Authors: John Lescroart
Hardy left Nat’s place at 10:30. He called Frannie from there and Susan, who was still awake, told him that his emotionally drained and exhausted wife was asleep on the fold-out. Hardy, no less depleted, was nonetheless wired and would not be able to sleep even if he had a truckload of valium on board. But a black and tan or two might do the trick. He told Susan he was stopping by to see her husband and might not be home until the bar closed. Nobody should worry. Things might be looking up.
When he got to the Shamrock, the forty or fifty patrons were kicking into the kind of manic mode he’d seen hundreds of times over the years. Suddenly it was the kind of night that developed out of nowhere when a critical mass of humanity encountered just the right cosmic mix of alcohol, noise, and sexual possibilities. The juke, which had been audible down around the corner on Tenth where Hardy had parked, blared out Toby Keith’s “Wanna Talk About Me” at the absolute limit of its speakers. Some football, loud, on the two TV’s. The four dartboards had games going; all the stools were taken at the bar. Chairs, couches, floor space, packed.
Hardy made his way through the crowd, nodding and talking to the many familiar faces, a steady line of patter going, since he knew most of the patrons at least by sight. The Shamrock was the oldest bar in the city, now going on 110, but it wasn’t big. Side to side, the public area from the bar stools to the wall was maybe twelve feet. Back at the dartboards, it widened to eighteen or so. He worked his way through the mob to the back of the bar, then hung his coat on the rack and ducked under the opening.
McGuire was tending, working hard keeping up with the orders. Hardy filled a pint glass with ice, a squeeze of lime, and gunned it full of club soda. After he drank half of it off in a gulp, he jumped in to help, and for most of an hour, didn’t stop moving. It wasn’t just a large crowd, but a remarkably friendly, patient and orderly one. They were mostly locals—thirsty but not belligerent. The jukebox kept cranking out the hits, although at one point Hardy realized that most of them weren’t hits anymore—they were oldies. But then again, he thought, so was he, pouring his drinks, pulling his drafts, ringing up the charges, shooting the bull in five-second sound bites since it was far too busy for conversation. He and McGuire worked back into the rhythms they’d perfected back in the days twenty years before when Hardy had been the lead man behind the bar, before his marriage, before kids and his career.
Nowadays, and for a long while, all the other parts of his life had felt so different from this. Nowhere was there this simple busyness, the pleasure of doing something uncomplicated, good and well. Here, if somebody ordered a drink, he could be pretty sure that they weren’t lying to him. That was the drink they wanted. He gave it to them, they paid him, he gave them their change. Maybe they tipped him. End of transaction.
When he looked up, surprised, to find that he finally had a minute, that most of the customers had left, he was sweating with the exertion and activity, but something had given inside him, the tremendous pressure, almost as though he’d taken a week’s vacation on a warm beach. He realized that the ache in his back had at last subsided. He could still feel his injured hand when he squeezed it, but he’d been using it with a natural ease all night. He allowed himself to hope for a minute that with Paul Thieu’s information, his enemies would be thwarted and with them, the threats to his family ended.
McGuire muted the televisions, turned the volume down on the jukebox, then came down from the other end of the bar. He put a heavy hand on Hardy’s shoulder and sincerely thanked him for his work. “Where did that come from?” he asked, meaning the crowd.
“The word must have gotten out that I’d be here. Damn celebrity seekers.” But Hardy was grinning, first time in a week or so. Almost directly over his head, and behind him, Paul Thieu’s picture showed up on the television for a minute, the late news, and McGuire glanced up, but he didn’t know who Thieu was, so he never mentioned it.
Not that it would have made any difference.
They’d made last call a little early, shagged out the stragglers, locked up by 12:30, and restocked. They counted the money—$1,428, unheard of on a Tuesday night. Moses didn’t ask, but poured Hardy a stiff Macallan to match his own and the two of them sat at the dark end of the bar, away from the windows, kitty-corner to each other. Hardy never needed to sleep again, but then again two days ago, he was never going to drink alcohol again, and here he was. The night-light above the register worked with the reflected streetlights outside to illuminate the place with about the intensity of a full moon.
