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Ken Franklin was late.

At their usual table near the window overlooking the lake, Betty sat playing with a drink, probably Scotch and whatever she could think of. Her eyes were unfocused, staring into the darkness coming over the horizon.

"Sorry I'm late," Ken said as Simon held the chair out for him and he sat.

The crowd was light for a Friday night but it was still on the early side. A few tables away the Pines were already into their soup and beyond them Marjorie and Thomas Benson were entertaining an old woman Ken did not recognize.

Old, however, had become a relative term.

"I'll have-" Ken began.

"Mrs. Franklin has already ordered your drink," Simon said with a smile. "Vodka gimlet"

Ken nodded and examined his wife. Tired, shoulders bare and sagging, wearing Ken's favorite blue silk dress. Hair clean, white, and impeccable.

She looked at her husband, chewed on her lower lip for an instant and said, "What happened?"

There were bread sticks on the table. Ken took one, cracked it in half, and put it on the white tablecloth in front of him.

"I will not be representing Harvey on the criminal charges the state's attorney has brought against him."

"Oh," said Betty.

"Would you like to know why I will not be representing Harvey? There are four reasons."

"Yes," she said softly.

"First, the police have considerable evidence, including a taped conversation and an eyewitness. There are ways to deal with both and other, more circumstantial, evidence, but I am convinced that Harvey murdered Dana."

They went silent as Simon placed the vodka gimlet in front of Ken and waited for Ken to taste it. He did and nodded his approval. Only then did Simon place the menus before them.

"Would you like to order or would you like awhile longer?"

"Give us five minutes, would you, Simon?"

"Of course."

And Simon disappeared.

"Second," said Ken after a substantial drink from his glass, "I am sure whoever his attorney is, and I have recommended Lon Saunders, Harvey will plead not guilty. With delays and appeals if he is found guilty, the judicial process will take at least two years. As you know, it is unlikely that I will be alive in two years."

Betty said nothing but her eyes were definitely moist "Is that your first drink of the evening?" her husband asked.

"No, my third."

"The third reason I wifl not be defending Harvey is that you and I are certain to be called as witnesses by the prosecution."

"For the prosecution?" Betty asked.

"Yes. That brings us to the fourth reason I will not be defending Harvey. His motive. The police believe that Harvey killed Dana so that he could marry you when I die and have access to both my money and yours. Would you like another drink? I don't see anything in your glass but a very small cube."

"Yes, thank you," she said, and Ken turned to the waiting Simon halfway across the room. Ken pointed to his wife's empty glass and Simon nodded in understanding and moved toward the bar.

"Do you believe that?" Betty asked.

"Believe that Harvey would do that? Yes. Do I believe the obvious companion thought, that you and he have been having an affair, yes, but it doesn't matter. You will be questioned and you will have to testify under oath."

"I can't," she sobbed.

"We're going to have enough to deal with without you falling apart in public," he said, glancing toward the Bensons' table to see if they had observed Betty's loss of control. They hadn't or they were too polite to let it show. There were going to be many moments like this over the coming months.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes as Simon approached with a fresh drink, placed it before her, and moved quickly away.

"Elizabeth," Ken said, "if my feelings were of real concern to you, you would have waited till I was gone to make a fool of yourself. Do you actually believe that Harvey Rozier is in love with you?"

"Yes," she said.

"Then there isn't anything more to say," Kenneth Franklin said, motioning to Simon, who glided to their table.

"Yes, Mr. Franklin."

"We'll both have the Norwegian salmon, broiled. And remind Andre that we like it with a crisp glaze. It was firm last time but not crisp."

"Of course," Simon said. "House salad?"

"Yes," said Ken, smiling at his wife across the table. "And Mrs. Franklin may want still another drink. She seems to have finished the one you just brought."

Chuculo Fernandez stood in the lobby of the Clark Street Station looking less like a man who was about to be free than a man who had been seriously wronged.

"Viejo," said El Perro, "Piedras is out in the car. You want to come out, say hello, somethin'?"

"No, give him my best," said Lieberman.

Piedras was a great, hulking, brainless creature with none of El Perm's affection for the old detective.

Officer Catherine Boyd was behind the desk writing something. Nestor Briggs had finished a double shift and gone home, at least for awhile. Odds were good that Nestor would wander back to the station in street clothes to talk to Catherine for awhile.

"Not much business tonight," El Perro observed, looking around.

"The rain," Lieberman explained. "Keeps people indoors. Drop in most crimes except murder. Murder, in bars, domestic, goes up when it rains. Keeps people indoors and irritable."

"No shit?" said El Perro. "You know that, Chuculo?"

Chuculo Fernandez nodded his head. El Perro's right hand shot out and slapped the young man's face, distorting it like an astronaut rocketing into space.

"Emiliano-" Lieberman said as Catherine Boyd looked up from her report.

"Chuculo should show some respect," El Perro said. "For you, for me."

Fernandez had cut at least six people Lieberman knew of and had almost surely killed two others. His eyes were stung and watering and he did not look as if he wanted to kill anyone.

"Despenseme," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," said Lieberman.

"I think maybe the rain's good for bingo," said El Perro. "What you think? Nothing to do but fuck, watch the TV, or go out and play bingo."

"It is beyond my expertise," said Lieberman.

"How come you never come to my bingo parlor? It's all legal."

"I know."

"You know, I figured something out," El Perro whispered, putting an arm around Lieberman's thin shoulders. "You don't need that B-I-N-G-O shit You just like say cinco, five. You find a five someplace else besides under B and I have Chuculo eat your dirty underwear."

"The prospect of Chuculo eating my dirty underwear will probably lead me to a futile search for N-5."

"I don' know what the fuck you're talking about half the time, Viejo, but I like you. Hey, your esposa, she's the queen something of your church, right?"

"The president," Lieberman corrected.

"She wanna use my bingo parlor for to raise money for the church, I give you a free night and I call the numbers myself. No letters."

"I'll discuss it with her."

"Lieberman," said El Perro. "You're good like your word. You got something you need, another deal, you know where to find me."

"I know, Emiliano," said Lieberman.

"An' you, Chuculo," El Perro said, turning to Fernandez, who held his ground, expecting another slap or worse. "Maybe this will teach you not to fuck with no fuckin' little girls."

"Si," Fernandez said.

"Let's go."

Both Lieberman and Chuculo Fernandez shared a feeling mat Chuculo had a long night ahead of him.

"Drive carefully," Lieberman said as El Perro pushed Fernandez toward the door.

"Inside the speed limit, siempre" said El Perro and went out the front door with a laugh, saying to Fernandez, "You hear that? The man's got a sense of humor."