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time bunched up around his calves. His work boots were stained with black tar. He had a scraggly gray beard and a red nose etched with thin blue blood vessels. He’d sat up and put on the jacket and reached for the bottle, tightening the cap and sliding it into his pocket. He’d grabbed hold of the banister and pulled himself slowly to his feet.
    â€˜Have a nice day,’ Lou had said to him, trying not to breathe as he walked away. The guy hadn’t responded but as he’d stumbled toward the door he’d pivoted loosely on one leg and took a wild punch at Lou’s face. Lou had dodged the punch easily. He’d expected it, learning from experience that drunks often woke up swinging. Lou decided not to hold it against him and had simply grabbed him by the arm and pointed him toward the corner.
    The guy had turned a toothless grin back toward Lou and disappeared into the alley behind the building. Just then the fans had kicked on at the laundry with a roar like a jet engine. Lou had mopped the stairs and wiped down the walls, and when he’d been satisfied that the stains he couldn’t remove were permanent he’d put down a welcome mat and spilled the dirty water from the bucket into the street.
    Lou got back to the office after his run and his meeting with Jimmy Patterson and quickly peeled out of his running clothes. He stuffed them into a green garbage bag and when the bag was full he’d drop it off with the little Chinese lady downstairs. By the next morning it would be waiting for him in front of his door, the clothes washed and folded. She was the kind of girl next door he’d always dreamed of – did his laundry, didn’t ask for money and couldn’t speak a word of English.
    The office bathroom was the size of a small closet. There was a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a shower he’d installed himself. He’d cut into an adjoining wall to do it and tapped into a hot-water pipe from the laundry below. There would never be a shortage of hot water and it would never cost him a dime.
    He turned on the shower and let it run until the tiny room filled with steam. He stared at his naked body through a growing layer of condensation on the mirror. He might have lost a few pounds but not many. The weight was getting redistributed and that was about all he could hope for. He stuck out his chest and sucked in his gut and tried to picture himself as a twenty-eight-year-old beat cop, walking the streets of West Philadelphia for the first time and trying to live up to his father’s reputation. His father had been a legend at the department, big shoes to fill. Lou let the air out of his lungs; his chest deflated and his belly sagged a little and the mirror became further obscured by the rising steam. He stepped under the hot water, letting it pound his shoulders and roll down his back.
    He threw on the same suit of clothes from the day before: a navy blue sport coat over a light blue button-down and a pair of khakis with a brown belt. He’d never been one to shave every day and today was no exception, leaving a rough, day-old shadow across his face. He slipped into a pair of brown shoes and drove over to the Regal Deli, where he’d meet Joey Giordano for breakfast.
    The Regal Deli was an institution. There weren’t many places like it still standing and there didn’t seem to be anyone left in the neighborhood that could remember a time when the Regal wasn’t there. The ceiling inside was tin, laden with six layers of peeling paint the color and texture of dried avocado. In front of the counter was a line of chrome stools with a chrome foot rail across the stained linoleum floor. The chrome had been polished and new vinyl glued to each seat, but they were the original stools, the same stools that Philly cops had been warming their asses on since before they gave them cars to drive around. They still let out a human-like shriek when someone spun away from the