John Lescroart - Guilt

'It blows my mind, Sergeant, it truly does.'

Whistling, Wes Farrell took off his white shirt and tie in the cramped unisex bathroom down the hall from his law office. Farrell often thought he was too easily amused by stupid things, such as the T-shirt he had been wearing under his suit all day – green with gold lettering that read: Take me drunk, I'm home.

Okay. So he was getting divorced, his kids didn't see him much, his career generally sucked, but his life wasn't all bad. He had his health, and that was number one, right? Give or take a few pounds, he still had his body. Lots of acquaintances. And at least one true and great friend, Mark Dooher. How many people could say that much?

Plus attitude. He had attitude in spades, and that's what pulled him through in the here-and-now – that positive attitude, the vision that day-to-day life itself was okay, even fun.

And now, thank God, he had Levon Copes. He loved Levon Copes. Levon was a lank-haired, slack-jawed, sallow-fleshed, hollow-chested, low-life, weak-willed, in-bred and brain-dead sociopath, for sure, but…

'All together now,' he said aloud into the mirror. 'DOESN'T MEAN HE ISN'T A NICE PERSON!!'

Except that Levon really wasn't a nice person.

But Wes Farrell was going to forgive him for that. He wasn't going to forget about the heinous crime he'd undoubtedly committed. But he had to admire one thing about Mr Copes – the man had a serious bank account.

Art Drysdale had not given up on the case, at least not yet. He'd told Farrell this morning that the District Attorney's office was planning a vigorous prosecution, as it did with all indictments, unless of course Farrell wanted to cop a plea.

No, Farrell had responded, he would go to trial on this one, thanks. Because this one was a winner. Farrell knew juries and he knew San Francisco, and you needed a lot more than they had on Levon Copes to convict anybody of murder here.

So he might be going to trial, to a trial that he could win, and a drawn-out murder trial meant that he was going to wind up billing his client a minimum of $ 150,000 before it was all over. And his client would pay it, gladly; it was the price of freedom.

God, he loved Levon!

So now – tonight – Wes was going to celebrate, maybe even get himself some horizontal female companionship for the first time since his separation. There was no denying it: he felt some spark tonight, some sense of life. He wasn't sure where it had come from, but he wasn't going to jinx it by worrying it to death. The ride's here, boys! Get on it or get out of the way!

He was going to start at Ghirardelli Square, for the view, to remind himself of where he lived, of why San Francisco was the greatest city in the Western World. Heading downtown, he'd hit Lefty O'Doul's, put himself on the outside of some corned beef. Then perhaps a stop by Lou the Greek's, the eclectic subterranean bar/restaurant that served the Hall of Justice community, the watering hole for the criminal legal community, of which he was – thanks to Levon Copes – a member in good standing.

What a city on this night! The possibilities were endless. Flush as he was – out of Levon's $45,000 retainer, he had kept $2,000 in cash out of his checking account, before Lydia could even see it to grab – he was going to cab it everywhere he went, bar-hopping – the Abbey Tavern, the little Shamrock…

By 10:15, he'd had himself half a yard of ale, some outstanding mega-cholesterol food, three extended discussions with interesting people about subjects which had been totally engrossing even if now somewhat vague in his memory. His cabbie, Ahmal, was turning into his best friend – Ahmal had already cleared $140. He had parked the cab just around the corner from the Little Shamrock and would wait all night for Farrell's return.

Getting inside the door through the crush of people was a bit of a trial, but Wes persevered. He knew the place well. It was on his way home. Small, well kept, without discernible ferns of any kind, it was the oldest bar in the city – established in 1893! There was often a crowd up front or at the bar, but he knew that in the back there was a mellower area, furnished with rugs and couches and easy chairs – just like a living room, though not just like/us living room.

So he moved steadily, in no hurry, toward the back. They had waitresses working, which was unusual on a weekday – normally you ordered at the bar – and he had a pint of Bass in his hand before he'd gone twenty steps. The jukebox didn't drown out the people here, and especially tonight it didn't. The place was bedlam. Only now could he make out What A Fool Believes over the crowd noise. He thought it was fitting.

And there she was.

Through the jockeying mass of humanity, he saw her sitting on the arm of one of the couches, leaning forward on her arms, sensual curves everywhere, and one leg curled under her. She was a grown-up, which was about as close as he could guess for her age – beyond that it didn't matter.

Something about her was knocking him out.

He looked away, took another sip of beer, checked for signs of how drunk he was and decided not very, then looked back at her. Yep, she still looked good – medium-length dark hair with red highlights, great skin. Her face was alive, that was what it was. Her smile lit up all around her.

He got himself a little closer. She was in conversation with a couple on the couch next to her, and suddenly the woman who was half of the couple got up – it was magic – and went into the adjacent bathroom. Wes moseyed on over.

She slid off the arm of the couch, into the empty place next to the other half of the couple, a good-looking man. Put an arm around him. Uh oh, maybe not… then she looked right at Wes.

'I love your shirt,' she said. Then, 'This is my oldest brother, Larry. He was fun when he was younger.' She patted the arm of the couch and Wes moved up a step and sat where she'd been. 'Wes,' he said, sticking out his hand, which she took and shook. Over her head, he asked, 'How you doin', Larry?'

'Larry's loaded. Sally's taking him home. Sally's his wife. She just went

to the bathroom. I'm Sam. I'm staying.'

As it turned out, she didn't stay all that long. Sam had apparently been waiting at the Shamrock for someone who looked just like Wes to walk through the door and save her from a night of aimless drinking. So another beer later for each of them, they were arm-in-arm outside, and there was Ahmal, parked on 9th where Wes had left him. This made an impression on Sam.

He paid Ahmal fifty more at her place, a downstairs flat on Upper Ashbury, and while Sam was getting out, told his good buddy the cab driver to wait an hour more and if Wes didn't come back out, he could take off, and thanks for the memories.

The door closed behind them on a cosy space – a large open room with a low ceiling, old-fashioned brick walls, built-in and seemingly organized bookshelves, a wood-burning stove.

'You have a dog,' he said.

A cocker spaniel was waking up, stretching in a padded basket next to the stove. 'You're not allergic or anything, are you?'

'As a matter of fact, I myself own a dog.'

'I knew there was something about you…'

'His name's Bart. He's a boxer.'

She leaned over to pet her little darling. 'This is Quayle,' Sam said, 'with a "y", just like Dan. You know, the brains of a cocker spaniel, so I thought, why not? Do you want another drink?'

'Not really. Would you like to come over here?' He held out his arms, and she gave Quayle one last pet, hesitated a moment, smiled, then walked to him.

She came naked through the door of the bedroom, a glass of Irish whiskey in each hand. The funny thing,' she said, 'is I don't normally do this.'

There was a blue liquid lava lamp from the 1960s or 1970s next to the bed. The windows were horizontal, high in the brick wall, at ground-level outdoors.