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the room.
    The duty desk was a massive, high oak thing, bookended by antique globe lights. The sergeant cast down a quick shot of unconcealed loathing and went back to his paperwork.
    I cleared my throat.
    “Shove off,” he said, without looking up. “Nobody’s gonna take your statement.”
    “My name is Donner,” I said. “Forty years ago, I was on the job here.”
    The man’s eyes narrowed. “So?”
    “I’m looking for a friend.”
    A smirk. “An old friend, I’ll bet.”
    “Bart Hennessey.”
    That got a reaction. “He retired.”
    “I was told he still consults here part-time.”
    The sergeant gave me another ice water bath. I held his gaze, not aggressive but not going away either. His breath finally hissed out of him.
    “Wait outside.”

    ***

    I ground a third cigarette butt under my heel as Bart finally exited the building.  
    The sight of him rendered me speechless.
    I’d known Bartholomew Hennessey as a third-generation Irish detective in his early forties, with red hound dog cheeks and redder hair that threatened to overrun his forehead.
    But the man in front of me was a senior citizen. By my frame of reference, in less than a week he’d grown old. It was like he’d fallen into the gravity well of some neutron star, his flesh pulled like taffy toward its center, his bones thinned and compressed.  
    Bart’s face, too, was a mix of revulsion and wonder.  
    He’s having the same reaction that I am, I thought, except in reverse.
    We slowly stepped toward each other. Then he ran his hand through his sparse gray hair, and the gesture was so familiar to me, such a “Bart-ism”, that joy and memory surged through me. Without thinking I bolted forward for a hug.  
    Bart let out an almost girlish squeal and backpedaled away. There was a tense moment as we regarded each other from opposite sides of the mortal divide.
    “Christ,” I said, finally. “You got old and fat.”
    He nodded, registering the professionally administered bruises on my face. He shook his head, not needing to be told from whence they’d come.
    “They’ll be gone in a day or so, I’m told,” I said. “Courtesy of the Shift.”
    Bart visibly willed away a shiver. He looked back, suddenly conscious of the patrol cops that were openly laughing our way. They were cracking wise to each other in that taunting manner only truly mastered by urban natives. Yeah, we’re talking about you, fuck face. Wanna do something about it?
    “Uh, Donner. What say we go down the street?”

    ***

    Lefty’s was a grimy boxcar that had been ready for the scrap heap a century ago. Its interior had been enlivened with mirrors and police memorabilia, but it didn’t help much.
    Lefty had been an ex-cop who’d washed out on the detective exam, drifted to foot patrol for a couple years, then gratefully bailed when, during a budget crunch, the city had offered an early retirement package. His nickname came from legends about how once, on a solitary stakeout, he’d jerked off in his undercover car—but with his non-dominant hand, so his right paw was free in case he needed his Glock. Hence, Lefty.
    Bart led me to the darkest corner, next to a window sill decorated with mummified flies. We settled into a booth of cracked red leatherette.
    I’d spent many nights in this very place, winding down from a tour of duty. Coming to Lefty’s to depressurize with my crew was as much a part of the job as putting on my gun and shield.  
    There were only three items of discussion at Lefty’s—sports, women, and the job. The pussy talk was endless and inventive. The more disgusting the better. Topics for discussion were what secretary from the three-seven was a copsucker; what assistant DA was a dyke. I’d mostly kept quiet and drank my beer as the night wore on and the garrulous voices grew louder. When lured into an evaluation of a set of tits, I’d just wiggle my wedding ring at them, and they’d punch my arm and call me whipped.  
    Don’t know