“Were you like this?” he asked Devlin. “Really? Tell me the truth, for Christ’s sake.”

“Worse in every way,” Devlin answered, permitting himself to block momentarily the most vivid parts of the memory.

“Is that what happened to your marriage?”

“Yes and no. Yes, I was a son of a bitch. How about you, Tom? Are you a son of a bitch?”

Tom’s lip twisted again. Devlin had to backpedal. He didn’t want a lot of boohooing, he wanted a decision. No matter what, he was going to see that Tom was put inside and given a chance to dry out—but without a decision, Tom would be out again before the end of the week, wandering from bottle to bottle like a dog sniffing his way from tree to tree.

“How long did it take you to get straightened out?”

“I’ll let you know when I get there, kid.” Devlin took Tom’s clammy arm. “It’s one day at a time, as I’m sure you’ve heard before.” He started to lift Tom to his feet. “Look at me. You’ve heard it before, haven’t you?”

“Yes. One day—Ah, fuck! Who can live like that?”

“Everybody does, Tom, whether they know it or not.” Tom was standing now with Devlin holding him mostly motionless. The towel fell to the floor, but Tom didn’t care. Mrs. Quinn’s eyes, wide, fixed on her husband’s exposed, limp penis. As if frozen to her spot, she made no move to cover her husband—standing in front of the others drunk, naked, and nothing to brag about. Lederer got the towel and held it in front of Tom. Tom rocked heavily, his head turned away from Devlin; just as well: Devlin didn’t want a noseful of Tom’s moist, bourbon breath. “Tom, it’s schmucks like us who don’t want to face the fact that life is a one-day-at-a-time proposition. You’re feeling sorry for yourself and you don’t even know why anymore.”

Tom nodded, but then abruptly he grew rigid. His hand came up to his throat, and he tried to swallow. Turning to Devlin, he stared, his eyes wide, surprised, as his larynx bobbed so suddenly that Devlin could hear it. Devlin knew what was happening, but he could not move out of the way without letting go of Tom, who could fall like a corpse and split his head open on the corner of a dresser or the edge of the bedframe. No good deed goes unpunished, Devlin thought ruefully. Tom’s eyes opened wider, more astonished, as his tongue, curled like the tip of a fortune cookie, protruded from the center of his bulging cheeks, and then faster and more copiously than Devlin could have imagined, Tom vomited all over the blue blazer, white shirt, red tie, tan slacks, and shined shoes of Francis Xavier Devlin III, Detective Third Grade, Shield number 67842, New York Police Department.