The Bodies Left Behind

shops and organic groceries had replaced the IGA and package stores. The Earl of Old Town, the great folk club, was gone, though the comedy venue Second City was still here, and probably would be forever.
    The bar Hart was now striding into was born after the folk era but was still antique, dating to the disco craze. The time was just past two-thirty, Saturday afternoon, and there were five people inside, three at the bar with one stool between them. Protocol among drinking strangers. The other two were at a table, a couple in their sixties. The wife wore a brimmed red hat and was missing a front tooth.
    Living underground for a month and a half, Hart had grown lonely for his neighborhood and his city. He also missed working. But now that Michelle Kepler was in jail and his contact told him she’d given up trying to have him killed, he was comfortable surfacing and gettingback to his life. Apparently, to his shock, she hadn’t dimed him out during her interrogations.
    Hart dropped down heavily on a stool.
    “My God, Terry Hart!” The round bartender shook his hand. “Been a month of Sundays since you been in here.”
    “Away on some work.”
    “Whereabouts? What do you want?”
    “Smirnie and grapefruit. And a burger, medium. No fries.”
    “You got it. So where?”
    “New England. Then a while in Florida.”
    The bartender got the drink and carried the square of greasy green paper with Hart’s order to a window into the kitchen, hung it up and rang a bell. A dark brown hand appeared, grabbed the slip then vanished. The bartender returned.
    “Florida. Last time I was there, the wife and I went, we sat on the deck all day long. Didn’t go to the beach till the last day. I liked the deck better. We went out to eat a lot. Crab. Love those crabs. Where were you?”
    “Some place. You know, near Miami.”
    “Us too. Miami Beach. You didn’t get much of a tan, Terry.”
    “Never do that. Not good for you.” He drained the liquor.
    “Right you are.”
    “I’ll have another.” He pushed the glass toward the bartender. Looked around the place. He sipped the new drink. It was strong. Afternoon pours were big. A few minutes later the bell rang again and his burger appeared.He ate part of it slowly. “So, Ben, everything good around town?”
    “Yeah, I guess.”
    “Anybody come in here asking about me?”
    “Ha.”
    “What, ha?”
    “Like a line out of some movie. James Garner. Or some detective, you know. A PI.”
    Hart smiled, sipped his drink. Then ate more, with his left hand. He was using that arm, the shot one, for everything he could. The muscle had atrophied but was coming back. Just that day he’d finished with the triple-0 steel wool on the box he’d started up in Wisconsin, using his left hand for most of the work. It was really beautiful; he was proud of it.
    The bartender said, “Nobody while I was here. Expecting somebody?”
    “I never know what to expect.” A grin. “How’s that for a PI line?”
    “You got a haircut.”
    It was much shorter. A businessman’s trim.
    “Looks good.”
    Hart grunted.
    The man went off to refill somebody else’s drink. Hart was thinking: If people drink liquor during the day it’s usually vodka. And mixed with something else. Sweet or sour. Nobody drinks martinis in the afternoon. Why is that?
    He wondered if Brynn McKenzie was eating lunch at that moment. Did she generally? Or did she wait for dinner, a family dinner?
    Which put him in mind of her husband. Graham Boyd.
    Hart wondered if they’d talked about getting back together. He doubted it. Graham’s place, a nice townhouse about four miles from Brynn’s, didn’t look very temporary. Not like Hart’s apartment, when he’d broken up with his wife. He’d just crashed and hadn’t gotten around to fixing up the place for months. He thought back to being with Brynn in that van, next to the meth cooker’s camper. He’d never answered her question, the implicit one when she’d glanced at his hand: Are you married? Never answered it directly. Felt bad, in a funny way.
    No lies between us  . . .
    The bartender’d said something.
    “What?”
    “That okay, Terry? Done right?”
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    “No problem.”
    ESPN was on the tube. Sports highlights. Hart finished his lunch.
    The bartender collected the plate and silverware. “So you seeing anybody, Terry?” he asked, making bartender conversation.
    Looking at the TV, Hart said, “Yeah, I have been.” Surprising