“You’re sure that Murphy planted the gun?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Johnny knew?”
“I don’t know, and I didn’t ask him.”
“And you’re okay with cops lying for each other?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t condone it, but I think I understand why they might have done it.”
“When all is said and done, you’re still the son of a cop.”
“Yup.”
She smiled. “Whatever happened to ‘Mr. Morality’?”
“Now you know why I’m no longer a priest.”
“You have more tolerance for lying than I do.”
“Seems I’ve become more practical in my old age. I just persuaded a client to plead guilty to a crime that—arguably—he didn’t commit—because it was expedient and minimized his risks. You could say that I encouraged him to lie to cut a better deal for himself.”
“He’s a grown-up.”
“To me, he’ll always be a kid. Roosevelt was also instrumental in persuading Ward to put together the deal.”
“I’m not surprised.”
I took another sip of bourbon. “I may have found us a promising young attorney: Nady Nikonova.”
“She’s a real estate lawyer.”
“She’s just pretending until she can find something better to do. She’s a fighter. And she’s really smart.”
“Invite her in for an interview.”
“I already did.”
She downed the rest of her drink. “All quiet outside?”
“For now.”
“How do you think this will play down in the Fillmore?”
“Hard to say. Some people are going to say that Johnny got away with murder.”
“Legally, it was self-defense. The new video proves it.”
“People aren’t always impressed by legal arguments.”
“It’s a fact.”
“Nowadays, people aren’t impressed by facts, either.”
Her tone turned thoughtful. “What happened to the wisecracking head of the felony division?”
“I’m tired, Rosie. I’m not as young as I was a week ago.”
“You aren’t as funny as you used to be, either.”
“Did you like me better when I was funnier?”
“I like you just the way you are.” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Did Gio and Maria thank you?”
“Profusely.”
“What about Luca?”
“He was more subdued. He may be a little ticked off if we swipe his associate.”
“What happens to the civil case?”
“Nothing changes. The City agreed to pay Jones’s mother a million dollars. If she wants to continue her case against Johnny, Luca will have to deal with it.”
“Are you okay with the plea bargain?”
“It isn’t perfect, but it seems like a good result for our client.”
“Let it go, Mike. You can’t control everything.”
“You’ve told me the same thing for the past twenty-five years.”
“Maybe you’ll finally start listening to me.” She flashed her non-politician’s smile. “Don’t beat yourself up this time. You found the truth and got a good result. Justice is never perfect, but it sounds like it was served pretty well today.”
“Maybe so. Nobody on either side is especially happy. It usually means that we came up with a reasonable compromise.”
“You don’t seem satisfied.”
“Jones is still dead. So are the cops who were killed in the Fillmore. And the people who were run down in front of the church. And the kid who tried to run us over on Fillmore.”
“There’s nothing you could have done. Give yourself a break, Mike.”
“I’ll try.” I looked up into her eyes. Beautiful Rosie. “So?”
“So what?”
“Do I still have a job?”
“Of course.”
Excellent. “You weren’t happy when I decided to represent Johnny.”
“I fire people when they screw up, not when they do what they think is right—even if I happen to disagree with them.”
“You sure?”
“I’m not going to change who you are. I don’t want to. Frankly, it would be futile, and I happen to like you this way.”
“So we’ll just go back and pick up where we left off?”
“For the most part.”
Uh-oh.
“In your absence, I appointed Rolanda as the permanent co-head of the Felony Division. She’s more conscientious about administrative matters than you are.”
True.
“It will also give you a chance to spend more time in court and train some of our younger attorneys.”
“I’d like that.”
“It will be good experience for Rolanda.”
“Agreed.”
“I wasn’t asking for your permission.”
You never do. “I know.”
She glanced at her watch. “You got plans tonight?”
“I thought I might go home, have another sip of bourbon, and go to sleep for the first time in a week. You?”
“I’m taking the rest of the night off.”
“You want some company?”
