“That’s great, no nicotine. And you’re already doing PT with bikes and weights. Keep at that. You have to build up the muscles and the nerves that go with them. And there’s diet—cut the caffeine, cut the fat, cut the salt. Vegetables, greens, more chicken and fish, less red meat.”

“Already on that one, doc.” Pat thought of all the flavorless, skinless chicken breasts his wife, Anne, had stacked in the freezer. Miserable.

“Attaboy. So, Pat, I’ll be honest—this condition will frustrate you. Some days it will flare up and you will think you’re a cripple. And then a few days where it goes away. You need to be ready for that. I’m not trying to give you false hope, but the right outlook and regimen can add years to your life. This is not great news, but it’s not a death sentence. It’s a fight against decline.”

Pat stood again. The feeling in his leg was returning. He took five quick, hinky steps to the pay phone at the back of Sweeney’s. Reilly in his absence freshened his drink. Pat plunked down on the bench and fished in his pockets for a quarter. Billy worked for Ma Bell, now called NYNEX, and Pat pulled the number for his Wall Street office from the blue pages.

“The homecoming of Patrick Francis Fitzgerald Aloysius Xavier Malone.” Billy sounded ready to ring the bell, and Pat felt mortified. “What do you say, boyo?”

“Bill, I’m so sorry, but they’re riding us tonight.”

“Ah, that’s awful. Where you calling from?”

“Uh, I’m at Sweeney’s, a few of us stepped out for a beer before we head back into a night session.”

“Okay . . .”

“Sorry, Bill, dinner’s out. I’m stuck with a bunch of Chicken Littles here. The fare wars and all that—and we’re running around like chickens without heads.”

“That’s a lot of chickens. You okay, Pat? You sound . . . tired.”

Bill knew, and Pat knew he knew.

“I’ll be fine, I’m tired of this crap with chickenshit management.” He followed that one with a hollow laugh. “Sorry. But we’ll prevail. Listen, I’ll be back up soon enough, and we’ll get together. I want to hear how Billy’s doing. What’s he playing these days?”

“He’s fierce at field hockey. The Villanova coach came up to scout—”

“What the hell is field hockey?” Too sharp, off-key. Get off the phone, Malone.

“It’s like hurling—remember when Uncle Aiden would play hurling up at Iona?”

“Ah, so sticks and drinking, then. Followed by beatings, no doubt.”

“Not quite, cuz. How’s Anne and Dan?”

“The queen and the prince live life without surcease, sir.” Christ, I sound unfunny. “Listen, I’m sorry, give my love to Josephine.”