There was a cop leaning against the far end of the bar, near the door leading to upstairs. He gave me one of those meant-to-be-intimidating chin jerks and narrowing-of-the-eyes cold stares as I approached. “Hold it, buster. Where do you think you’re goin’?” I held out my hand so that he could see my shield. “Yeah? Well, you’re supposed to have it pinned on your jacket,” he instructed me. “How the hell am I supposed to know who you are?” There are so many things you can say to a hard-nosed bastard like this guy, but not one thing that’s worth the bother. I pushed the swinging door to the kitchen open a few inches; Danny Fitz was slumped against a worktable; his beefy shoulders were heaving and he was sobbing and shaking his head from side to side. Skinny little red-bubbleheaded Lucille, white as a sheet, turned from the sink and slammed a wet cloth over Danny’s face. She looked at me and with just a slight gesture of her hand, a slight movement of her head, she let me know: Lucille was in charge; she’d handle Danny.