While they’d been pulling bottles and rolling kegs, Hardy had been trying to convey some sense of his guarded optimism to McGuire, but now they were able to really talk and his brother-in-law wasn’t buying. “Yeah,” he said, “all that’s great, but what if they don’t get to Panos and his people soon enough, and in the meantime they decide to come after everybody anyway? You willing to take that chance?”
“I don’t know what my other option would be, Mose.”
“I do.”
“I know. Go out and shoot them first. You’ve already told me. Have another drink.”
“You think I’m kidding?”
Hardy took his first sip of the scotch, a small one. “No, but you’re not thinking. You go out after them, you’re a murderer. That’s the whole story.”
“I’d argue self-defense.”
“How would you do that? Nobody’s threatening you.”
McGuire grunted. “I’m not letting anybody kill Frannie, Diz. Never, no how, no way.”
“If it’s any consolation, Mose, I’m not either.”
“But you’re not doing anything to stop it.”
Hardy put his glass down slowly. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been doing quite a lot, which is why I now have some reason to suspect that this threat is less now than it was even three or four hours ago. They’re going to bring these guys in.”
“And then they’re going to put them on trial, or maybe cop some lesser plea. . . .”
“This is multiple murder, Mose. That’s special circumstances. Life without.”
“So you’re safe?”
“Right.”
“They’ll get them all? You’re sure? And they don’t have family? They don’t have people who’ll know you’re behind it?” McGuire put his glass down. “I guess what I don’t understand, Diz, is why, after you’ve seen all the ways the law doesn’t protect you for squat—I’m talking in the past couple of weeks alone—you still think it’s something you can count on.”
“Maybe because that’s the deal we make. We don’t break the law and in return the law protects us.”
“And you believe that? You got any poor, black friends, Diz? You got any
cabróns?”
Hardy rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”
“Here we go is right. You ever think about why there’s so much more violence in the barrios, huh? Or the projects?”
“No, Mose, that’s never crossed my mind. I never think about anything like that ’cause I’m a rich, white guy.”
“Hey, you said it.”
“Hey, yourself!” Hardy pointed a finger in McGuire’s face. “It turns out you’re arguing my point exactly. You know why there’s so much violence in the hoods? Because the people there have lost their faith in the law. And you know why that is? Because it doesn’t protect them. They feel like they’ve got to do it themselves.”
“Right. Exactly
my
fucking point.”
“But what
I’m
saying is take a look at what you get once you decide that’s your position. You’re taking your protection into your own hands, outside the law.”
“At least you’re alive.”
“Actually, no. Probably not. You’ve got a much better chance at getting to be dead in fact. Why? ’Cause Pablo threatens to kill you if you mess with his dope business. You don’t want dope around your kids, but you can’t go to the law, so you decide you’ve got to kill Pablo. Then Pablo’s brother Jose, who also doesn’t think the law is going to punish you, comes and shoots
your
ass. So then your brother, or father, or mother . . . Anyway, you see where this is going.”
“Except look at you right now. Your family’s driven out of your house. Where’s your law there? Who’s protecting you now?”
“Still, the law. Look, Mose, if Panos wasn’t worried about
somebody
doing something about it, he would have come for me long ago. He could have grabbed the kids, or shot them, when he took the picture.”
“Maybe you’re forgetting he did shoot some people.”
“Maybe I’m not. But if I believe that the whole purpose of law is to take violence out of the hands of individuals, like you and me, and Panos for that matter, how am I supposed to justify going after him myself? As soon as I do that, I am so fundamentally like him that there’s no moral distinction between us.”
“Oh, no shit. He hits you, you can’t hit him back? Are you giving me that?”
“I’m saying that if I go outside the law, then I can’t expect anything from it anymore. And I’m not willing to give that up. It’s pretty basic.”
“It’s pretty bullshit, you ask me.”
“Oh yeah? So what happens, then, after one of the shots you fire at Panos or Sephia misses them completely, but kills the poor old lady eating her Cheerios three houses down? Or the mom pushing her baby half a mile away? You don’t think that happens? You don’t think that’s the
main
thing that happens with every fucked-up drive-by shooting you ever heard of? Once these things start, there’s no controlling what happens next. People get killed who had nothing to do with it. And then, guess what? Those innocent people want to see the law punish
you.
