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cat, scurrying across the walkway and into the first translucent, then opaque gray cover of fog.
    Â * * * 
    It was the “why” of things that was disturbing him. Why he was sitting in the park at this hour? That was a good question. He knew the plain answer. He was avoiding a run-in with Stern as much as watching out for a potential robbery. But that presented, in turn, a more difficult question. Was it cowardice? He had told himself when Stern punched him, and again later in that dark night, that he understood he would lose no matter what in a battle with a cop. If he killed the cop in self-defense, it wouldn’t matter to the police or to the courts. Was he a coward to refuse to fight when it was clear he could not win? It would be as stupid as walking into a propeller. Yet that wasn’t how the code worked. He felt rotten and small.
    There was a police siren—a whooping sound—somewhere down the hill. He couldn’t tell which direction it was going. The sound trailed off. After a few moments of silence he heard the tires of a car on the streets damp from the fog. He looked. It passed slowly and steadily across California Street.
    Lang wasn’t done with the questions. Why had he provoked Stern so thoroughly? Surely the veteran cop, who had seen so much in his career, had seen worse characters than Noah Lang.
    Not usually given to introspection, Lang revisited the major events in his life. His treatment of his wife had not been criminal. He had not abused her unless being selfish and emotionally remote was abuse. He had been immature and wrong. He had been a jerk. He had been a chauvinist in the worst possible ways. He wasn’t sure how he’d do in conventional relationship today. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t have them. He really couldn’t hurt people because he simply didn’t get involved.
    Still, there was a history with Stern. There was the situation with Thanh, which neither he nor Thanh talked about. There was a death, one that Stern believed Lang had played a part in. There was the woman on the pier. But both Stern and Rose had been there. It was clear Lang hadn’t killed the woman, but Stern believed Lang was involved. There was the suicide in Sea Cliff while Lang was staking out the victim’s home. Stern didn’t believe it was suicide, but that Lang killed her. Then there was the professional hit and little hide-and-seek game in North Beach. Lang was there. All this accumulated for Stern: Somebody was getting away with, well, murder. Worse, it seemed that Lang was continually showing Stern up, making him the fool.
    Lang’s introspection was interrupted around four a.m. by a beat cop, who, after checking out Lang’s PI license, was satisfied with Lang’s stakeout explanation.
    Around 6:30 Thanh showed up sporting tousled hair and wearing a one-piece mechanic’s uniform—not the usual choice of someone style-conscious but, as always, bringing style to the mundane. Maybe Lang’s friend had been working on his bike.
    Light penetrated the layer of fog, giving the park an odd light, a soft luminescence, continuing Lang’s mood of suspended reality. When Thanh sat beside Lang, it wouldn’t be a big leap in the imagination to think that they were the only two people left in the world. It was a familiar and comfortable feeling.
    â€œYou are a silly man,” Thanh said. “Did you think this older couple was going to go wandering out in the middle of the night?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen why?”
    â€œI didn’t want to go home,” Lang said. “I wanted to think.”
    â€œAbout why Stern hates you.”
    â€œThat too. Not just that, though.”
    â€œHe hates me too,” Thanh said. “He’s having trouble living in the modern world. He wants things to be simple, like good and evil, black and white. You walked that line a couple of times.”
    â€œYou mean between