Not to his usual home, the brick bungalow in the Portland suburbs he’d bought from his parents when they’d decided to move to the sunnier, drier climate of San Diego. That home would have welcomed him, with its broad cement front porch and its worn-out wooden swing swaying at one end, and its creaky hardwood floors that still bore the scars from the beating they had taken from the two growing, rambunctious Jones boys. He would have done what he always did when going home at night—shed his suit and tie and loafers in favor of battered blue jeans and a flannel shirt and heavy socks. Then he would have made himself a simple dinner and taken it and a longneck into the living room to watch the news while he ate. After that, he would have spend the rest of the night either watching a game or reading some vintage mystery, probably one of the greats like Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett. Or maybe, if he were feeling socially inclined, he would have headed down to Foley’s to shoot some pool and tip another longneck with guys he’d known since childhood.
