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played havoc with Bryan’s sleep patterns.
    They walked down Union toward the corner of Mason Street. There lay the Trattoria Contadina restaurant. According to Tryon’s info, one Pete “the Fucking Jew” Goldblum had been seen there several times.
    “Bri-Bri, know what’s bugging me?”
    “That Polyester Rich has our case?”
    “You’re psychic,” Pookie said. “You should be one of those fortune-tellers.”
    “Just leave it alone.”
    Like hell Pookie would leave it alone. Why would the chief want her best two inspectors off the Maloney case? It just didn’t make any sense. Maybe it had something to do with whatever was under that blue tarp.
    Paul Maloney had deserved a lot of bad things, but not murder. His end couldn’t be considered
justice
, no matter what crimes he’d committed. Maloney had been tried and convicted by a jury of his peers — the court’s punishments had not included the death sentence.
    Bryan coughed, then spit a nasty glob of yellow phlegm onto the sidewalk.
    “Lovely,” Pookie said. “Maybe you
are
sick.”
    “Maybe,” Bryan said. “You should be a detective or something.”
    They passed San Francisco Evangelical Church. After arriving from Chicago ten years ago, Pookie had given that one a whirl. Not his taste. He’d tried several churches before finding his home at Glide Memorial. Pookie preferred his sermons served up with a side of soul music and a touch of R&B.
    He realized he was walking alone. He looked back. Bryan was standing there, his face in his hands, slowly moving his head side to side like he was trying to shake away a thought.
    “Bri-Bri, you sure you’re okay?”
    Bryan looked up, blinked. He cleared his throat, let lose another goober-rocket, then nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”
    Trattoria Contadina was only a block away from Washington Square. Concierges knew the restaurant and sent tourists there to dine, but for the most part the place belonged to the locals. Simple white letters on a dingy-green, bird-crap-strewn awning spelled out the corner restaurant’s name along both Union and Mason. A bell over the door rang as Bryan and Pookie walked inside.
    The smell of meat, sauce and cheese smacked Pookie in the face. He’d forgotten about the place and made a mental note to come back soon for dinner — the eggplant antipasti was so good you’d slap your sister to get some. And Pookie liked his sister.
    About half of the linen-covered tables were full, couples and groups talking and laughing to the accompaniment of clinking silverware. Pookie was about to pull out the pictures Tryon had provided when Bryan lightly elbowed him, then nodded toward the back corner. It took Pookie a second to recognize the half-lidded eyes of Pete Goldblum, who was sitting with two other men.
    Pookie walked to the table. Bryan followed, just a step behind. That was the way they handled things. Even though Bryan was smaller, he was kind of the “heavy” of the partnership. Pookie did most of the talking until the time for talking had passed, then Bryan took over. The Terminator had a coldness about him that people couldn’t ignore.
    Pookie stopped at the table. “Peter Goldblum?”
    All three men looked up with that stare, the one that said
we know you’re a cop and we don’t fucking like cops
. They all wore suits. That was unusual; the era of the well-dressed mafioso had largely passed by.Nowadays, dressing flashy was for gangbangers — most of the really powerful guys dressed as inconspicuously as possible.
    Goldblum finished chewing a mouthful of food and swallowed it down. “Who’s asking?”
    “I’m Inspector Chang.” Pookie showed his badge. He tilted his head toward Bryan. “This is Inspector Clauser. We’re with Homicide, looking into the murder of Teddy Ablamowicz.”
    Bryan walked around to the other side of the table. The three men watched him, their attention naturally drawn to the more dangerous-looking of the two cops.
    The man sitting