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afternoon when I had some work to accomplish.
    “So what are you working on?” Sean asked as I sipped my beer.
    “Just some research.”
    “Sweet fucking fuck!” The voice was loud with a hint of Scottish. I turned on my barstool and noticed that the homeless man seemed irritated with his performance on the dartboard. His beard was of respectable length and gray. His wiry hair was the color of ash, and greasy. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt that the Salvation Army couldn’t give away, khakis a size or two too big, and slip-on loafers with a hole worn above the right toe. He pushed his scraggly hair aside to show a wizened, wrinkled face that struck me as familiar. I figured I’d probably seen him working a corner around town. Then he caught me staring at him and turned an evil eye on me. “What the hell you looking at, you hairy ass tart?”
    I turned all the way around on my barstool to face him. “Do I know you?”
    “I sure as shit hope not.” He shook his head and took aim at the dartboard.
    Sean gestured for me to ignore Mr. Grumpy.
    I shrugged and turned back around on my stool. “So tell me, Sean, you enjoy fine dining?”
    He pointed both thumbs up. “You paying?”
    “You help me figure this out, I’ll buy you dinner anywhere in town.”
    That brought a smile to his face. “Go for it.”
    “So I’m trying to track someone down to serve. This guy sounds like he’s pretty slimy. I won’t say his name, because it might just distract you. But let’s just say he grew up in a family with connections.”
    “Like La Cosa Nostra connections?”
    “Exactly. But it seems he’s been trying to lead the straight life, like a legit businessman, at least Tampa legit. And he’s taking this girl out tonight for some special occasion. I saw her today. She’s amazing by anyone’s standards. I have her pegged as a high-end escort.”
    “Shit!” the homeless man screamed three times.
    Sean rolled his eyes and told me to proceed.
    I took another drink of my pint and continued: “So the question is, where would this guy take a lady like that out for a special occasion?”
    “I’d say Bern’s.”
    Bern’s was Tampa’s steakhouse par excellence, and also home to one of the largest wine cellars in the United States. Naturally it was one of the first places I’d called. “Sorry, try again.”
    He shrugged. “Side Bern’s?”
    “Strike two. They’re actually closed for remodeling.” Sean started to speak again, but I stopped him to save his strike three. “And don’t say the Epicurean.” That was the restaurant at the foodie-haven hotel built across from Bern’s. “I already called there, too.”
    “Did you just offer him a free dinner?”
    I turned. The homeless man was aiming his dart, waiting for me to answer his question.
    I glanced at Sean again. He nodded.
    “Sure, buddy, a free dinner.”
    The dart flung from his hand and hit a bull’s eye. He turned to me with the confidence of a heavyweight boxer. “I bet your tart ass didn’t call Armani’s, did it?”
    I’d never heard of it, but I was concentrating more on why this scraggly man looked so familiar and what could possibly be stuck up his ass. “Are you sure I don’t know you, tough guy?”
    Sean leaned over the bar and whispered to me: “That’s Judge Pinkerton.”
    The name was familiar. Then I pictured him wearing a black robe and sporting shorter, clean hair and a trimmed beard. “Judge Pinkerton?” I said aloud. “The Honorable Frank Pinkerton?”
    I didn’t need anyone to answer, because as soon as the old codger walked a little closer, I could picture him clear as day presiding over hearings in his courtroom on the fifth floor. He had preceded Judge Sanders as the Chief Judge in Hillsborough County, a position he’d held, it seemed, for decades.  
    He cleared his throat. “The Honorable Francis Pinkerton.”
    “I’ve been in your courtroom.”
    He looked me up and down. “I hope I threw the book at you.”
    “You