‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘that’s how it feels, but it hasn’t really. You’ve got your own center. You do. You just have to find it again.’
But he seemed to keep losing her. Again, her eyes were out toward the evening sky. ‘Celine?’ He brought his hand up and laid it over hers, exerting a little pressure. She came back to him. ‘You mind if I ask you how old you are?’
‘No, I don’t mind. You can ask anything you want.’ She met his eyes, solemn, then suddenly broke into a smile. Thirty-nine,‘ she said. ’Almost got you, didn’t I?‘
Hardy nodded, smiling himself. ‘Almost.’
‘So what about thirty-nine?’
‘I’m just thinking that’s not too young to stop being dependent on your father.’
He felt the shift in her tension just before she pulled her hand out from under his. ‘I wasn’t dependent on my father. I loved my father.’
‘Of course, I’m not saying anything else. But, well, isn’t thirty-nine a little old to be at his beck and call?’
‘I wasn’t at his beck and call.’
‘But he made you feel guilty if you weren’t there when he wanted to see you. That’s pretty classic parental control.’
‘It just hurt his feelings. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, that’s all.’
Hardy knew he was digging a hole, but thought he might get all the way through to China and see some light. ‘Remember when we were talking the other day, what you said about being so mad at him? Maybe that’s why.’
‘I’m not mad at him! Ken’s the same way.’
Hardy leaned back, slowing down, wanting to make the point and not get in a fight over it. ‘Your father controlled people, Celine. Ken too. Maybe that’s why he was so successful.’
‘My father did not control me.’
She clearly didn’t want to hear it. Time to back off. ‘Okay, okay.’
‘And who are you to talk? What makes you such an expert?’
Hardy help up a hand, trying to slow her down. ‘Whoa, I didn’t say -’
‘I know what you were saying. That my daddy was this control freak who was ruining my life because he loved his daughter and wanted to see her. Well, that’s all it was. We loved each other. We had the best times. You didn’t know him. We loved each other!’
She was starting to cry now, punctuating her speech by punching her glass into the table. Other people were looking over at the commotion.
‘Celine…’
‘Just go away. I don’t need your help. Go away. Leave me alone.’
Hardy leaned forward in the chair, put his hand again on the table. ‘Celine.’
She slammed her glass down onto the table, the drink spilling out over her hands, over the glass. ‘Get out of here! Now! Get out of here!’
‘I think she’s nuts.’
‘She’s bereaved, Diz. The girl’s father dies, you don’t pick that moment to point out to her he was a prick.’
‘I didn’t say he was a prick. I was trying to give her something to help her break away, give her a little insight -’
‘Insight comes in its own sweet time.’
‘That’s beautiful, Mose. I’ll remember that. Give me another hit, would you?’
Hardy was drinking Bushmills at the Shamrock. It was Wednesday, date night, and he was meeting Frannie at seven, in another half hour. There weren’t more than twenty patrons in the place and only two others at the bar, nursing beers.
The Little Shamrock had been in existence since 1893. Moses McGuire had bought it in 1977 and pretty much left it the way it had been. The place was only fifteen feet wide, wall to wall, and about forty-five feet deep. The bar itself – mahogany – extended halfway to the back along the left side. Twelve tables, with four chairs each, filled the area in front of the bar on the linoleum floor. Over that area hung an assortment of bric-a-brac – bicycles, antique fishing rods, an upside-down sailfish and the pièce de résistance, a clock that had stopped ticking during the Great Earthquake of 1906.
The back of the place had an old wall-to-wall maroon Berber carpet and several couches, armchairs, coffee tables, a fireplace. It wasn’t designed to seat the maximum amount of bodies, but to make it comfortable for what bodies there were. The bathrooms had stained glass in the doors. There were two dart boards against the side wall in the back by an old-fashioned jukebox.
The entire front of the bar was comprised of two picture windows and a set of swinging doors. Out the windows was Lincoln Boulevard. Across the street was Golden Gate Park, evergreen and eucalyptus. Three years ago, after working as a bartender there for nearly a decade, Hardy had acquired a quarter-interest in the place. It was almost as much his home as his house was.
McGuire walked down to the taps and came back with a pint of stout. ‘And what I am supposed to do with this? I see you come through the door, I start a Guinness. It’s automatic. So now I got a Guinness poured and tonight you’re drinking Irish.’
‘It’s that element of surprise that makes me such a fascinating guy to know. Tonight I needed a real drink.’
‘My father told me that the secret to controlling alcohol is never to take a drink when you feel like you need one.’
‘Those are noble words,’ Hardy said. ‘Aphorism night has come to the Shamrock. Hit me again, though, would you?’
Moses sighed, turned and grabbed the Bushmills from the back bar and poured. ‘We’re never heeded in our own countries, you know. It’s the tragedy of genius.’
‘Leave the Guinness,’ Hardy said. ‘I’ll drink it, too.’
Moses pulled over his stool. Hardy had often said that Moses’s face probably resembled the way God’s would look after He got old. His brother-in-law was only a few years older than Hardy, but they had been heavy-weather years. He had long, brown hair with some gray, pony-tailed in the back, an oft-broken nose. There were character lines everywhere – laugh lines, worry lines, crow’s-feet. He was clean-shaven this month, although that varied. ‘So why’d she want to see you in the first place – Celine?’
Hardy shrugged. ‘Hold her hand, I don’t know. She seemed to be hurting. I thought I might be able to help her out. Now I’m thinking we ought to get some protection for May Shinn.’
‘You don’t really think she’d do anything to her, do you?’
‘I don’t know what she’ll do. I don’t think she knows what she’ll do.’
Moses took a sip of his own Scotch, a fixture in the bar’s gutter. ‘She’s upset, can’t exactly blame her. She probably won’t do anything,’ he said.
‘It’s the “probably” that worries me.’ He took his dart case out of his jacket pocket and started fitting his hand-tooled flights into the shafts. ‘I think I’ll go shoot a few bull’s-eyes,’ he said. ‘Do something I’m good at.’
David Freeman picked up his telephone. It was after work hours, but he was still at his desk, back after dinner to the place he loved best. He didn’t have any particular work to do, so he was doing some light reading – catching up on recent California appellate court decisions for fun.
‘Mr Freeman, this is Nick Strauss. I got your card from a neighbor of mine, Mrs Streletski. How can I help you?’
‘Mr Strauss, it’s good of you to call. As Mrs Streletski may have mentioned, I’m working for a client who needs to establish what she was doing during the daytime on Saturday, June twentieth. The woman in question happens to live directly across the street from you on the same level – that other turreted apartment?’
‘Sure, I know it, but I can’t say I’d know any particular person who lives there.’
‘She’s an Oriental woman. Quite attractive.’
‘I’d like to meet her. I could use a little attractive in my life.’ A little manly chuckle, then Strauss was quiet a moment. ‘Sorry. June twentieth, you say?’
‘That’s the date. I know it’s a while ago now.’