Dead Irish by John Lescroart Page A

right. Thank you.”
    Her head started to turn to look at the pictures again. Hardy spoke up. “You feel up to going out yet? It does get close in here.”
    She glanced toward the wall. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
    Hardy crossed over to her and lifted her gently by the shoulder. She leaned into him. “Let’s go,” she said, forcing a smile, “I can handle it.”
     
    “I don’t get it.”
    “In your state, that is a small wonder.”
    Moses McGuire turned his baleful gaze onto Hardy, who was negotiating traffic on Lincoln Boulevard. He had rolled the canvas top back on his car. “You took my keys, didn’t you?”
    Hardy’s eyes shifted. “I’ve often warned you of the perils of leaving things in your coat pockets. Myself, I keep my valuables in my pants.”
    “I keep my valuables in my pants,” McGuire echoed. “I try to get my valuable out of my pants as often as possible.”
    Hardy dug into his pocket, produced McGuire’s key ring, and tossed it onto his lap. “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”
    McGuire tried to whistle, but it came out wrong—his mouth wasn’t at a hundred percent. “That’s good. You just make that up? And I’m not drunk.”
    “You want to run that whistle by me again?”
    “ ’Cause I miss a whistle doesn’t mean I’m drunk.”
    “Say ‘miss a whistle’ three times.”
    McGuire tried it once, then, “What are you, my mother?” He settled back in the seat. “Miss—a—fucking—whistle,” he said.
    Hardy pulled the car up at a light and turned toward his friend. “So what don’t you get?”
    McGuire took a minute to answer. Hardy reminded him. “You said you don’t get it. What?”
    “True love,” he said finally.
    “You mean Frannie and Ed?”
    “Nope.” McGuire faded out for a minute, then came back. “I mean Ed’s parents. Tell me you didn’t notice her—Erin.”
    “I noticed her, Mose.”
    McGuire tried a whistle that came out better. “I don’t care how old she is, she’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
    Hardy nodded. Even burying her son, Erin Cochran was something far beyond reasonably attractive.
    “And with Big Ed for going on thirty years. How do you figure that, if not true love?”
    “I didn’t really meet the guy. He was just at the door. Nice enough, broken up, trying to keep it under control.”
    “But Erin and him?”
    “Why not?”
    “Hardy, the guy’s been a gardener at the Park for his whole life. Okay, he works for the city, probably a good gig, but where’s the romance? I mean, the guy’s gotta live in horse manure.”
    “Who needs romance?”
    “Wouldn’t you think Erin would?”
    Hardy shrugged. “Interesting question. I don’t know.”
    “Gotta be true love, and I don’t get it.”
    Hardy pulled the car up a block before the Shamrock. The day was hot and still. McGuire had put his head back against the seat. He looked beat, breathing heavily, regularly. “You sleeping, McGuire?”
    His friend grunted.
    “You sure you want to open the bar?”
    McGuire lifted his head. “That priest . . . he’s the kind of guy she ought to go for. Don’t laugh, it happens.” His eyes were bleary and red, the muscles in his face slack.
    “You can’t buy true love, huh?”
    “It’s a beautiful thing for a night or two.” McGuire leaned his head back again, sighed. He spoke with his eyes closed, slumped down, his head resting on the back of the car seat. “You think Frannie’s okay? She seem okay to you?”
    “She’ll make it, Mose. She’s a tough one. You going to open or not?”
    McGuire covered his eyes, noting where the car had stopped. “I don’t think I’m up to the fast-lane glamour of the bar business today, you know?”
    Hardy nodded, turned the key, started his car up again. As he pulled into traffic heading toward McGuire’s apartment in the Haight-Ashbury, Moses said, “How do they do it, Diz?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Hold together. All that family stuff.”
    “You and Frannie