And they’ve got every reason to expect that it will. Whether or not you
started
the whole thing. Once you’re in it, you’re the bad guy. Period.”
Moses tipped up his glass, rattled the ice a little, tipped it up again. “If I knew for a fact who took that picture, I’d get real close and put a slug in the fucker’s brain. I’d do it tonight, swear to God.”
“And then your life, from then on, is never the same.”
“I wouldn’t tell anybody. And nobody would know my connection to you and Frannie. The cops would never even think to talk to me.”
“Except if they did. And then what about Susan and your girls?”
McGuire was shaking his head. “Not going to happen. Listen, Diz, you got gangbangers killing each other all the time. You’re telling me the cops even look real hard? So you get a known dirtball like, say, Sephia, who dies violently, and who’s going to get all worked up over it? Nobody. Probably not even his family, if he’s got one.”
Hardy acknowledged that truth with half a nod. “I wouldn’t exactly weep and gnash my teeth myself.”
“See?”
“But there’s a difference between someone being dead and you making someone be dead.”
“That’s what you keep saying. But you and I have both pulled a trigger, Diz. Killed people we didn’t even hate. We both know we could do it again if we had to. My question is how far do they have to push you before you do something on your own?”
“Pretty far, I’d guess. Where it turned into real self-defense.”
“Which is pretty much after the fact, isn’t it?”
“Yep. I think it has to be.”
“And you’re okay with that? You can live with it?” His brother-in-law’s face was etched in concern that showed as though magnified by the dim light. “No, let me put it another way,” he said. “I
hope
you can live with that. I hope your family can. I really do.”
Hardy drained his own glass. “Me, too, Mose. Me, too.”
Hardy was still dressed—jeans and a pullover—sitting on a two-person love seat in the back of the apartment, in the old laundry room that Susan had converted into a studio for her music students. It was quiet here, away from the beds, and he didn’t want his own restlessness to keep anyone else up. A single, large, north-facing window revealed a smattering of lights stretching out toward the Presidio—he was up six stories—but the view, so lovely in the light, didn’t captivate. He stared out, more through it than at it, aware but unthinking, or at least not thinking discrete thoughts.
Since he’d gotten into bed, then given up and come in here, his mind had returned again and again, unbidden, to David Freeman. Visions of him in his bed in the ICU. The damage they’d done to him, even should he survive it, a result about which Hardy had little confidence. A cold premonition had entered his gut along with the renewed conviction that these were very dangerous men, now perhaps made more desperate by their inability to isolate and destroy John Holiday. And without him, Hardy believed, they were surely, eventually doomed. They had to get to him, any way they could, as quickly as they could. And no mistake about it, Hardy believed that the surest route to Holiday was through him.
Another nonthought, a bother, a twinge, like a pestering insect alighting again and again on the surface of his consciousness, was that he should in fact disengage himself from Holiday, at least until things shook out here somewhat. Call Kroll and get that message delivered. As Moses had argued, he should save his family above all else, and he could do it without going outside the law. He’d never even taken a retainer from Holiday. There was no legal issue.
After all, he told himself, Holiday would probably be okay without him now. The evidence would set him free. Hardy didn’t need to stay involved. The rationalizations gnawed.
“Dad?”
He started as though from a doze, but he hadn’t been sleeping. “Hey, Beck.”
“Are you all right?”
“Sure. Having some trouble sleeping, that’s all. How’s my little girl?” Sixteen years old, five foot five, 110 pounds. His little girl.
“I know you hate it,” she said, “but I’m scared.”
“Oh, babe.” He looked up and caught the shining streak of a tear on her cheek. “Come here.” He shifted to one side, patted the cushion next to him. “Have a seat next to your old man.” He longed to tell her that there was nothing to be scared of—the perhaps comforting lie was almost out of his mouth—but he couldn’t make himself say it. She was too old for that now; she’d feel patronized, and he didn’t want that.