will finish me off. The DA wants murder one. I do not.”

“What could you do, Freddie?” Caruso said it very softly.

“I could run,” Ellis said.

“Any man can run,” Caruso said. “The question is: how far?”

“I could go on vacation, like Walshie and Carnival,” Ellis said anxiously.

“I think that many people would miss you,” Caruso said.

Duggan was in the 99 Restaurant on Pearl Street in Boston. His red tie was loosened from his collar and his speech was somewhat slurred. He was drinking vodka martinis and he was talking to a small blond woman in her early twenties who had bleached her hair and gained a little weight since she had purchased her flowered blouse and tan skirt. She had undone the top three buttons of her blouse to avoid getting overheated. “You’re married,” she said.

“Yup,” Duggan said.

“My God,” she said, “I never thought I’d see the day when one of you guys admitted it. You still living with her, or what?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes what?” she said. “When you go home at night, do you go home at night or do you go somewhere else?”

“Yes, he said. “Depends on the night I do one or I do the other.”

“Hot damn,” she said. “Which you like better?”

“The other,” he said. “Much better.”

She linked her left arm through his right arm. “I think we could be friends,” she said.

“Until morning,” he said, thickly.

“With an option year,” she said, “like the other guys who play ball.”

Edie Washburn in the morning met Lieutenant Walter Nolan outside the District One Police Headquarters on New Chardon Street in the Government Center complex in Boston. “Lieutenant,” she said, “we have got to talk.”

Nolan was in his early thirties. He wore a plain tan raincoat and a somewhat mischievous expression. “This is so sudden, Edie,” he said. He smiled at her and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Time passes so quickly when you’re having fun,” she said. She grabbed him by the left elbow.

“Whoa,” he said, pulling loose. “Not here in the middle of a public thoroughfare.”

“I’ve got to talk to you,” she said.

“Can we have some coffee, maybe?” Nolan said.

“Coffee,” she said, taking him by the arm again. “Now, walk, and let’s see if we can do that at the same time we’re talking.”

They headed up the hill on New Chardon toward Center Plaza. “Look, Walter,” she said.

“I have been,” he said.

“You’re married,” she said, “and I like Annie. This’s business. I think we have got a little problem with this Ellis guy.”

“He should faw down, go boom,” Walter said.

“He ain’t gonna,” she said grimly. “There’re two reasons why he won’t. There is Harold Gould. The second one is Jack Duggan.”

“He drew Duggan?” Walter said. “Son of a gun, I thought Duggan spent most of his time moaning and groaning about his life. He still alive?”

“Very much so,” she said. “Not only alive, but very well, thank you.”

“He hasn’t had a murder case in two, three years,” Walter said. “The heaviest thing he’s had, I heard about, was a couple smalltime hoods robbed a gas station, and that was about six months ago.”

“How’d it come out?” she said.

“Not guilty,” Walter said.

“You’re a detective,” she said. “That a clue to something, maybe?”

“Hell, Edie,” Walter said, “it wasn’t an ironclad case.”

“Is Ellis ironclad?” she said, pulling Nolan to a halt.

“No, Edie, for cryin’ out loud,” Walter said. “No case’s ironclad. You’ve been at this long enough to know that.”

“Right,” she said. “And so’s Duggan. And now let me tell you another thing: Gould won’t take a plea.”

“Oh, oh,” Walter said.

“I am going to have to try this case,” she said.

“Sounds like it,” he said.

“I have read the file again,” she said. “I do not feel cheerful.”

Mrs. Ellis was waiting in Duggan’s office when he arrived in the morning. She was wearing a nubby pale violet coat and a black pillbox hat and black sensible shoes. She had curled her hair. She sat clutching her black vinyl purse on her lap. As Duggan entered the office, she was glancing surreptitiously and disapprovingly at Cynthia.

Cynthia was drinking coffee from a paper cup. She slurped it. She was chewing gum at the same time and reading the paper.

Duggan looked dreadful. He had not shaved. He was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing the night before. He had not gotten much sleep and his eyes showed it. So did his expression. He closed the door. He stared blearily at Mrs. Ellis. “Mrs. Ellis,” he said.

She pursed her lips. She looked him up and down. Cynthia paid no attention to either of them. Mrs. Ellis said, “I came to see you.”

“So I see,” Duggan said. “I don’t recall inviting you, but I see you’re here.”

“I’m surprised you can,” she said sternly.

“Oh, Mrs. Ellis,” Duggan said, “there are many things I cannot see this morning. One, for example, is the money to defend Frederick on a murder charge. You will recall, we had some discussion about that. You weren’t interested. Another thing I cannot see is your appointment at this ungodly hour.”

“You didn’t have an appointment to see me,” she said. “You came anyway, at your convenience.”

“You are not defending my son on a murder charge,” Duggan said. “And losing your shirt on it.”

