Heading up Queens Boulevard, still almost a half an hour early for his appointment with Major, Devlin felt a different kind of anxiety crawling into his belly, one he recognized so quickly that he shivered with the recognition: Liz. Their long and painful ending in 1981 had had the two of them hoping to the last minutes that they could work back to what had been a luminous, joyous beginning. Rebeginning. Devlin had lied to himself about her, he knew now. He had wanted love in his life just that much. He hadn’t been able to face it, pursuing their early golden moments like a junkie chasing the dragon of the first wonderful high. Devlin knew that Liz had loved him probably as much, in her own way, as truly, as any woman ever had loved him. But Liz had no control over herself, never having been forced to look into her behavior as he had had to confront and accept his alcoholism. He’d told her as much as he had about the Brennans because of her badgering curiosity. With him, in too many ways, Liz Becker had been a dynamo of need, overpowering in her weakness. Even though he had known her for decades, it was not until his first days and nights alone again with her that he had seen how much like Maryellen she was. 1979. Older then, sober, Devlin had thought he could handle it.

As things turned out, the answer was, No.

11:03 A.M. …

11:03 A.M. …

The new Greek joint was decorated in blond wood-grain Formica and a wallpaper featuring giant tropical leaves. On a day like today, even with the hearty $4.95 Businessman’s Special steaming the windows, the place felt like a tree house for grownups where, if you listened creatively, the clink of flatware on the heavy china could sound like raindrops jarring a childhood dream. Today’s Businessman’s Special was pot roast with horseradish, beets, and mashed potatoes, and Devlin was almost tempted. Pot roast had been a staple of the Greek joints of Queens since Devlin had been a child. No Major, but that was okay. The law aside, a bookmaker was a much more important person in a New York neighborhood than a cop who only lived there and didn’t cover the territory.

Inside himself, Devlin was gliding through a patch of smooth water, resisting interpreting events or the possibly imagined tone in Vito Mariano’s voice. Devlin thought he remembered Major saying he sat in a booth in the rear, where a booth was empty, but Devlin chose to wait in the front of the restaurant near the window. If he took the booth now, the counterman would probably try to shoo him, forcing Devlin to say loud enough for others to hear: I’m waiting for Major. Major wouldn’t like that; in fact, Major might even think Devlin was losing his grip.