Devlin moved. He had never heard of Captain Cummings, and he hadn’t heard anything warm or forgiving in his tone. Even in this circumstance, the man could turn out to be a real prick. Eileen’s answering machine clicked twice quickly as it rewound and erased the tape. Eileen’s bathroom door clicked, too, with her on the other side of it. Devlin would have liked another look at her. She was true black Irish, so Spanish-looking that all she needed was a pair of castanets. “Who gave you this number, by the way?”

“Your partner, John Lord.”

Cummings was some salesman. On Devlin’s day off, John usually told people to get another guy. “Go ahead.”

“He’s ready to go in now, but he wants you. She was working on him and mentioned you, and you’re the one he wants. Will you do this? I think he’s ready to face up to himself. I was on the phone with him this morning, and he couldn’t stop wailin’.”

The brother-in-law was only drunk enough for a crying jag—but that was plenty drunk.

“Do they have a place for him?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s been in touch with a group over there. It’s all set up. But he wants to talk to you. I guess he thinks there’s something you can tell him. I know this is asking a lot. Can she call and explain things to you?”

Devlin said sure and hung up. Any other week, he thought. Liberty Week had disrupted everything. Normally he was with Eileen every other night, but never Monday. On Monday nights Eileen visited her cousins in Bayside. On Monday nights, Devlin did the laundry, and while it was in the dryer, he walked up to Queens Boulevard to get straight with Major, his one-eyed bookmaker. This week Devlin was a winner. On Sunday he had taken Detroit in the first game, and the Mets and Houston, each for three units. This morning, he had noticed that Sid Fernandez was scheduled for tonight, and so he had gone for five units on the Mets. Major was good for the money—he was safer and more accurate than any bank. Devlin tapped on the bathroom door. “It’s twelve-step work.”

“Anything to give me a rest. Don’t come in.” The telephone started ringing again, and Devlin returned to the bedroom.

“If that’s her, she’s quick.”

“A woman? What happened to Captain Dan Cummings, of the One-twelve?”

She had lowered her voice in an attempt to imitate the guy. Devlin was standing over the telephone when he heard the bathroom door open again. Over his shoulder, he said, “Cummings’s sister, the client’s wife.”