Mrs. Ellis surveyed him again. “Your son might do better if I did,” she said.

“Would you like to talk about sons, Mrs. Ellis?” Duggan said. “Do you really want to do that? I’m willing if you are. I ain’t perfect, but until one of my kids gets hauled up on a murder charge, I’m way ahead of you. And if one of my kids does, I’ll pay for his defense. No welfare for Duggan, no sir.”

She paused and looked down at her handbag. Then she looked up at Duggan. “I want to talk to you,” she said.

“So I gathered,” Duggan said. He looked at his watch. “It is nine-oh-five, Mrs. Ellis. I am due in court at eleven. I can get there in twenty minutes if I’m lucky. That gives us almost two hours. You must’ve left home early. Go get something to eat and come back at ten.”

“I don’t know this area,” she said with a whine in her voice.

“Walk around and get acquainted with it,” Duggan said. “You won’t like it. No cows. Now beat it.”

Her lower lip trembled.

“I mean it,” Duggan said.

She stood up and straightened her coat. She headed for the open door.

“Cynthia,” Duggan said. Cynthia looked up. “Did I wake you?” Duggan said. She gazed at him as though she had just noticed that he was in the office. “Of course I did,” Duggan said. “Go and get me a fried egg sandwich with two strips of bacon inside, and two large coffees.”

“You want toast?” she said, chewing the gum.

“I would like the sandwich on toast,” Duggan said. “I do not want the sandwich and the toast on the side.”

“I haven’t got any money,” she said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled five, which he threw on her desk. He stalked to his office.

“What about the phones, Mr. Duggan,” Cynthia said.

“They’ll be here when you get back, Cynthia,” he said.

He was taking off his jacket, loosening his tie and pulling it down, and unbuttoning his shirt as he walked.

Duggan entered the Fifth Criminal Session of the Suffolk Superior Court through the swinging oak doors. The benches were empty and the high windows spilled sunlight into the courtroom. There was one court officer on duty, a heavyset man about fifty. The officer was smoking a Salem.

“Not supposed to smoke in court, Bailey,” Duggan said. He was clean-shaven. He wore a clean yellow shirt. He wore a gray hopsack suit and a blue-and-gold tie.

Bailey looked at Duggan. “My, my,” he said, “and what a fine figure of a fellow we’re cutting this morning.”

“Clean living,” Duggan said, “that’s what does it.”

“Got a shower in your office, huh?” Bailey said.

“Nope,” Duggan said. “Complete wardrobe, though, and a men’s room with running water, sometimes hot.”

Bailey shook his head. “I wished I was a lawyer,” he said. “Way it is, I got to work for a living.”

“Lemme know when you start,” Duggan said. “Judge in?”

“Judge Shanahan?” Bailey said. “Oh, Judge Shanahan is in all right. He’s been in since eleven, when you were supposed to be here. So’s Edie.” He got up from his chair and started toward the judge’s chambers. Over his shoulder he said: “Hope your shaving lotion’s nice.”

Judge Shanahan had a rosy, pudgy face, a roly-poly body, sparse graying hair and an unfiltered Lucky Strike. He was short and he had an executioner’s sense of humor. He was seated behind the scarred desk in chambers and regaling Edie and defense counsel Sam Waldstein when Duggan entered. He gave Duggan a perfunctory greeting and continued.

“So,” Shanahan said, “this jerk Cangelosi gets up on his hind legs and asks the cop when he first wrote down someplace that the defendant was suspected of being a drug dealer. Now there is a beauty. You can see the cop cocking his bat already. He looks like Ted Williams, up against a slow pitcher. And the cop says he wrote it down a long time ago.

“Now,” Shanahan said, “even I know this. I read the damned reports. They are full of the most scandalous gossip you can imagine. There is stuff in those reports that would be enough to hang the pope if you could prove it. The trouble is that Gould can’t prove any of it. And if Edie, for example, offered all that hearsay, I would take her head off. But the DA isn’t offering all that hearsay, and for some reason or other, the DA is not objecting to Cangelosi bringing it in. I think I know what the reason is, but that is beside the point. I leave him do it.

“Well,” Shanahan said, leaning back in the chair and blowing smoke rings, “Cangelosi asks the cop when he wrote it down. And the cop says he wrote it down in the same damned report that Cangelosi’s waving around like a damned flag. Which, of course, he did. And Cangelosi demands to have the cop show him where it is written down. And he throws the report at the cop and invites him to read from it.

“So,” Shanahan said, “the cop does. He does it slowly. He considers every word like it was cole slaw and he had to chew it, so as to get all the flavor.

“It was in the report, all right,” Shanahan said. He was grinning. “Everything was in the report. The report said the cop knew the defendant was a dirty, rotten, no-good, lousy, miserable dope pusher. It said the cops had good reason to believe he was a pimp who beat up on his ladies. It said there was no question that he carried a gun and used it to pistol-whip the people that he didn’t find it necessary to shoot. It went on and on. The jury was eating it up. It was really good stuff.

