At that the young Hallahan had laughed. He tried to explain to his father what the FBI was, but the senior Hallahan was not someone to whom one explained things. The senior Hallahan did the explaining. And his explanation was simple. The boy's dead mother and the boy's father had worked, had sweated and labored with great pride because they knew their son was going to be somebody.
Well, all right. Man owes what he does with his life only to God. The senior Hallahan was accepting whatever God's will was concerning his son. He wanted the whole saloon to know that.
If young Jimmy wanted to be a policeman, then, damn it, he'd be the best lawyer policeman ever.
Of course, there had been an added word driving home. "You know, Jimmy, it's like educating a son to be a priest and him going to the fine universities in Rome, then coming home and takin' some job in a shoe store, like. It's not that sellin' shoes don't have its virtues; it's that, why bother to get some big, fancy education if you're only going to be a public employee like your father?"
"Pop," said Jim Hallahan. "When you talk about yourself, it should never be 'only a public employee.' But you'll see. Being with the Bureau is important. I think more important than being a lawyer."
His father was asleep. Jim Hallahan carried him into the house, already then with a cancer that would kill him, already then lighter than before, but with no one knowing it.
Within the next year, his father found out what the FBI stood for because he bothered to listen. It was not with a little pride that he eventually told anyone he could corner that his son was with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the best in the world. "You have to be a lawyer or an accountant to get in."
"Pride-of the nation, they are," his father had said.
Then he went into the hospital for a stomach operation. They discovered the growths and stitched him back up. Within three months he was gone. The funeral mass was said at the same church in which he was married and Jim was baptized and confirmed and where he had gone so many times to ask God's will and blessing.
At the wake, in the house his sister, Mary Ellen, would later take over, her having the biggest family, one of his father's friends said, "He was the proudest of you, Jim. Of all of you, he never stopped talking about you and that FBI. You'd think it was made up of angels from heaven."
And at that Jim Hallahan cried, without knowing why. He didn't try to explain it. He excused himself and went into his parents' bedroom, to the bed they would never use again, the bed in which he was conceived, and buried his head and bawled with a painful joy that could only be described as glory on earth.
It was a long time ago.
It was when there was pride in the Bureau. So long ago when life and its heavier burdens were light... and now, just showing up in the morning at the Boston office was the second heaviest chore of the day. The first was getting up in the morning.
Hallahan ordered a double rye. To hell with the beer. He looked at his watch. The Times reporter was late. The double shot came and Hallahan lifted his glass. Then he felt a hand on his. It was Pam Westcott, looking a good twenty pounds lighter than usual. She had obviously walked with stealth because usually one could hear Ms. Westcott a half block away as she galumphed her telephone pole legs down the block.
"Hey, Pam," said Hallahan. "Losing that weight's taken twenty years off you. You look marvelous."
"You can't diet away eye wrinkles, Jim."
"Dry martini on the rocks," said Hallahan, ordering a drink for the reporter. Pam Westcott seemed to go on martinis and potato chips. A lunch without four drinks for Ms. Westcott was not lunch. Hallahan had heard from several public relations men that Ms. Westcott was probably an alcoholic but ate so much her weight problem would probably kill her heart before the booze smothered her liver. She was forty and used to look fifty. This evening she looked, positively, in her late twenties. There was an easy slowness to her. A stalking confidence. And she had no eye wrinkles.
"Nothing for me, Jim, thanks."
"Hold the martini," Hallahan said. "How about a couple of bags of potato chips?"
"Thanks, no."
"Wow, you are on a diet," Hallahan said.
"Sort of. High protein."
"Okay, how about a hamburger?"
Pam Westcott shook her tawny locks and looked up at the bartender.
"Make it four of them. And raw. And lots of juice."
"You mean blood, lady?" said the bartender.
"Yes, lots of it."
Hallahan lifted his drink again. He felt her strong hand on his.
"Stop," she said. "No more alcohol."
"Hey, Pam. You a reformed drunk?"
"Say I'm a reformed person, all right? Don't drink."
"I want a drink. I need a drink. I feel like a drink and I'm going to have a drink," Hallahan said.
"You're a fool."
"Hey, do you want the story I promised? Don't you want that?"
"Yes, but I want more."
"Okay," Hallahan said. "The deal is this. I give you the story. You give it to another reporter for his byline so that when the story comes out, I have no trouble because I've never talked to that reporter. That's the deal."
"I've got a better one for you, Jimmy."
"Just so long as it doesn't stop me from having my drink."
"But it does," said Pam Westcott.
"You turning into a Baptist or something?"
"Hallahan, you know I'm a good reporter. Forget my girlish good looks."
Hallahan suppressed a smile. There had never been girlish or good looks about Pam Westcott. At least not until now.
"I want to show you something. Come to my place tonight. Let the booze go out of your system. I'm going to give you something you'll thank me for forever."
"I'm married, Pam."
"Jeezus. C'mon, Jim."
"I'm pretty down. I want the drink, Pam."
"Give me four hours."
"I'm tired, Pam. I don't have four hours."
"How many drinks have you had so far?"
"Two. And a beer."
"Okay. Two and a half hours. I'll give you the biggest case of your life. You'll retire with more benefits than you can shake a subpoena at."
He wanted the drink but told himself if this reporter wanted him not to drink so much and promised so much, why not give it a shot?
The bartender dumped a plate of four raw hamburgers on the bar. Heads turned. He emptied a small plastic bowl on top of the pile of hamburgers. Red beef blood poured out. More heads craned.
Pam Westcott smiled at all the pale, boozy faces and, careful not to let it spill, lifted the plate. Then the reporter from the Boston Times tilted the plate, drank the blood and, in a few healthy bites, finished the hamburger and licked the plate clean.
A drunk at the end of the bar asked if she cared to do the same to his meat someday. There was laughter, the kind of laughter men let out when they do not understand something but will not admit they are somewhat uneasy. Besides, one had to laugh at sexual jokes or someone might think one effeminate.
Pam Westcott lived just off Beacon Hill. She told Hallahan she couldn't divulge what she had discovered until all the alcohol was out of his system.
Well, then, could he have a bite to eat? Some potato chips? She didn't have any in the house.
"You without potato chips?"
"I don't like them anymore."
"I can't believe it."
"Believe it, Hallahan, believe it. I'm going to show you a lot more than potato chips."
"Aren't you interested in these chromosome killings? I've got a hot, juicy leak for you. We're abandoning this city to the man-eater. The order came today just when two more people were killed at opposite ends of the city. Almost at the same time. This thing can move around with incredible speed."
"You'll see," said Pam.
What she had wanted him to wait for was another drink. Hallahan wanted to know what was in it.