“Let me think. Have you heard anything about Major?”

“Nothing. You saw it?”

“From a hundred and fifty feet. A white Lincoln. Two guys.” Devlin watched Mr. Karposi’s Sarcoma shuffle toward the men’s room. He was in terrible pain. Devlin shuddered. He had problems? “The driver had dark receding hair and slightly puffy cheeks. Thirty-eight or forty. Dark eyes. I didn’t get any part of the license plate.”

“Are you going to turn yourself in?”

“No. I have a better chance out here. But Eileen doesn’t, and tell Kevin I said so. You’re right, let’s get it in the record.”

“Okay. There are some other things. One story being circulated—and checked out—is that Jack Brennan was going after the mob, and that somehow you were tied into his plans.”

“Nonsense.”

“Of course. I’ve been with you night and day for two and a half years. When? When did you do this?” John cleared his throat. “The other thing, which is not being checked out, is that old Jim Brennan was an extremely tough customer in his young manhood, and that at the time a lot of people thought he was involved with the heaviest hitters of the period. This was the thirties.”

“Who told you this?”

John smiled. “My father. I asked him for details. He said that a lot of people who were usually well informed thought Jim Brennan was a very dirty guy. Capable of anything.”

Devlin stood up and put three dollars on the table. “You have to know the history of the bus business in this city to understand how people of the time would think that. No apologies for the old man, but it was very rough. And a long time ago. Anybody left alive from those days is in the same shape as Brennan.” Devlin was trying to keep his eyes off Mr. Karposi’s Sarcoma as he returned from the men’s room. The man knew he was all but dead. What did he think? What did he feel?

“The point my father was trying to make was that he wouldn’t be surprised if Joe Brennan was murdered, too.”

“Joe Brennan drowned.”

“Yeah, and he was a terrific swimmer, too. Something to think about.”

“I’ll get back to you later.”

“Be safe,” John said, moving in front of Devlin in the bar. Mr. Karposi’s Sarcoma impaled them with his stare in the yellowed mirror as he remounted his stool. Instinctively Devlin looked away. The guy was angry; he had heard them. Saying what? He had not been able to hear the fear of death in their voices. That’s right, Devlin thought, as he stepped out into the rain again. The guy had heard only life—life-loving.

That thought made Devlin want to be more alert and wary.