“Absolutely.” She logged off her computer. “Do you know what today is?”
I glanced at my iPhone. Oh, crap. “I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I’m an idiot.”
“For what it’s worth, so am I. I didn’t have time to get you anything, either.”
“That’s not very romantic—even for two people who’ve been divorced a lot longer than they were married.”
“We have other redeeming qualities. Mind if I ask you something?”
“Ask away.”
“Do you remember the last time we had sex?”
“Does last night count?”
“No.”
“I think it was a couple of weeks ago.”
She picked up her iPhone and looked at the display. “It was two weeks, three days, eighteen hours and forty-four minutes.”
“You keep track?”
She smiled. “I have an App on my iPhone.”
“You’re kidding.”
Her grin broadened. “Yes, I am.”
“I’m exhausted, Rosita.”
“Not too tired for to celebrate Valentine’s Day, I hope.”
“I think I can summon a little extra energy.”
“Then we can go home and I’ll give you your present.” She walked around her desk and took my hand. As we were leaving her office, she turned out the light and leaned over and kissed me. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mike.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Rosie.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing stories is a collaborative process. I would like to thank the many kind people who have been very generous with their time.
Thanks to my beautiful wife, Linda, who still reads my manuscripts and keeps me going when I’m stuck. You are a kind and wonderful soul and I am very grateful.
Thanks to our twin sons, Alan and Stephen, for your support and encouragement for so many years. I am more proud of you than you can imagine.
Thanks to my teachers, Katherine Forrest and Michael Nava, who encouraged me to finish my first book. Thanks to the Every Other Thursday Night Writers Group: Bonnie DeClark, Meg Stiefvater, Anne Maczulak, Liz Hartka, Janet Wallace and Priscilla Royal. Thanks to Bill and Elaine Petrocelli, Kathryn Petrocelli, and Karen West at Book Passage.
Thanks to my friends and colleagues at Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton (and your spouses and significant others). I can’t mention everybody, but I’d like to note those of you with whom I’ve worked the longest and those who read drafts of this manuscript: Randy and Mary Short, Cheryl Holmes, Chris and Debbie Neils, Bob Thompson, Joan Story and Robert Kidd, Donna Andrews, Phi
l and Wendy Atkins-Pattenson, Julie and Jim Ebert, Geri Freeman and David Nickerson, Ed and Valerie Lozowicki, Bill and Barbara Manierre, Betsy McDaniel, Ron and Rita Ryland, Bob Stumpf, Mike Wilmar, Mathilda Kapuano, Guy Halgren, Aline Pearl, Ed Graziani, Julie Penney, Mike Lewis, Christa Carter, Doug Bacon, Lorna Tanner, Larry Braun, Nady Niknonova, Joy Siu, and Yolanda Hogan.
A huge thanks to Jane Gorsi for her incomparable editing skills.
Another huge thanks to Vilsaka Nguyen of the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office for your thoughtful comments and terrific support.
A big thanks to Officer David Dito of the San Francisco Police Department for assistance on police procedural matters.
Another big thanks to Bob Puts for his help on the inner workings of SFPD.
Thanks to Jerry and Dena Wald, Gary and Marla Goldstein, Ron and Betsy Rooth, Debbie and Seth Tanenbaum, Joan Lubamersky, Jill Hutchinson and Chuck Odenthal, Tom Bearrows and Holly Hirst, Julie Hart, Burt Rosenberg, Ted George, Phil Dito, Sister Karen Marie Franks, Brother Stan Sobczyk, Jim Schock, Chuck and Nora Koslosky, Jack Goldthorpe, Scott Pratt, Bob Dugoni, and John Lescroart. Thanks to Lauren, Gary and Debbie Fields.
Thanks to Tim and Kandi Durst, Bob and Cheryl Easter, and Larry DeBrock at the University of Illinois. Thanks to Kathleen Vanden Heuvel, Bob and Leslie Berring, and Jesse Choper at Boalt Law School.