“In the middle of this recital,” Shanahan said, leaning forward, “Cangelosi objects. Now, that was a new one to me. I never had an objection before from a lawyer who was asking the question. “You’re objecting to your own question Mr. Cangelosi,’ I said. He tells me he is not objecting to his own question. He is objecting to the cop’s answer to the question. I can see why he might. It is blowing his boat right out of the water. The trouble is, when you ask the question, you don’t get to object to the answer.”

“ ‘He is putting in hearsay and undocumented evidence,’ Cangelosi says. ‘He certainly is,’ I smartly reply. ‘He is able to do that because you invited him to do it.’ Well, there was a great tussle, and in the meantime the prosecutor is sitting there with a grin that the Cheshire Cat would’ve envied.”

Shanahan rocked back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “is today’s lesson in trial practice. Sam, you are excused.”

As Waldstein arose, Shanahan stubbed out his Lucky and lit another one. He surveyed Duggan critically. “You look reasonably good today, Jackie boy,” he said. “What did you do, go through the car wash on foot?”

“No,” Duggan said, “I went to your embalmer and told him I wanted the same discount special you bought.”

Shanahan began to laugh. “No respect for the court as usual, I see.” Waldstein pursed his lips and gazed disapprovingly at Duggan.

“Hiya, Sam,” Duggan said. “Didn’t notice you before. Course, you’re easy to overlook.”

Shanahan guffawed.

“I don’t think...” Waldstein said.

“I know it,” Duggan said. “You should try it some time. Whyncha beat it now, so I can talk to the judge. OK?”

Waldstein glanced toward Shanahan, who only smiled. Waldstein left chambers. Duggan took his chair.

“Tell me about this twerp Ellis,” Shanahan said. “We gonna belt this out or what?”

“Or what,” Edie said. “Gould wants a murder one.”

‘Wonderful,” Shanahan said. “Duggan?”

“Ellis says he’s innocent,” Duggan said.

“Trial, then,” Shanahan said. “Confound it. Blasted nuisance.” He pulled his calendar over and studied it. “This’s a pain in the neck, you know.”

“Life’s full of hardships, Your Honor,” Duggan said.

Duggan was at his desk. He was speaking urgently into the phone and the door to his office was closed. He said: “Look, honey, I’ll be there by five-thirty. I will really be there. You can count on it. I am not going to let you down.”

Frederick Ellis emerged in the darkness from the Sheraton Boston Hotel. He was wearing a leather car-coat and an anxious expression. He stood in the doorway and gazed at the street. The maroon Cougar came into view. It pulled up at the entrance. Ellis opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Francesco,” he said.

“Frederick,” the driver said. He was smoking a cigar. The car was filled with the smoke.

“Francesco,” Ellis said, “where the hell’re we going?”

“Frederick,” the driver said, “the Man is concerned. He is worried. Just like you wanted. He is just as worried as you are.”

“Now I am even more worried,” Ellis said.

“You must stop worrying,” Francesco said, putting the car in gear. “In the position you’re in, when you get worried, everybody else gets worried.”

The Cadillac slowed to a halt in the driveway of the yellow colonial garrison house in a western suburb of Boston. The side door, leading to the breezeway, immediately opened. A girl about nine years old came out. She was prancing. She wore a blue melton coat with red embroidery around the buttonholes and sleeves. She wore white knee socks and black Mary Janes. She had long blond hair and she wore barrettes. She began to run toward the car, but she had breath enough to scream. She screamed: “Daddy.”

Behind the girl there was a boy, about three years older. He came out more slowly, ushered by a woman who remained inside the jalousied breezeway, and shut the door behind him. He put his hands in his pockets and studied the sky for a while. He wore a tweed overcoat and L.L. Bean boots.

The girl embraced Duggan exuberantly. He was only halfway out of the car and he was off-balance, but he recovered himself and picked her off the ground. He hugged her and swung her. He carefully concealed from her the tears that came up in his eyes. He made his voice gruff and said: “Mark.”

The girl said: “I’m so glad to see you, Daddy.”

Duggan said: “Right. Get Mark.” He turned away from her. The boy came down the walk very slowly. The girl ran up to him and took him by the left hand. She skipped. He lagged. She brought him up to the car.

Duggan said: “Hi, Mark. Hungry?”

Mark stared at him for what seemed like several minutes. Then he said: “Can I have steak?”

“Sure,” Duggan said. He was forcing heartiness. “Gino’ll make braciole for you, we ask. Politely.”

The boy pondered that. He nodded. “I would like that,” he said.

