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touch of tolerance that was at best a sign of temporary peace. Phil was a little taller than me, a little broader, a few years old, and a lot heavier. His close-cut steely hair was a magnet for his thick, strong fingers. He scratched constantly, whether from dandruff, habit, or perplexity I was never sure, and I had seen him doing this for more than thirty years. He was my brother.
    He sighed. That was the friendliest he could be to me. I responded by making no bad jokes. The war had brought us to a truce. I had even lost the chance to give my running rub of asking about his wife Ruth and the kids. I lost it by actually visiting them on December 7 and doing a rotten job of hiding the soft touch I was for his new baby, Lucy, who reduced me to stupid grins. Phil was almost fifty, too old for kids, like Lugosi, but since I didn’t have any, I kept my mouth shut.
    Phil wasn’t too great at dealing with adults. His impulse was usually to use his fists. I had learned that as a kid and bore the nose to prove it. As a cop he had grown no more mellow. Crime was personal with him. Criminals ate into his free time, committed crimes just to make his life difficult, murdered, raped, and went on rampages just to keep him angry and busy. Being a cop wasn’t just a job for Phil; it was a vendetta, a vendetta he could never win. There were a lot more of them than there were of him, and he usually associated me with the criminals, with working for potential and accused criminals. Even if my clients proved to be innocent part of the time, according to Phil it wasn’t worth the effort.
    â€œYou’re working the Faulkner case?” he asked, looking back at his file.
    â€œRight,” I said.
    â€œThere’s no case to work,” he said, standing up and loosening his already loose tie. He tapped the thin file on the desk. “He did it. Two eyewitnesses, the victim’s wife and the victim himself before he died.”
    â€œWilliam Faulkner murdered someone?”
    â€œI just said that,” continued Phil, looking at me with growing impatience.
    â€œDo you know who he is?” I asked.
    Phil’s face turned red, starting at his neck and going up.
    â€œI’m busy, but I’m not illiterate,” he said. “I don’t give a crap and a holler if he’s the pope.” Phil pointed at me. “He did in a citizen and he’s going up for it. Leib can pull his strings downtown, and you can pull your tricks, and this whole thing can stay tight for a few days, but it’s going to blow and he is going over.”
    The rage that festered beneath Phil’s uncalm exterior sometimes boiled into the air and threatened the closest person, who was frequently me.
    â€œHold it, Phil,” I said soothingly. “I’m just doing a job.”
    â€œRead the report,” he said with a grunt, “but don’t sit behind my desk. I’m going out for a coffee. Cawelti will bring Faulkner up here.”
    â€œThanks,” I said to the closing door. It had been the most civil conversation I had had with my brother in years.
    I picked up the file and pulled the report. The file had a few statements by witnesses and the coroner and a report by the detective in charge, Cawelti. I sat in the chair opposite Phil’s desk and started to put my feet up, then remembered what had happened the last time Phil had caught me with my feet on his desk. I almost wound up two inches shorter, which I could ill afford. The report was good and Faulkner was surely in trouble.
    â€œReport—Detective Officer John Cawelti, Wilshire.
    â€œAt 9:20 p.m. on January 3, 1942 I was called to 3443 Benedict Canyon in Beverly Hills. I arrived just after the ambulance. Doctor, Bengt Lidstrom of County, said victim, Jacques Shatzkin of that address, was dead. Three bullets in chest. Officer Steven Bowles was on site and said he had been called. Bowles (report attached) arrived before Shatzkin died.