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asked where I lived and I told her over the Flamingo, and she thought that was even funnier, and I was, uh . . . if I’d felt better I might have hit her then and there . . .” McGuire grinned at Fox. “Jesus, Timmy, I just handed you an incriminating statement then, didn’t I?”
    â€œSure as shit did,” Donovan said from the corner. “Keep talkin’ like that, we’ll have your whole history nailed down.”
    McGuire shrugged. “My life is an open pamphlet.”
    â€œYou didn’t hit her?” Tim Fox asked.
    â€œNo. But I wanted to.”
    â€œWhat stopped you?”
    â€œGuess I’m out of shape.”
    â€œSo what’d you do?”
    â€œGot up and walked away and she went back to the photographer and the models.”
    â€œEddie Vance could use that statement to build a charge against you.”
    â€œLet him.”
    â€œYou don’t seem worried about it.”
    â€œI’m not. Nothing Eddie can do’ll worry me.”
    Fox grinned. “Yeah, well, Fat Eddie’s his own worst enemy.”
    McGuire arched his eyebrows and smiled. “Not while I’m around.”
    There was a knock at the door and a uniformed sergeant leaned into the room. “Got a message for you guys,” he said, speaking to Fox and Donovan but unable to keep his eyes from the shrunken figure of McGuire.
    Tim Fox looked at Donovan and angled his head. Donovan sighed and followed the sergeant out of the room and into the hall. When the door closed Fox stood up, took a step closer to McGuire, leaned from the waist and asked, “So what happened to you, Joe?”
    McGuire sighed and allowed himself a smile. “I screwed up.”
    Fox shook his head sadly. “Last I heard you were down in the Bahamas mixing Martinis, living the good life. When we got the word about you, bunch of us up here, we figured you scored a big one, you lucked out.”
    â€œFor awhile.” McGuire leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, avoiding the other man’s eyes. “For a while I did.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œTold you. I screwed up.”
    â€œLot of guys screw up, but they manage to land on their feet.”
    The door swung open abruptly and Donovan was standing there, a sheet of paper in his hand.
    â€œHe’s charged,” Donovan said.
    Fox scowled at him. “What the fuck you talking about?”
    Donovan waved the paper back and forth as though taunting a bull. “Higgins got a briefing from Fat Eddie, says there’s enough to book him. All in here.”
    â€œHiggins still P.A.?” McGuire asked calmly, and Fox nodded.
    â€œIt’s a bullshit decision,” Fox said, half to Donovan and half to McGuire.
    â€œNeed your shoelaces and your belt,” Donovan said to McGuire as he entered the room, the sergeant and two whistles behind him.
    McGuire bent over and began untying his shoes, Tim Fox watching sadly, McGuire fumbling with the laces.
    McGuire was held on suspicion of the murder of Heather Arlene Lorenzo, age 38, resident of 206A Newbury Street, occupation: photographer’s agent. He was ordered held in custody pending further investigation. He endured a strip search, a fitting for a pair of oversized blue coveralls and being locked into handcuffs and shackles. The young driver of the police van that transported him and two sullen black men in their twenties to holding cells in the jail on Nashua Street called him Pops, and McGuire smiled and ducked his head without responding.
    Inside the brick walls of the jail reception area, McGuire emerged from the van and leaned unsteadily against the vehicle before retching violently while the black men watched blankly and the van driver made a joke about prison food.
    He was photographed, fingerprinted and led down a narrow corridor to his cell, where he collapsed on the cot and listened to the slam of the cell door echo and decay.
    In the cell facing him were