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Joe Fergus, as mild-looking a little man as you might want to meet. He’d shrunk since I’d seen him last, and he couldn’t have been more than five feet six then. He was wiry and wrinkled, and possessed of a legendary temper. I’d never seen him blow, but I’d heard stories. Drivers who cut Fergus off on lane changes came out the worse for wear.
    Of the eleven men at the table, maybe six looked familiar.
    G&W drivers, no doubt, but I couldn’t recall their names.
    They seemed to be in their fifties or sixties, except for one.
    He seemed younger than the rest, although I couldn’t be sure because his back was toward me. He moved his hands around a lot when he talked. The old guys smiled and nodded, and apparently agreed with everything he said.
    All I could hear was the Red Sox score, and that was depressing.
    Four
    pitchers of beer, untouched, squatted along the dividing line between the two tables. There was a formality about the setting that seemed odd in view of the orange light, and the smoke, and the TV glare. Hands were solemnly shaken before the brew was poured, and the men murmured as the glasses clicked. It had the air of a toast. If there’d been a fireplace in the immediate vicinity, maybe they’d have tossed their glasses in the grate. I couldn’t catch the words over the canned excitement of the sportscaster.
    I’d never worked this section of town when I was a cop.
    I’d been a downtowner, combing the Combat Zone for strung-out hookers, trying to nab their pimps. But it took me only about two seconds to figure out that the cops were here.
    Not uniformed cops either, plainclothes detectives.
    Ah, you say, what perception. Able to ID a cop by the smell, by the distinctive air of authority. Much as I hate to disillusion you, I knew the guys. Or one of them anyway.
    Mooney.
    Chatting with Mooney was one of the few things I’d liked about being a cop. Moon and I got on so well together I wouldn’t even consider dating him, although he is not bad looking. Plenty of guys are good at sex, but conversation, now there’s an art. Staring at him across the smoky room, his brow furrowed, his face animated with talking and listening, I wondered if it might be time to reconsider.
    He was deep in discussion with two other gents at a table near the makeshift stage. He hadn’t spotted me yet, and I wasn’t sure discovery would be to my advantage. Did I want to be associated with cops? Would cops want to associate with me? Were they working? Just drinking? Would Mooney want to know if I was working? Margaret Devens had ordered me not to file a missing persons, not to breathe the sainted name of brother Eugene near the cops.
    From my perch on a black leather barstool I couldn’t see any kingpins of organized crime, but I figured I’d let Mooney make any approach. Far be it from me to blow a man’s cover.
    I gave up smoking years ago, but when I’m in a bar I still get the urge. It’s so natural. Slide onto your barstool, light up, it’s springtime. Cancer waits till autumn. My dad died of lung cancer. They should have made a Marlboro commercial out of his last few days of tubes and pain and small indignities.
    Still, the craving for smoke tugged at my stomach, and my hand reached automatically for my bag, as if I’d find a pack of Kools inside.
    “What’ll it be?” The bartender smoked and I inhaled. I know it’s cheating and dangerous and all that, but hell, you can always get hit by a gold Mercedes and go out in a quick flash of glory.
    I ordered Harp on tap, and earned an appreciative smile for my Irish expertise. I dated an Irish guy from Boston College once. The bartender sped off and I settled back to observe my three cabbies in the mirror. They didn’t seem to be waiting for a companion to fill the single empty chair. Intense discussion was taking place back there. I wished they’d raise their voices so I could hear.
    The bartender came back with a foaming glass and set it before me so gently he