Gino Ferraro was holding court at his restaurant, close by the Boston Garden. He wore a blue blazer and tan slacks and a red-striped tie. He needed glasses and he had had them made in gold-filled aviator frames. When Duggan and his kids came in, Gino was effusive. He said: “Annie. Mark. So good to see you.” They shook his hand. Gino said to Duggan: “Table for three, Jack?”

“Please,” Duggan said.

Gino clapped him on the back. “It’s good to see you, my friend,” he said. “When’re we goin’ the track?”

“Tomorrow is out,” Duggan said. “Police hearing. You hear about that guy Franklin?”

“Poor guy,” Gino said. He shook his head.

“I got him,” Duggan said.

“Poor guy, you,” Gino said. “He got any money?”

“If he has,” Duggan said, “he’s hangin’ onto it.”

“Ahh,” Gino said. He ushered them into the dining area.

He spoke to Mark. “And you, young man, are you goin’ the game?”

“Steak,” Mark said, as he sat down.

“Ahh,” Gino said, “braciolettine. And for you, Mr. Duggan?”

“Gimme a beer, Gino,” Duggan said.

“It’s a pleasure, Jack, see you with the kids in here,” Gino said.

Duggan slumped. “Out on dates,” he said. “Out on dates with my own damned kids.”

Gino patted him again. “It’ll get better, Jack. It’ll get better.”

Harold Gould had been to morning Mass and had a cup of coffee. He was dressed in a gray cheviot suit and he was madder than a hornet. He slammed his fist on the desk when he sat down in the creaking oak chair. He shouted at Edie Washburn. His face was inflamed and his veins stood out.

“I dunno,” she said.

“He isn’t here,” Gould said.

“He isn’t here,” she said.

“Can’t fool you, can they?” Gould said.

“Nope,” she said.

“Find him,” Gould said.

“OK,” she said.

“Find him before noon,” Gould said.

“This may be hard to do,” she said.

“Struggle,” Gould said. “Life is very hard.”

In the early morning, Walter Nolan stood with his shoulders hunched under the tan raincoat on the macadam launching ramp at the marina. There was some cold gray sunshine. There was an object floating in the water. It was Ellis. Edie Washburn stood next to him. She wore a tan raincoat.

“This,” Walter said, “does not look like a plea bargain to me, under any circumstances.”

“The defendant appears to be dead,” she said.

“Terminally dead,” Nolan said.

Duggan showed up at his office fairly early in the morning. He did not look good. Cynthia snapped her gum and snapped at him. “Hard night, Counselor?”

“Very,” he said.

“You should go home at night,” she said.

“I did,” he said.

“Frederick Ellis is dead,” she said.

Duggan sat down fast in the reception area. “Dead,” he said.

“Dead,” she said. She snapped her gum again.

“Cause of death?” he said.

“Gunshot,” Cynthia said. “He’s on the slab. Southern Mortuary.”

Duggan did not say anything for a while. “I appreciate the address. I don’t think I care to see him.”

“He didn’t pay ya, did he?” Cynthia said.

“Nope,” Duggan said, getting up.

“Then the hell with him,” Cynthia said. She went back to her coffee and her newspaper.

“Exactly,” Duggan said. “Exactly.”

The hearing room was windowless. The walls were walnut paneling, halfway up. Above waist level, the walls were white. They needed paint. The commissioner and two uniformed officers sat behind a long oak table. The commissioner wore a gray flannel suit and a stern expression. He said: “Mr. Duggan. Have you any more questions?”

Duggan turned and glanced at Franklin. Franklin shook his head once. Duggan turned back to the commissioner. “I have nothing further,” he said.

“Would you care to be heard?” the commissioner said.

“Actually,” Duggan said, “I think I’ve been heard enough at this proceeding. I can talk some more if you like, but I don’t think I’m going to add much to the supply of human wisdom.”

The commissioner did not cover his grin quickly enough. “That will be fine, Counselor,” he said. He rapped the gavel. “The hearing will be in recess while we deliberate.” The spectators began to shift in their chairs, collecting coats. “We will deliberate right here,” the commissioner said. “No need to leave unless you wish to.”

The commissioner leaned to the officer on his right and spoke behind his hand. He nodded and turned to the officer on his left. He spoke behind his hand again. He nodded again. He rapped the gavel. “The board is agreed,” he said. “We find the charges against Patrolman Franklin to be without merit, and that he acted with prudence and discretion in protecting the life and safety of a fellow officer. Anything further?”

“Nothing further,” Duggan said.

The commissioner banged the gavel again. “Hearing is adjourned.” Franklin stood up very slowly. Ahearn came out of the spectators’ section and shook his hand. Each of them had tears in his eyes. Ahearn took Duggan by the hand. “Thanks,” he said.

“Yeah,” Franklin said. “Thanks.”

“Nothing to it,” Duggan said. “Lead pipe cinch.”

“See?” Ahearn said. “I told you he was a rotten louse.”