The second book in the Dismas Hardy series, 1990

At 2:15 on a Wednesday afternoon in late September, Dismas Hardy sat on the customer side of the bar at the Little Shamrock and worked the corners of his dart flights with a very fine emery board. A pint of Guinness, pulled a quarter of an hour ago, had lost its head and rested untouched in the bar’s gutter. Hardy whistled tonelessly, as happy as he’d been in ten years.

He’d opened the bar at 1:00 P.M. sharp and had served a bottle of Miller Draft to Tommy, a regular who’d retired from schoolteaching some years back and who now spent most afternoons by the large picture window, talking to whoever would listen. But today Tommy told Hardy he had an appointment and left after one beer. Tommy was all right, but being left alone didn’t break Hardy’s heart.

Hardy finished one flight and raised his head. He took the Guinness and sipped at it. Through the window over Tommy’s table, light traffic passed on Lincoln Blvd. Across the street, the evergreens and eucalyptus that bordered Golden Gate Park shimmered in a light breeze. There had been no fog that morning, and Hardy guessed the breeze would still be warm. If you want summer in San Francisco, plan your vacation for the fall.

A bus pulled up across the street and stopped. When it pulled away, it left a man standing, lost looking, at the corner.

A minute later, the double doors swung open; Hardy scooped up his flights and swung himself around the end of the bar. He stood behind the porcelain beer taps and nodded at the customer.

If it was a customer. At first glance, the man didn’t bring to mind visions of bankrolls and limousines. Whether he had sufficient money for a beer seemed questionable. His shirt was open at the collar and frayed badly. His baggy pants needed pressing. Under a forehead that went all the way back, eyes squinted adjusting to the relative darkness of the bar, although the Shamrock was no cave. He needed a shave.