… all the bullshit. Patrick Blake was sitting at his sister-in-law’s kitchen table, nursing a glass of Scotch and smiling at his nephew. His shirt collar was loose, his black tie pulled down, his uniform jacket draped over the back of a chair. Forty pounds overweight and nearly bald, he looked every inch the moderately successful professional drifting into retirement. Or a fatal heart attack, whichever came first. His cheeks were their usual apple-red, a tribute to his blood pressure and the rolls of fat that hung over his belt and his collar. “So, Marty, what’s the bad news?” Patrick Blake’s dark eyes, Marty noted, were still shrewd, still wary. They carried the lessons he’d learned thirty years ago on the streets. The lessons in survival he’d dragged up through the ranks. At first glance, Marty could find no point of vulnerability, but time would tell. “How much has Mom told you about what I’ve been doing?” Patrick Blake glanced at his uniform jacket, then back at his nephew.
