Swan Dive

kid, you saw his face on the side of a milk carton, you wouldn’t feel so bad.” I convinced him that it was the lawyers’ fault, helping kids avoid juvenile detention and making them think they can get away with murder.
    Next stop was a glitzy joint along the water in Revere , where a porky bartender with slicked-back hair and no sideburns told me I couldn’t get in after six dressed the way I was. I explained to him that it was because of the lawyers, especially the young ones, pushing their noses into good old neighborhoods that had stood on their own for six generations. He agreed, treating me to one drink but then telling me I sounded like I’d already had enough for one afternoon. I thanked him for the drink if not the advice, and left.
    The third place was a sticky-floored dive in Lynn , a city that’s suffered so much arson that it’s probably burned down three times over in the last ten years. The old woman working the wipe cloth said the flames nearly got her place twice, and she couldn’t get no insurance and what the hell was she gonna do if they did torch it, anyway? I pointed out to her how the lawyers had manipulated it all, padding claims and sucking off what good people sweat their lives to get. She joined me in splitting half a bottle of Old Boston vodka on the rocks; I was able to dollop most of my share onto the floor when she wasn’t looking. Exaggerating my departure, I gave her a kiss on the cheek that made her cackle. She said that I’d better watch for the cops if I was driving.
    I edged another two miles north and parked on the beach at Nahant for two hours, watching an elderly couple and three kids, maybe grandchildren, move at the different paces of age along the waterline, stooping and whooping over shells and driftwood. I started up again, skipping Swampscott and driving straight into Marblehead . I stopped at a pay phone at 7:55 and made both my calls. Each man was in and eager to hear from me. I sounded as drunk as I could, giving the second one directions just opposite of those I gave the first. I told one good luck and the other to fuck off. I made a third call, too, but when I heard the voice I wanted, I just hung up.
    I spent the next hour as obviously as possible in a neighborhood bar on a street three blocks from the harbor. I grossed out two nice women just because I found out they were legal secretaries. The bartender and a waiter had no trouble hustling me out the door, though I did threaten them with immediate and costly legal action.
    I got back to the car and climbed in the driver’s side. Reaching under the seat, I retrieved the scotch. I swished a bit like mouthwash around the teeth and tongue and sprinkled the rest on the sweatshirt. I tossed the bottle into an ash can and took a couple of deep breaths. Then I walked to Felicia Arnold’s house.
    She answered the door with the same ”Yes?” as she had the phone. I leered at her and told her she was beautiful. She scowled, and I asked if that wimp Troller was there. I asked rather loudly, and that brought Paulie-boy at a trot. He told me to shove off; I asked him if he thought he was man enough to make me.
    Paulie let fly, and for the next three minutes or so, he probably felt he was beating me to death.

For a while there, I thought I was going to have trouble with the Marblehead police. Not because of Felicia or Paul, who magnanimously told the two uniforms who responded to the scene that they didn’t care to press charges. Not even for drunk driving, since the cops hadn’t found me near my car. No, the problem was that the younger officer wanted to take me to the hospital. For observation and tests. Like a blood test, which would reveal my suspiciously low alcohol level. Fortunately, however, the older and cooler head prevailed, saying he’d ”seen more guys beat up than Carter had Little Liver Pills, and this guy’s just got his pride hurt, is all.”
    I contritely gave the older cop Murphy’s name and office number in Boston to call to vouch for me. They drove me to their station and let me flop for the night in the holding cell, complete with sea breeze. It was early 6:00 a.m. Sunday, with a whole new shift on, when Holt and Guinness showed up.

    ”You know, Lieutenant, I’ve always wondered. Does every department order its interrogation rooms from the same catalog?”
    Holt’s eyelids had to stretch to climb down over his eyes, they were that bloodshot. Guinness made grumbling noises behind a