'But you didn't.'
Doc shrugged. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled above his elbows and his sun-darkened forearms were those of a man who'd done a lot of heavy physical labor in his life.
'They're too old to scare, too young to kick the shit out of. I chased them off, climbed on the Chris-Craft, and got my lobsters back.'
'Say anything to the parents?'
'No.'
Doc moved down the bar and drew two pints of Harp. He put them on the bar, picked up the tab, rang it up and put it back in front of the drinkers. Then he moved back to Jesse.
'How come you're asking?' he said.
'Just making conversation,' Jesse said.
Doc squinted at Jesse and shrugged.
'Yeah, you're a big conversation maker,' he said.
'I try,' Jesse said.
He got up from the bar and went to a pay phone and called the station.
'Anthony? Jesse. You know those Hopkins kids, torched the house on Geary Street? Well, I want a cruiser to park outside their house for a half hour every shift, starting tonight. No don't say anything, don't do anything. Just park outside the house a half hour every shift. That's right. I want to make them nervous.'
EIGHT.
At 2:15 in the afternoon, Macklin was sipping a Kettle One martini with a twist, at a sports bar on Huntington Avenue. He was wearing baggy olive linen slacks with three reverse pleats, a loose-fitting black silk tee shirt, and alligator loafers with no socks. In his wallet he had ten one hundred-dollar bills from Faye's savings account. In his pants pocket, he had a hundred and a twenty left from the liquor store.
There were four people besides Macklin in the room: a man and woman at a table eating buffalo wings, and a white-haired man down the bar, watching the soccer game that was on every big screen television in the room. The bartender was slicing lemons.
'Quiet afternoon,' Macklin said.
'Usually is,' the bartender said, 'this time on a weekday.' He was a middle-sized young guy with a thick moustache.
'Soccer don't help,' Macklin said.
'Some people like it,' the bartender said.
'Can't get into it myself.'
'Whaddya like?' Macklin said.
'Football,' the bartender said.
'Now you're talking,' Macklin said.
'You bet?'
'Sure,' the bartender said.
'Last year I was up about a bill and a half.'
He finished slicing the lemons and put them in a jar and put the jar in the refrigerator under the counter. Then he came down the bar and nodded at Macklin's glass.
'Buy you one?' he said.
'Be a fool not to say yes,' Macklin answered.
The bartender scooped some ice into a shaker. Without measuring, he poured in vodka and a splash of vermouth.
'You must know the game,' Macklin said.
'Come out ahead.'
The bartender rattled the martini around in the shaker and then poured it through the strainer into a chilled glass.
'I played some in high school,' he said.
'And I pay attention.'
He ran a twist of lemon around the rim of the glass and then dropped it into the martini.
'Makes the game more interesting,' Macklin said, 'you got something on it.'
'You got that right.'
Macklin sipped his second martini.
'Nice job,' he said to the I bartender.
The bartender grinned and went down the bar to the white-haired man. Macklin took the hundred from his pocket and put it I on the bar. The bartender poured a double shot of Jack Daniels over some ice and put it on a paper napkin in front of the man.
