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of a stubborn breed. If you let the world push you around, you’ll never get anywhere.”
    “The law is a pretty hard pusher.”
    “You’ve got to understand something else,” Eric said.
    “I’m listening.”
    “Carl has never really fit in. Did my mom tell you about his almost getting married?”
    “She said that when the girl left, he started drinking a lot.”
    “She doesn’t really know why the girl left,” Eric said.
    “He beat her up?”
    “Nothing like that. Carl is gay.”
    I said nothing.
    “It hasn’t exactly worked out for him,” Eric said. “That’s why he drinks. I mean, I think because his love life hasn’t exactly
     worked out. He’s really kind of lonely.”
    “Are you sure Carl wants you to be telling me all this?”
    “I’m telling you because he won’t tell you himself, and it may help explain some things, and why he drinks so much, and gets
     depressed.”
    “Eric, your brother’s sexual preference is not relevant to the drunk driving charge. And the law doesn’t care why he drinks.
     There’s no sympathy factor in a DUI. It’s merciless.”
    “That completely bites,” he said.
    “There’s no question he was over the limit. Unless I can find a way to beat the machine, there’s no reason to go into who
     he was drinking with or why. This is a very limited set of facts we have here.”
    “I’m just trying to get you to see,” Eric said. “Carl always seems to come up on the short end. I thought getting him this
     job in Hollywood would help.”
    “What job?”
    “That big office-building project, between Cahuenga and Ivar, south of Sunset.”
    “What’s your line of work?” I said.
    “Electrician,” he said. “Major industrial. I’m the sub on that, and Carl freelances in cement, from pour to finish. So I hooked
     him up with another sub. He liked it that we’d be together on this thing, even though not at the same time. But I just wish
     he wouldn’t drink so much. Beat this rap, will you?”
    I wondered when the last time was that somebody actually used the phrase
beat this rap.
    “Believe me, I’ll do my best,” I said.
    “Thanks,” Eric said. “That’s all I’m asking.” He turned and walked toward his car.
    I checked my watch. Almost eleven-thirty. I was in Hollywood, so I drove down the boulevard to Musso & Frank. I found a meter
     in front, fed it, went in, and sat at the counter. And ordered liver and onions.
    That’s what I said.
    My mom used to make liver and onions, and I always liked it. With ketchup. The old waiter—there is no other kind at Musso’s—gave
     me a plate of sourdough bread and a dish with butter pats. He asked if I needed anything else.
    “Ketchup,” I said. “For the liver.”
    He leaned over, and with a slight Hungarian accent said, “Don’t tell the chef.” Then added, conspiratorially, “I like it that
     way, too.”

18
    A COUPLE OF weeks went by. I thought about Sister Mary in the wilds of Kentucky. I thought about Kimberly Pincus in the wilds of L.A.
     courtrooms.
    And on the Friday before Carl’s pre-trial hearing I was at the Sip, thinking about the laws of the State of California. When
     it comes to DUI, they are like the jaws of death. I had my laptop and was looking at the vehicle code. For something, anything,
     that I could argue on behalf of Carl Richess.
    It was while I was lost in this vast desert of legal sanctions that Pick suddenly appeared at my table and said, “The canary
     is dead.”
    I looked up. “Excuse me?”
    “The canary! In the coal mine. You know about that?”
    “Sure,” I said. “I grew up in a coal mining family. From West Virginia. The strike of ’ninety-four was—”
    “Shut up! I mean the
canary has died.
In our civic life! The poison gas is unleashed. Did you see this?” He slapped the front page of the
Los Angeles Daily News
on the table. I looked at it.
    The headline said that our mayor was suspected of having an affair with a local radio reporter. It was