closed her eyes, shoved away the pack. “I forgot. I’ll go out back later . . .”
I nodded, sipped my Harp, and heard a sudden eruption of voices—
“Hey! There he is!”
“How ya, doin’, Cap?”
“Glad you came!”
“Let me buy you one . . .”
The commotion was behind me, near the front door. I turned in the booth but couldn’t see—too many giant male bodies.
“What’s going on?” I asked Val.
“Michael Quinn is here . . .”
Crap. “Where is he exactly? Can you see?”
She silently tilted her chin. The man was striding past our booth that moment, a crowd of men around him. I couldn’t see the guy, but I could almost feel his energy as he passed.
“I’m surprised he came . . .” Val said.
So was I. And I wasn’t happy about it. My gaze tracked the mob across the room to the far end of the long bar. A few guys made way so Michael could have a stool. The men shook his hand, pounded his back. The bartender began to pour.
He wore jeans and a knobby fisherman’s sweater, both black; mourning black, I realized. Behind his flame red handlebar, his complexion looked colorless. A charcoal grayness seemed to surround him now, like the creeping smoke that hissed off the caffè blaze as the engine company doused the life out of the roaring fire.
Michael abruptly glanced up from the bar. I didn’t expect it. His eyes locked onto mine. He was surprised to see me here, too. I broke the connection, focused back on Val.
“He looks worn down,” I said. “Worse than the last time I saw him.”
“When was that?” she asked.
“At Bigsby Brewer’s funeral. He’s taking Bigs’s death hard, isn’t he? As hard as James . . .”
Val took a long sip of her dark beer. As she set the glass back down, her hand appeared to be shaking. The Irish band finished its set, and the pub suddenly got quieter, loud voices falling to murmurs and laughter becoming muted. I leaned into the table to hear Valerie’s next words—
“Bigs is the first man the captain lost since 9/11. Did you know that?”
“No. I don’t know all that much about Michael Quinn.”
“He lost every member of his company when the first tower fell. Did you know that?”
“No.” I risked a second glance at the man. He was knocking back a shot with one of his men. As the bartender refilled their glasses, his eyes found mine again.
“Well, Michael Quinn can be a class A jerk at times, I’ll admit. But I always cut him some slack because of what he lost.”
“It must have been hard for him . . .”
“It messed him up. That’s what James told me—not that he knew from personal experience. James only joined the FDNY seven years ago. But older guys like Ed Schott and Oat Crowley—they know Michael’s whole story—passed it along to the younger guys on the down low.”
Val glanced at her watch again, checked the door. “Where is James . . .”
“Why don’t you try calling him again?” I suggested.
“I left two voice mail messages, Clare. He hasn’t bothered to return either. What good will a third one do?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She studied the table. “I think he’s having an affair.”
I tried to sound surprised. “What makes you say that?”
“I just think so.”
“With whom?”
Val took another hit of hops, lifted her head, and stared hard at me. “Exactly how long have you known my husband?”
“Not long. The night of the Caffè Lucia fire—that’s when we met.”
“He talks about you a lot.”
“Oh?”
“I heard you went to the firehouse, helped the guys with something?”
“Espresso making. I gave them lessons.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And did my husband enjoy it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Forget it . . .” She glanced away.
“Val, look at me.” I waited until she did. “I am not having an affair with your husband. I am in a very happy relationship at the moment, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“I’m sorry . . .” Despite Val’s words, her expression remained stony. “It’s just that . . . like I told you at the bake sale, James has been acting so odd since Bigs died. I mean, I expected grief. Those two guys were really tight. But this is something else. He doesn’t want comfort from me. He’s just snappish and then distant . . . but mostly so angry . . .”
A portrait of James came to me then, a quixotic image of the way he’d looked in the park. A