“The phones are ringing off the hook—the pension fund took a major hit, and if tomorrow is like this, we’re gonna have problems. I can’t have you going MIA, Malone.”

“I swear to you . . .” An eighteen-wheeler on Lemmon roared by. “I didn’t get the page until now.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Shapiro knows. “Where are you, Pat?”

“I pulled over at a 7-Eleven on my way home.” Shit. He isn’t buying this. Think, Malone.

“I paged you four times. We’re lucky Crandall hasn’t called for all hands on deck. Probably too busy planning chapter eleven.”

“Listen, Les . . .” Pat’s left leg buckled as he shifted his weight. “I didn’t want to say anything, but after Love Field I went to Medical City. I had an appointment with the neurologist about the MS, and I left the beeper in the car.”

“Right, okay, sorry, Pat.”

“It’s no excuse. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Christ, Pat, now I feel bad. It’s just that we’re bailing water over here. Everyone thinks this might take us under.”

“Understood. You sure I shouldn’t come back to Irving?”

“Don’t bother, seriously.” Les sounded like he was about to cry. “Go home and stuff cash in the mattress. That’s about all we got left to do.”

The call ended, and Pat threw up next to the pay phone.

A black Crown Vic sat in the driveway as Pat pulled up on Crown Shore. Jack Hurley already making himself at home. Pat parked, hiccupped through a series of calming breaths, and tried to stretch out his legs so as not to limp. He walked in the door to a “There he is,” which instantly negated all his self-soothing and brought back his brown mood. It was six o’clock, neither early nor late, but Pat was still half-drunk enough to be ornery.

Special Agent Hurley was perched on a sofa in the formal living room—the Malone museum of furniture that no one, except honored guests and heads of state, ever sat in. Leaning into the back of a chair, Pat reached across and shook his wife’s brother-in-law’s hand. The good news was he was slightly fatter and balder. Hurley put down the Manhattan Anne had made him on a cork coaster and tried to grind Pat’s knuckles with his grip.

“Paddy boy. How’s life in the boondocks?” Jack was wearing a blazer and dark trousers, a blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, suspenders, and an empty shoulder holster that Pat was certain was all for show. Jack loosened his vise. “When are you guys coming back to civilization? You’re a long way from St. Jerome’s, pal.”