In August, Luria almost succeeded. The Gallo wars were at their height, and Hawkins and Ableson had found Benny Gonnona, a small-­time bookie, kneeling on the floor of his office with his hands tied behind his back and three bullets in his head. His head caught the edge of his old rolltop desk as he fell, and the desk held him there, half upright, so he looked like he was praying with half his head gone. The super found him, and he was still sick by the time Hawkins and Ableson got there; Hawkins had seen more gruesome scenes, but there was something especially awful about the position of the corpse in that dirty little office with its phones, filthy window, bare splintered floor.

He went back to the precinct, showered, and put on a clean shirt, but he still felt soiled by what they’d seen. He had a drink with Ableson; but he needed Levy. He left Ableson, bought a bottle of slivovitz, and took it to the shop.

It was warm, and the street was quiet. Luria was on his stool, Levy was in the back with two young Hasidim­­­­­. Hawkins caught glimpses of them in the stacks. They wore long black coats and wide-­brimmed hats. They were pale and their side curls were damp and clung to their cheeks.

Hawkins poured a drink for Luria, and Luria took the glass and raised it.

“To the return of Adam,” Luria said.

“Adam . . .” Hawkins said stupidly.

Luria got down from the stool. His jacket was off, and Hawkins realized that Luria was almost as big as he was. He leaned on the table, massive hands flat, supporting his heavy arms. He’d taken his glasses off and his narrow gray eyes were bright.

“Adam, you shlemiel. Jacob’s son, the light of our lives. You don’t know Jacob has a son Adam?”

“Of course I do,” Hawkins said. His voice was tight.

“Of course you do,” Luria mimicked. “Well, he’s coming home, Sergeant, with a doctorate from the University of Jerusalem. Next month he’ll sit where you sit, he’ll talk and laugh with his father, and I don’t think Jacob will have time for us anymore. Not with such a smart, loving, handsome son to fill his evenings. No, Sergeant, our time together is over. . . .”

“Isaac!” Levy cried sharply from the edge of the stacks.