more pain. Neither one of you will ever see either one of them again, do you understand that?”

“I understand the words,” Leonidas said.

“Believe me,” Jimmy said. “Neither one of you will ever see either one of them again. Not in this life.”

Leonidas suddenly reached toward him. Jimmy flinched, thinking another blow was coming, but George the Lion just gripped him by the upper arm. “If they are where you say they are, then just tell me they are at peace. Go there and see them and come tell me that.”

His grip hurt. “I will,” Jimmy said.

If Jimmy had had his own nagging voice of conscience like Machine Shop did, now he would have taken it back. Because there was no way he could do what he said he would do, and Jimmy knew it. There wasn’t even any reason to believe both girls were Sailors now, just the one. The other was probably just gone.

“Where can I reach you?” Jimmy said. He knew he’d probably never even try.

Leonidas had business cards in a leather fold-over holder. He handed one over. He was in plumbing supplies. Across the Bay. He put the card holder back in his front pants pocket and nodded at Jimmy and turned and walked away.

Card. Nod. Turn. Walk.

Jimmy watched him go, watched to see if he would look over at the pier where it had happened, Pier 35, where the girls had jumped, where the seams of his world had been rent. But he didn’t look over.

Jimmy let him get some distance ahead, then followed him. He didn’t exactly know why. He followed Leonidas through the crowds of tourists, who only seemed to have grown in volume and volume in the last hour, past the street performers, past everything his daughters had passed the night before, past the last things they had seen in life, across a packed open parking lot to a parking structure, open on the sides, to a dark silver Cadillac DeVille, four or five years old, the last of the “old man” Caddies. He unlocked it and got behind the wheel, started the engine, pulled on the lights, never breaking down, never looking back.

Leonidas had never looked back.

How do you do that? Jimmy thought.

He thought it through three Chiantis, a few hours later, sitting in a bar, looking back in spite of himself, remembering more than he wanted to about a very specific time and place. And a person. And Chianti. What he was drinking tonight was good wine, but then it was cheap, youthful wine, Chianti out of basket-wrapped bottles, Italian-movie Chianti. La Dolce Vita. 8½. Dan Tana’s on Santa Monica in L.A. when it was still just a good red-checkered-tablecloth Italian restaurant music business and below-the-line movie people went to. Cheap, youthful. She was the one Lucy had reminded him of, starting back in Saugus Café. Mary.

Don’t look back.

He was outside with the smokers. At one of those tall tables with tall chairs designed to keep you from ever relaxing.

There Lucy was, right across the street. At a table in front of the Starbucks wannabe in the Haight.

With Machine Shop.

The coffee joint was packed, every table full, inside and out, busier than Jimmy’s bar. Lucy and Machine Shop were about the only ones without big Friday night smiles on their faces.

Big surprise, she was a little down.

But Machine Shop was on the job, even if this wasn’t exactly what Jimmy had in mind when he told him to look after her. They were like new best friends. They had coffees in front of them. Shop would stir his thoughtfully while she talked, stirring and nodding, just like a gal pal. Then Lucy would stop, get to the end of something, end it with a question. Jimmy could tell even from across the street that her voice raised at the end of the line. Machine Shop would stop stirring, nod a couple of times more, and then say a line or two. He was a good listener, leaning in, eye contact. Once he even reached a hand across the table to pat the back of hers, completely nonsexual. Two pats and out. His posture and performance made Jimmy think Twelve Step again. Shop had a sponsor somewhere, probably was a sponsor to somebody else, probably a good one, too.

Jimmy drained his glass. The first step is admitting you’re powerless . . . Across in the coffee bar, a fat guy moved, and Jimmy saw somebody else. Polythene Pam. Alone. She was inside,