Thanks to the incomparable Zvi Danenberg, who motivates me to walk the Larkspur steps and inspires everybody who knows him.
Thanks as always to Ben, Michelle, Margie and Andy Siegel, Joe, Jan, and Julia Garber, Roger and Sharon Fineberg, Jan Harris, Scott, Michelle, Kim and Sophie Harris, Stephanie and Stanley Coventry, Cathy, Richard, and Matthew Falco, and Julie Harris and Matthew, Aiden and Ari Stewart.
HOT SHOT
In loving memory of
Jan Harris (1934-2018)
Matz Sandler (1925-2014)
“Move fast and break things.”
—Mark Zuckerberg
“Don’t be evil.”
—Original Google Code of Conduct
1
“WE HAVE A NEW CLIENT”
The twinkling Christmas lights strung along the pinewood bar reflected in the gregarious barkeep’s eyes. My uncle, Big John Dunleavy, spoke to me in a well-practiced brogue—even though he’d never set foot on the Emerald Isle. “What’ll it be, lad?”
“You’re off duty, Big John.”
“I’ve been running this dive for almost sixty years, Mikey. I’m always on duty.”
“Not tonight.” Although his grandson, Joey, had taken over the day-to-day operations a couple of years earlier, Big John still showed up every morning and stayed until last call. “Dunleavy’s isn’t a dive. It’s a neighborhood institution.”
“Give your favorite uncle a break.”
“I’m trying.” I leaned forward and shouted above the roar in the crowded saloon on Irving Street on the west side of San Francisco where the sun rarely peeked through the fog. Big John’s body and mind were as sound as ever, but his ears required a little boost from his hearing aids. “It’s your eighty-fifth birthday party. You get the night off.”
“Fine.” His jowls wiggled as he poured himself a pint of Guinness using the immense right hand that once hauled in passes when he was an all-city tight end at our alma mater, St. Ignatius. “I’ll be back at work first thing in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”
At ten-thirty p.m. on Sunday, December twenty-third, Big John’s pasty face rearranged itself into a satisfied smile as he tossed a dishtowel over his shoulder and scanned the festive room packed with well-wishers—many of whom had been regulars for decades. Over the years, he had adapted to changing times and tastes as his Irish and Italian customers moved to the suburbs and were replaced by second- and third-generation families from Chinatown. During the day, Dunleavy’s was now a gathering spot for the neighborhood’s seniors who sipped tea from white mugs and consumed Big John’s “Special Noodles,” a concoction he’d based on a family recipe provided by Mayor Ed Lee, who used to stop by a couple of times a week before he died of a heart attack at the Diamond Heights Safeway. The local cops and fire fighters still came in for Big John’s fish and chips.
I spoke directly into his better ear. “A lot of young people here tonight.”
“Millennials. Business went up almost thirty percent when I put in free WiFi. The tech kids love it. I have my own Facebook page and Twitter handle.”
You can’t stay in business for more than a half-century unless you’re adaptable. “There are trendier places.”
“We have a five-star rating on Yelp. Seems we’re viewed as one of the last ‘authentic’ pubs in the City.”
That’s true. “The kids come all the way out here for authenticity?”
“I don’t question their motives before I accept their cash, lad.”
Neither would I. “Where do they park?”
“They don’t. Driving is so last millennium. They take Uber and Lyft. Sometimes they even take the N-Judah. Public transit is hip again, too.”
The streetcar stopped a block from Dunleavy’s. “You okay with a younger crowd?”
“Absolutely. They’re well-behaved. They’re good tippers. And they spend most of their time texting. Besides, I have a long-standing policy of treating all paying customers equally. Money is money, Mikey.”
Yes, it is. “Your regulars don’t mind?”
“They like being around the kids, too. It makes them feel young again.”
It had become fashionable for Baby Boomers like me to bash Millennials like my kids, but I enjoyed their company—especially since my daughter and son were members of their tribe.
