Francis showed up at the Riverview station shortly before ten o’clock, bleary eyed and unshaven. He’d rushed from Mass at Immaculate Heart of Mary and was somewhat relieved to see that Hickey, too, didn’t look like he’d slept. Francis usually didn’t work Sundays. Neither did Hickey. But every man at the park had been called in this morning.

“I want you to go to Robey Street later.” Hickey dropped the roster he’d been reading and gazed wearily across his desk at Francis. “Cabell’s meeting with the newspapers there around two o’clock. I want to know what he has to say.”

Francis’s jaw clenched. “Send Paterno. Or yourself. They’ll be expecting the captain, not me.”

“They’re expecting no one.” Hickey’s voice sounded like his throat had been scraped raw. “Not from here. I can’t leave the park, and you’re the only real sergeant I’ve got. You’ll know if Cabell is lying. Get a shave and some lunch before you go, and come see me after.”

Francis left, glaring at Paterno in the waiting room as he stormed out the door. He couldn’t find a barber open on Sunday, and his brief meeting with Hickey had killed his appetite. But he knew a hop joint that used to be a meeting place for reporters as well as cops. The cops had moved on after the saloon changed hands—good luck for Francis, who’d gotten into several brawls with former colleagues since he’d left the department.

The new owner was a taciturn Irishman known as Cue, short for Cue Ball, the weapon he’d used to kill a man back in Boston. He ran the place as a blind pig these days—the cops never bothered him, out of deference to the saloon’s legal past—but on Sundays Cue waited till noon to open, so he could attend Mass. A heavyset Irish boy sat on a box that blocked the entry, paring his nails with a shiv while he perused a newspaper. He glanced at Francis, then shifted the box, allowing Francis to enter.

Inside was dark as a confessional. A kerosene lantern gave off just enough light that Francis could see two other customers seated at separate tables, wizened men bent over glasses of beer or whiskey. He made his way through wooden crates and empty pickle barrels to the far wall and rapped four times on a worn panel. The panel slid open and Cue’s face peered out. Francis saw the bar counter behind his broad shoulders, and heavy drapes drawn across the window that fronted the street.

“Mr. Bacon.” Cue gave a nod of greeting. “What is your pleasure on a Sunday?” His breath smelled of coffee and pickled eggs.

“A whiskey.”