"Hello, Mr. McGill."

"You remember my name."

"That's a bartender's job, isn't it?" Lucy had very nice teeth.

"It used to be that Republicans believed in less government, and people all over the world saw America as the land of opportunity. Things change."

"I guess I'm a throwback, then. Three Hennesseys straight up?"

"You're a relic."

While the thirtyish bartender went to fetch the brandy I turned my mind toward yet another reason I came to that bar: whenever I find myself in serious trouble, I take a time-out and try to fill in the shady areas with reason.

It wasn't the murder that bothered me. I didn't know the dead woman and I hadn't had anything to do with her, or her apparent killer's, death. Alphonse Rinaldo most certainly didn't know that she was dead. He might have been worried about her but he didn't kill her. And even if I gave the police the name and office address of my client they would have never even seen his face. They would get a call from the chief of police to lay off that avenue of inquiry and that would be that.

I didn't know, for a fact, who the dead woman was, but that didn't bother me either. I had done my job.

No, I hadn't done anything wrong as far as the deaths or my responsibility to the NYPD was concerned. Legally I was covered.

"Here you go, Mr. McGill," Lucy said.

She placed three amber-filled and extremely fragile cylinders of glass before me. I picked up one and tilted it at the sky beyond the ceiling.

A siren passed by outside.

"Was it a good friend?"

"You are old school," I said to Lucy.

"I don't know," she said. "I think anybody could see that you're going through a ritual with these drinks. You don't come here to meet people or to pick up girls. I pay attention, because you're the sweetest drunk I've ever had in here."

"You're gonna make me blush, child."