John Lescroart
The Vig
The second book in the Dismas Hardy series, 1990
To Al Giannini
Chapter One
At 2:15 on a Wednesday afternoon in late September, Dismas Hardy sat on the customer side of the bar at the Little Shamrock and worked the corners of his dart flights with a very fine emery board. A pint of Guinness, pulled a quarter of an hour ago, had lost its head and rested untouched in the bar’s gutter. Hardy whistled tonelessly, as happy as he’d been in ten years.
He’d opened the bar at 1:00 P.M. sharp and had served a bottle of Miller Draft to Tommy, a regular who’d retired from schoolteaching some years back and who now spent most afternoons by the large picture window, talking to whoever would listen. But today Tommy told Hardy he had an appointment and left after one beer. Tommy was all right, but being left alone didn’t break Hardy’s heart.
Hardy finished one flight and raised his head. He took the Guinness and sipped at it. Through the window over Tommy’s table, light traffic passed on Lincoln Blvd. Across the street, the evergreens and eucalyptus that bordered Golden Gate Park shimmered in a light breeze. There had been no fog that morning, and Hardy guessed the breeze would still be warm. If you want summer in San Francisco, plan your vacation for the fall.
A bus pulled up across the street and stopped. When it pulled away, it left a man standing, lost looking, at the corner.
A minute later, the double doors swung open; Hardy scooped up his flights and swung himself around the end of the bar. He stood behind the porcelain beer taps and nodded at the customer.
If it was a customer. At first glance, the man didn’t bring to mind visions of bankrolls and limousines. Whether he had sufficient money for a beer seemed questionable. His shirt was open at the collar and frayed badly. His baggy pants needed pressing. Under a forehead that went all the way back, eyes squinted adjusting to the relative darkness of the bar, although the Shamrock was no cave. He needed a shave.
“Help you?” Hardy asked, then, as he looked more closely, the pieces began to fall into place. “Rusty?” The man let loose a low-watt smile that seemed to require an effort. He stepped closer to the bar. “Ten points.” He stuck his hand over the bar and Hardy took it. “How you doin’, Diz?” The voice was quiet and assured, cultured.
Hardy asked what he was drinking and said it was on him.
“Same as always.”
Hardy closed his eyes, trying to remember, then turned and reached up to the top shelf, grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey, and snuck a glance at the man who’d shared his office back in the days when they’d both worked for the district attorney.
Rusty Ingraham had aged. There was, of course, the hair, or lack of it. At twenty-five, Rusty had sported a shock of orange-red hair and a handlebar mustache. Now, with no facial hair except the stubble, bald on top and gray on the sides, he looked old-handsome still, but old.
Hardy poured him a double.
“Prodigious,” Rusty Ingraham said, nodding at his glass.
Hardy shrugged. “You know somebody at all, you know what they drink.”
“Well, you found your calling.” He lifted the glass, Hardy raised his pint, and they both said “Skol.”
“So”-Hardy put down his glass-“you still a lawyer?”
Ingraham’s lips turned up, yet there was a gentleness Hardy hadn’t seen before. Before he’d left the D.A.’s, Ingraham might have had some sensitivity but it didn’t ever come out gentle. Now his half-smile was that of a man looking back only. The good times, whatever they’d been, would never-could never-return. He sipped slowly at his whisky. “You must have been out of the field a while yourself if you still call them lawyers.”
Hardy grinned. It was an old joke. “Attorney then-you still an attorney?”
Like a flame trying to catch on a wick, the smile flickered back. Hardy was getting the feeling Ingraham hadn’t spoken to a soul in a long while. “I still have that distinction.” He paused. “Though I rarely stand upon the ‘Esquire’ in correspondence, and as you can see”-he gestured at his clothing-“my practice is in a hiatus.” He drank again, like a drinking man but not hungrily, not like an alcoholic. There was a difference, and Hardy was keyed to it.
“You do this full-time?”
Hardy’s eyes swept the room, proprietary. “Nine years now. I own a quarter of the place.”
“That’s great. And you’re still with Jane?”
“Well, we got divorced once, but we’re going at it again.” He shrugged. “I’m confident but cautious.”
“Yep. You always were.”
“So what about you? I noticed you came by on the bus.”
Their eyes met a moment, then the flame of Rusty’s smile went out. “I got my car stolen a month ago. It’s still gone. A major hassle. So I spend a lot of time waiting for the N-Godot.”
Hardy liked that. The N-Judah, which ran behind the Shamrock, was a notoriously slow line.
“Otherwise, you pretty much see it, Diz. I hang out. I live in a barge down at China Basin. Chase an ambulance every month or two, hit a good nag now and then. I’ve still got one good suit. I get my shoes shined and for a day or two I can get by.”
He tipped up his glass and asked Hardy if he could buy him one. He put a ten-dollar bill in the gutter. Hardy refilled them both but didn’t grab the bill.
“Actually, Diz, I came by here today for a reason. You remember Louis Baker?”
Hardy frowned. He remembered Louis Baker. “Eight aggravated to thirteen?”
“Nine and a half, it turns out.”
“Nine and a half,” Hardy repeated. “Hardly worth the effort.”
“Not even hardly.”
Hardy took a belt of his stout, set the glass down, and swore. “I must’ve sent down a hundred guys. You too,” he said.
Ingraham nodded. “All told, I put away two hundred and fourteen assholes.”
Hardy whistled. “You were red hot, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, but there was only one Louis Baker.”
Baker had been a cancer in Hunter’s Point for the first twenty years of his life. He had a huge head, a well-trimmed Afro, and the body of a defensive safety. In spite of having a sheet ranging from the petty-vandalism and car theft, burglary and muggings-when he was in his teens to the heinous as he matured, he was convinced he would never do hard time, and not without reason.
The D.A. had been forced to drop charges on him twice for murder and four times for rape. He was good at not leaving evidence, or at making witnesses reluctant to testify.
The one time Baker went to trial for attempted murder and mayhem on a man who had talked too long to his girlfriend in a 7-Eleven, the man had finally refused to identify him when the crunch came. He got all the way to the stand, then looked at Baker at the defendant’s table and evidently decided that if he pointed the finger at him, he would not live to see his grandchildren. So he suddenly couldn’t say for sure that Baker had been the man who’d cut off his ears before stabbing him in the stomach in the middle of the afternoon.
Hardy had been the prosecutor in that case.
The D.A.’s office-Rusty Ingraham this time-had finally gotten him for armed robbery of four victims, one of whom he’d wounded, but as it was only Baker’s first conviction, meaning that in the court’s eyes he wasn’t yet a hardened criminal and hence a candidate for rehabilitation, the judge had been inclined to be lenient and had given him eight years.
When the verdict came down, Baker had quietly hung his head for a short time, then looked over at the prosecution table. Hardy had wanted to come down for the verdict, see this guy finally get put away, and he was sitting next to Ingraham. Baker looked in their direction, directly at Ingraham, seemingly memorizing him.