He stopped at the door, turned, raised a finger to make a point, then decided against it and disappeared into the hallway.

Lou the Greek’s was a restaurant and watering hole for cops and D.A.s, across the street from the Hall of Justice. Lou was married to a Chinese woman who did the cooking, so the place served an eclectic menu of egg rolls, chow mein, shaslik, rice pilaf, hot and sour soup, baklava and fortune cookies. Occasionally Lou’s special would be something like Kung Pao pita pockets or pot-sticker kabobs.

There were two bars, standing room only, at the front and back walls. Now, at five-thirty, the din was ferocious. An arm-wrestling contest was going on in the center of the room, twenty or thirty cops screaming, trying to get their bets in.

Drysdale and Glitsky huddled over an ancient Pong machine by the back door. Hardy pushed his way through the crowd. Drysdale was ahead, eight to six. Neither of the men looked up.

‘Boo,’ Hardy said.

Glitsky looked up for an instant, but it was long enough for the blip to get by him. ‘Damn.’

‘Nine six,’ Drysdale said. ‘Gotta pay attention.’

‘Just play,’ Glitsky growled.

Hardy watched the blip move back and forth. Both of these guys were good, playing at the master level, and the blip really moved. Hardy went to the bar, elbowed his way in and ordered a pint of cranberry juice, lots of ice.

Back at the Pong game, Glitsky glowered in defeat. Drysdale sat back in his chair, legs crossed, savoring a beer. Hardy squatted, checking out the final score of eleven to six. ‘You owe me five bucks,’ Glitsky told him.

Drysdale sipped his beer. ‘He never beats me anyway. I wouldn’t pay him.’

‘Can we talk about the hand?’

‘What hand?’

Hardy looked at Drysdale. ‘What hand, he says.’

Drysdale ran it down for Abe, who had spent the day interviewing family members of a murdered old man. The hand wasn’t the most compelling item of the day for him.