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brother if they knew each other, he looked familiar. The brother said no, he didn’t think they had met before, and they traded names. “Maybe it’s your brother I know,” McGuire said, and the truck driver said that could be, people were sometimes getting him and Harry mixed up, because there was only a year between them, Harry being the younger. The brother said he lived three blocks over, same street as Harry the truck driver, they grew up in this neighbourhood and never moved out, not like the guys who hauled their ass to Braintree or some place near the Cape as soon as they got some money together.
    McGuire agreed. Who the hell would want to live any place else but Southie? Then he left the bar and sat in his car, writing notes, recording names and descriptions. Nobody in the bar would have talked so openly to an insurance investigator, or anybody who smacked of downtown. They talked to McGuire as though he were just another potato-eater, and Zimmerman, Wheatley and Pratt would subpoena the truck driver if necessary to make sure he repeated his story in court.
    Funny the way things turn out, McGuire thought as he drove away. If this had happened a few years earlier and the warehouse worker had hit the ground the wrong way, the truck driver might have found himself on the end of a second-degree murder charge, manslaughter at least, with McGuire reading him his rights. Then it would have been McGuire showing up in court, and the truck driver facing ten years in prison.
    â€œHi there.”
    McGuire looked up from writing his report for Pee-Wee Russell. Orin Flanigan was leaning through the door from the word-processing area. He entered, closed the door behind him, and offered McGuire a pink, fleshy hand. “Mind if I sit down?” and he was seated before McGuire could reply.
    â€œWhat’s up?” McGuire asked.
    â€œI’ve been doing some thinking about our lunch the other day, what we talked about.” Flanigan seemed to have acquired a number of nervous mannerisms: stroking an eyebrow, scratching his nose, clicking the nails of a thumb and forefinger together, adjusting his glasses, so that a part of him was always in motion as he spoke.
    â€œWe talked mostly about England,” McGuire said.
    â€œYes, well . . .” Flanigan looked away, then back again. “You busy?”
    â€œWrapping up a personal injury claim for Russell . . .”
    â€œPee-Wee? He’s a good guy, got some good clients.” Flanigan scratched his wrist, adjusted his glasses, and pulled on his shirtsleeve to expose more cuff. “What else you got?”
    â€œYou sound like you have something yourself. For me to do, I mean.”
    Flanigan’s smiled widened. “Oh, well, it’s not a big deal, not a big thing, one of those little bits and pieces of a case that you can spend a week on and never use in court, never even mention in discovery.”
    The lawyer stood up and brushed imaginary crumbs from his trousers. Standing erect and looking down at McGuire, he grew more impressive and intimidating, suited to his reputation as a lawyer who worked in the heated arena of child custody and family law. “It occurred to me that you might be able to come up with something without incurring a great deal of expense,” Flanigan said. His voice failed to match his posture. It remained uncertain and tentative.
    â€œWhat’s it involve?” McGuire sat back in his chair and studied Flanigan with new interest.
    â€œIt’s a matter of finding somebody. Part of a custody case. Not a direct participant, but if we knew where he was, in case we need him, it would be an extra nail in the door, so to speak.” Flanigan bent from the waist and looked McGuire in the eye. “Is that part of your job description? Finding people who have dropped from sight?”
    â€œPart of it.”
    â€œConfidentially?”
    â€œEverything’s confidential.”
    â€œDoesn’t