“…was predicted for later this evening, but it started around noon, and we already have a foot of snow on the streets, with at least twenty inches expected by the wee hours of tomorrow morning. Kennedy, La Guardia, and Newark Airports closed at midafternoon, so nothing is flying into or out of the city until further notice. The Port Authority predicted that no flights would be moving until noon tomorrow.”

“Shit,” Stone said aloud. “Okay, you can turn the volume down again.”

“What you care, boss?” the bartender asked, turning down the TV. “You already here.”

“Yeah, but my girl isn’t. She was due to leave at four this afternoon.”

“Bad luck, boss,” the man said.

“Where are you from?” Stone asked.

“Born right here on St. Marks, boss.”

“Funny, you sound Bahamian. You shining me on with that accent?”

The man grinned. “You’re too good for me, pal.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Thomas Hardy, like the writer.” Now the accent was more island British, with an extra, familiar layer.

Stone shook his hand. “Do I hear a little New York in there somewhere?”

“Lived in Brooklyn a long time; worked all over the city.”

“I’m Stone Barrington; I’m on a charter yacht over at the marina.”

“That’s kind of a familiar name,” Thomas said.

“Don’t know why; it’s my first time in St. Marks.”

“Were you ever a cop?”

Stone blinked in surprise. “I was, mostly in the Nineteenth Precinct. Have we ever met?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, but I heard about you. I was walking a beat in the Village when you left the force; everybody was talking about you, said you got a bad deal.”

“I can’t complain,” Stone said. “I left with the full pension after fourteen years.”

“Yeah, but you took some lead with you, huh?”

“They got it out. What are you doing in St. Marks?”

“I was born here, like I said. My mama moved to New York when I was a kid. I joined the force, did my twenty, and brought my savings and my pension down here and put it to work.”

“This your place?”

“Lock, stock, and liquor license.”

“How long you been at it?”

“Six and a half years.”

“Business good?”

“Not bad; a little better every year. That blizzard in the Northeast is going to cost me, though. A lot of people will be in your girl’s shoes.”

“I guess so.” Stone sighed. “I was looking forward to a more romantic week than this. Where can I make a phone call?”

Thomas reached under the bar, pulled out a phone, and set it on the bar. “I charge the tourists a buck a minute, but for an old cop, I’ll just put what they charge me on your tab. Got a fax machine, too, if you should need one.”

“Thanks.” Stone called his home number.

“Hello?”