Hardy grinned. It was an old joke. “Attorney then-you still an attorney?”

Like a flame trying to catch on a wick, the smile flickered back. Hardy was getting the feeling Ingraham hadn’t spoken to a soul in a long while. “I still have that distinction.” He paused. “Though I rarely stand upon the ‘Esquire’ in correspondence, and as you can see”-he gestured at his clothing-“my practice is in a hiatus.” He drank again, like a drinking man but not hungrily, not like an alcoholic. There was a difference, and Hardy was keyed to it.

“You do this full-time?”

Hardy’s eyes swept the room, proprietary. “Nine years now. I own a quarter of the place.”

“That’s great. And you’re still with Jane?”

“Well, we got divorced once, but we’re going at it again.” He shrugged. “I’m confident but cautious.”

“Yep. You always were.”

“So what about you? I noticed you came by on the bus.”

Their eyes met a moment, then the flame of Rusty’s smile went out. “I got my car stolen a month ago. It’s still gone. A major hassle. So I spend a lot of time waiting for the N-Godot.”

Hardy liked that. The N-Judah, which ran behind the Shamrock, was a notoriously slow line.

“Otherwise, you pretty much see it, Diz. I hang out. I live in a barge down at China Basin. Chase an ambulance every month or two, hit a good nag now and then. I’ve still got one good suit. I get my shoes shined and for a day or two I can get by.”

He tipped up his glass and asked Hardy if he could buy him one. He put a ten-dollar bill in the gutter. Hardy refilled them both but didn’t grab the bill.

“Actually, Diz, I came by here today for a reason. You remember Louis Baker?”

Hardy frowned. He remembered Louis Baker. “Eight aggravated to thirteen?”

“Nine and a half, it turns out.”

“Nine and a half,” Hardy repeated. “Hardly worth the effort.”