I called Christine and let out some steam. Then, on the spur of the moment, I asked if she could get away for our long weekend, possibly starting on Thursday night. Christine said that she could go. I went and filled out a vacation form and left it on Fred Cook’s desk. It was the last thing he and Pittman would expect from me. But I’d already decided the best thing would be to get away from here, cool down, then figure out a plan to move forward.

As I headed out of the building, another detective stopped me. “They’re over at Hart’s bar,” he said. “Sampson said to tell you they reserved a seat for you.”

Hart’s is a very seedy, very popular gin mill on Second Street. It isn’t a cops’ bar, which is why some of us like it. It was eleven in the morning, and the barroom was already crowded, lively, even friendly.

“Here he is!” Jerome Thurman saluted me with a half-full beer mug as I walked inside. Half a dozen other detectives and friends were there, too. The word had gotten around fast about the suspensions.

There was a whole lot of laughter and shouting going on. “It’s a bachelor’s party!” Sampson said, and grinned. “Got you, sugar. With a little help from Nana. You should see the look on your face!”

For the next hour and a half, friends kept arriving at Hart’s. By noon the bar was full, and then the regular customers started coming in for their lunch-hour nips. The owner, Mike Hart, was in his glory. I hadn’t really thought about having a bachelor’s party, but now that I was in the middle of one, I was glad it happened. A lot of men still guard their emotions and feelings, but not so much at a bachelor’s party, at least not at a good one thrown by the people closest to you.

This was a good one. The suspensions that had been handed down earlier that morning were mostly forgotten for a few hours. I was congratulated and hugged more times than I could count, and even kissed once or twice. Everybody was calling me “sugar,” following Sampson’s lead. The “love” word was used, and overused. I was roasted and toasted in sentimental speeches that seemed hilarious at the time. Just about everybody had too much to drink.

By four in the afternoon, Sampson and I were steadying each other, making our way into the blinding daylight on Second Street. Mike Hart himself had called us a cab.

For a brief, clear moment, I was reminded of the purple and blue gypsy cab we were looking for — but then the thought evaporated into the nearly white sunlight.