“I don’t know exactly. Seventy-four, I think, somewhere in there.”

“That’s too old for the drunk tank. You’ve got to come get him.”

Swearing to himself, by now completely awake, Mickey said, “All right. Put him on again, would you?” And then, after a short pause, “Jim. God damn it. I’m going to call Tam first. You just wait. Maybe she’ll beat me there and can walk you home.”

“She’s not home.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She went out.”

“Well, I’ll try her anyway. Meanwhile, you wait. Just sit there and have a club soda. Fish avoid club soda like the plague. The bubbles make ’em fart.”

Twenty minutes later, after double-parking around the corner, Mickey pushed his way through the door of the Little Shamrock, Jim’s local hangout.

One of the oldest bars in the city, founded in 1893, the Little Shamrock started out very narrow up by the front door. A couple of large picture windows facing Lincoln Boulevard let in some natural light. A bar with a dozen or so stools ran down the left side of the room, and on the right, in front, an eclectic selection of memorabilia, including an antique bicycle, black-and-white photos, old election posters, and a grandfather clock that had stopped during the Great Earthquake of 1906 hung on the wall. Halfway back, the place opened up slightly to accommodate dart players and a jukebox, and in the very back, under the faux Tiffany lamps, the room took on the look of a dilapidated old living room, with a couple of sagging couches facing a cluster of overstuffed easy chairs.

Jim Parr sat at the far end of the crowded bar with an empty glass in front of him. Maybe the bartender had coaxed him into something nonalcoholic after all. Jim was staring at the television set. His cheeks were wet. Excusing his way through the press, Mickey got back next to him and put a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder, gathering him in a half hug. He kissed him on the top of his cue-ball head. “Hey.”