Shaw. North felt back, found the safety pin, and worked it loose. Part of him wanted to smile. Part of him was measuring a rope for Shaw’s neck.

“It’s trash. Give it here, I’ll throw it away.”

The disgust on his father’s face was so visible that North could have seen it from the International Space Station. David McKinney crumpled the wrapper and pitched it at the kitchen floor, ignoring North’s outstretched hand.

North found two Budweisers in the fridge; there was also a half head of iceberg that was dissolving into a black puddle and a chunk of Limburger cheese vanishing into a fuzz of green. He took one Bud. Then he took the second and went back.

The TV was now on ESPN, and highlights from the most recent Cardinals game were being discussed. North’s father accepted the beer, opened it, and took a long drink. He wiped his mouth and adjusted the cannula after he pulled the can away and said, “Matheny is absolute shit. He’s got Carpenter. He’s got Molina. And he still can’t do shit.”

North wormed his thumb under the Bud’s pull tab. You always come back upset. He dragged his finger away, leaving the can sealed, and wiped condensation from the aluminum.

They watched the show for maybe twenty minutes, and North couldn’t have repeated a word of it. He just kept working his thumb under the blue pull tab and then dragging himself away.

“So. Are you still a detective?”

“I’m still working there, yeah.”

“Working there? That was your fucking business. That was your fucking job, you built it.” David McKinney shuddered through another of those tearing coughs, and his mouth worked around what he probably wanted to say. North could imagine the way David McKinney told the story around the three-legged card table to his union buddies. That rich pussy faggot. That’s who David McKinney blamed. It was all because of that rich pussy faggot. “Now you’ve got that rich kid calling the shots—”

“He’s not calling the shots, Dad. We’re partners.”

“Partners.”

“And my license is suspended, so if it weren’t for Shaw, we’d have to close up.”

“You’re out working. You’re out busting your ass like I taught you. And what’s he doing? Sitting in that fucking house he bought with cash, sitting on his thumb, I bet, while you’re out doing all the work.”

“That’s not how it is.”

“If you remember Frank Crane, he was asking about you. He said he’s still got a pipefitter’s card with your name on it.”

“This is my job.”

“Your job.” He pounded back the rest of the beer. Those cement-water eyes blinked several times as though taking snapshots of North. “So what do you want?”

“It’s not—”

“You came here, didn’t you? So you must want something?”

“I need Ronnie’s help with something.”

“With what?”

“Finding somebody.”

“This part of a case? Or is this something for—” He fumbled with the cigar, jabbing the burning point against the air as though he wished he could brand Shaw with it.