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with theirs.
    I could see that the other panelists for this little talk were
    eyeing me uncomfortably. When the conference organizers
    invited me to come to Arizona’s premier mystery and thriller
    writers’ conference to speak about the reality of unarmed fight-
    ing, I think they had something else in mind. Tales of derring
    do. Nifty tricks. Lethal uses of toothpaste.
    Actually, they had someone else in mind as well, but my
    brother refused to go.
    Micky had snickered when he showed me the invitation.
    “Hey, check this out. You know that guy from the News who
    wrote the book about that Ronin guy?” I nodded. A columnist
    from the Daily News had churned out a breathless true-crime
    paperback about a case we had been involved in. It had al the
    elements of a best sel er: a tale of revenge featuring serial mur-
    ders and the exotic world of the martial arts. And, as far as I was
    concerned, the ending was great because Micky, Yamashita, and
    I got to walk away from the scene of the crime. Actual y, they
    took me away in an ambulance, but that’s beside the point. The
    guy from the News did a halfway decent job, but for some reason
    the book never did catch on—that season the reading public was
    interested in other things. But the author did his best to plug the
    book whenever possible, and was asking my brother to join him
    on a panel in an upcoming mystery writer’s conference.
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    John Donohue
    I had handed the letter back to my brother. “Why not?” I
    asked. “You were the cop who was featured in his book. You
    could tell those people stories that would curl their hair.”
    Micky had been a policeman for twenty years. He and
    his partner Art had just retired and started their own security
    consulting firm. They had spent the last decade as homicide
    detectives in New York City. That and a recent brush with Phil-
    ippine terrorists had provided them with a wealth of contacts
    and tremendous street cred. As a result, business was booming.
    But although my brother no longer carried his gold detective’s
    shield, not much else had changed. Growing up, Micky was
    always a handful. As he’s aged (I’m not sure whether matured
    is the right term) he’s gotten quieter. But it’s not a comforting
    type of quiet.
    We’ve got a big family and we get together often: a dense
    crowd of Burkes washing across various rooms and backyards.
    My brothers and sisters follow the old ways. As a result, there
    is a small army of Burke children that regularly alights on my
    mother’s house like a swarm of Mayo locust. The adults settle
    on chairs and sofas or cluster in the kitchen to rib each other
    with the ease of long familiarity. The kids pound up and down
    stairs, on fire to eavesdrop on the adults, yet torn by the equally
    powerful desire to consume the salty snacks strategically placed
    like lures in the family room and basement, far away from their
    parents.
    It’s a benevolent type of chaos, a restless celebration of
    connection. But in the midst of it all, you’ll often spot Micky
    sidling off to a window or the backyard and staring into the
    distance.
    They say that cops either care too much and burn out, or
    grow callous out of self-preservation. Micky’s opted for a third
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    Kage
    way. My brother seems to have mastered the art of keeping his
    inner filament intact, of stoking a fire that burns but doesn’t
    consume him. It makes him a great cop, but it also creates an
    outlook that’s pretty cut and dried: just the facts, ma’am.
    “Connor,” my brother had told me, as I emerged from my
    reverie, “the world is full of bullshit. Why should I contribute
    to it?” I nodded in silent agreement. Micky eyed me slyly and
    pointed at the invitation. “You, however, would be natural for
    this sort of thing.”
    Which is how I ended up in Arizona, in a room full of
    writers, annoying the Walrus Man. The conference people had
    offered to pay my expenses, and Sarah had a consulting job
    lined up in Phoenix that