I walked around to the business side of the bar and put on a well-used apron. I had taken the helm of the watering hole countless times. So had my dad, a San Francisco cop who was married to Big John’s sister. And my older brother, Tommy, who was a star quarterback at St. Ignatius and Cal before he died in Vietnam. And my younger brother, Pete, who became a cop, and then a P.I. Pop had helped Big John build the bar three years before I was born. Thomas James Charles Daley, Sr.—who was Big John’s best friend—had been gone for twenty years. My mom had been gone almost ten. They would have enjoyed the party. Although he wouldn’t say it aloud, I knew that Big John missed them. And I did, too.
I took a moment to savor the ambiance. The mismatched tables were adorned with balloons. Behind the pool table, a Christmas tree stood between a Hanukkah menorah and a Kwanzaa kinara. For patrons of more secular and whimsical persuasions, Big John had situated a Festivus pole near the big-screen TV. Everybody was welcome at Dunleavy’s.
Big John smiled broadly as my twenty-year-old daughter, Grace, approached us. His phony Irish lilt became more pronounced. “Hello, darlin’. How’s my favorite great-niece?”
“Fine. Happy Birthday, Big John.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure that you would make it tonight.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. I just drove up from L.A. Came straight here.”
“You still seeing that boy?”
“No.”
“Boys are like the N-Judah, honey. If you miss one, another one will come along soon enough.”
“May I use that line?”
“Absolutely.”
Grace Fernandez Daley was halfway through her senior year at USC. She was a dead ringer in appearance and temperament for her mother, who was sitting in a booth near the back door. Rosita Carmela Fernandez was my ex-wife and San Francisco’s Public Defender. She was also my boss. Grace was a film major who had lined up a post-graduation job at Pixar. In her spare time, she was running a wildly successful dating and sex-advice app for college students that she had modestly christened the ‘Love Goddess.’”
“How’s business?” Big John asked her.
“Excellent.”
“Everybody here reads your stuff.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He finally dropped the brogue. “Wh
at can we get you to drink, young lady?”
“Just water, Big John.”
“Can we offer you a beer?”
“I won’t turn twenty-one until next month.”
“As if you’ve never ordered a beer in a bar.”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble on your birthday.”
My uncle let out a throaty laugh. “You think somebody is going to arrest me? This room is full of cops and their spouses, kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. And, in a few cases, their mistresses. A couple of assistant chiefs are shooting pool. Your Grandpa Tom used to come here after work. Your Grandma Margaret wasn’t crazy about it, but at least she knew where he was. I served your father his first adult beverage at this very establishment—when he was fourteen.”
“Fifteen,” I interjected.
“I stand corrected. I taught him how to tend bar when he was seventeen. It wasn’t entirely legal, but the customers liked him, and it put a few bucks in his pocket to pay for college. Your dad is the head of the Felony Division of the P.D.’s Office. Your mom is the P.D. If I get arrested, my crackerjack legal team will take good care of me.”
Grace’s hoop-style earrings shimmered as she flashed a smile that looked just like her mother’s. “Do you have a Grapefruit Saison?”
I looked over at my daughter. “A what?”
Big John spoke up before she could answer. “She’s testing me, Mikey. It’s a pilsner made by Holy Mountain Brewing in Seattle. It’s all the rage with my younger customers.” He turned to Grace. “I’m out of the Grapefruit, but I have a Hart and an Ox. Which would you prefer?”
Her smile became broader. “You’re good, Big John.”
“You think you’re the first person who’s asked for a craft brew?”
“Guess not. I’d like a Hart, please.”
“May I see your ID, please?”
Her grin disappeared. “Really?”
“I run a business, young lady.”
She pulled out her driver’s license and placed it on the bar.
Big John pretended to study it. “Not your real ID, Grace. Your fake ID.”
Her smile reappeared. She handed a second license to Big John.
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