He rolled the window back up.

“All right,” Glitsky said, “you knew him.”

“Put it out of your mind, Abe. It flat didn’t happen.”

“I’m not arguing.”

But Hardy was staring into the middle distance again, unhear-ing. He abruptly jerked open the car door. “I better get going.” He turned to Abe. “I’ll probably be in touch.”

Hardy came up to the doors where he worked and pushed his way through. Moses, who hadn’t been home, was at the bar. Six closers-four at the rail and two at one table-were passing the time until last call. Willie Nelson was singing “Stardust” on the jukebox. No one was throwing darts. Hardy stood a minute, taking it in. Home, as much as anything could be.

“Hey, Diz.” Moses automatically started a Guinness for him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Sent Lynne home early. Felt like tending some bar.”

Hardy pulled up a stool in front of the spigots. Reaching over, he stopped the flow of the stout. The glass had gotten about two-thirds full.

“What am I supposed to do with that now?” Moses asked, his weathered face creased with laugh lines that Hardy knew wouldn’t get much use in the next weeks. “You losing weight again? You stop drinking Guinness, my business goes to hell.”

Hardy couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. He cleared his throat, took off his hat and put it on the bar. “You hear anything from Frannie tonight?”

Moses started to answer. “You know, it’s funny, she called here maybe-” Stopping short. “What happened?”

Hardy held up a hand. “She’s okay.”

Moses let out a breath. Frannie was about ninety percent of everything he cared about. “What, then?”

Hardy met his eyes. Okay, just say it, he told himself. But Moses asked. “Eddie okay? She called to see if he was here.”

“We gotta go up there, Mose. Eddie’s dead.”

Moses didn’t move. He squinted for a beat. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Dead?”