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the job at gunpoint. Then in 1977, when I got back to the precinct house after doing crowd control at Son of Sam’s arraignment, I slipped on a piece of carbon paper and tore my knee to shreds. So much for the impact of my aspirations on a cold and random universe.
    “What’s wrong?” Aaron said when I walked into the store. Some people say hello; Aaron says what’s wrong. It is his nature in the same way as having stripes is in a zebra’s nature. “Did the zoning board in Bridgehampton turn—”
    “Nothing’s wrong and no, everything is going smoothly with the zoning board. Sunrise and Vine will open on schedule on budget.”
    “Then what?”
    “I’m taking a case.”
    “Of what, Sancerre Rouge?”
    “No, shithead. I’m working a case... as an investigator.”
    I braced myself for the inevitable backlash. Although my right to take on cases was part of our partnership agreement, Aaron rarely gave in without a fight. Even when I opened Prager & Melendez Investigations with Carmella, splitting my time between the two businesses, Aaron never tired of browbeating me for trying to be the PI Peter Pan, of not wanting to grow up. He was right, of course, but his tirades couldn’t stop me. I wasn’t easily stopped.
    “What’s the case?” he asked.
    “What?”
    “What’s the case? Is your hearing going now?”
    “Sarah spoke to you, didn’t she?” I said. “No, she didn’t.”
    “You’re a lot of things, big brother. A good liar isn’t one of them.”
    “Okay, yeah, we spoke. She told me about Candy’s kid and everything. Besides, when could I ever refuse my niece anything?”
    “I think maybe this time you should have.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I got a bad feeling about this one.”
    “A week, ten days tops,” he said in a feeble attempt to play the heavy.
    “If the girl isn’t dead already. I doubt she’ll last that long.” Aaron had nothing to say to that.

    Detective McKenna was in his late thirties. Dressed in an unbuttoned black trench coat, Payless shoes, a blue Sears suit, and an ill-matching Father’s Day tie, he was busy checking his watch when I walked up to him. I recognized his face from a photograph of him I’d seen online. I would have spotted him anyway. McKenna had cop written all over him. He looked tired, but as I got older I thought everyone looked tired. I think maybe I was tired.
    “Detective McKenna?” I said as if I didn’t already know the answer, and offered my right hand.
    “Mr. Prager.” He shook it, but with little enthusiasm. I recognized the vibe. This had all the ingredients of a bad first date, and there are few things as unpleasant and awkward as a bad first date. “You’re late.” He had the second generation map of Ireland on his puss and the first generation Long Island twang in his voice.
    “Actually, I was early.”
    I pointed at the wine store and explained. He rolled his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. McKenna probably thought this was all a waste of time, time better spent tracking down leads or knocking on doors than paying a courtesy call on some shopkeeper playing at Sherlock Holmes. No professional wants to deal with a hobbyist.
    “Let’s have lunch,” I said, gesturing at Caan’s entrance.
    Inside, the lunch crowd had waned and we were pretty much alone in the back room. I ordered pastrami and he ordered corned beef. A real shocker, that.
    “For chrissakes, McKenna, give it a rest, it isn’t St. Paddy’s Day. You could’ve ordered some kishka or kasha varnishkes or maybe beef tongue on club.”
    He stared at me blankly, a bit taken aback at my willingness to break his balls. Then he seemed to get it and the blank expression broke into a half smile.
    “That’s better,” I said. “You know, I didn’t always own wine shops. I was on the job once too. I have a gun with real bullets and everything.”
    “I know who you are. I read up on you. You got a hell of a track record. I respect that. That’s why I’m here. You think I’d