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“Sometimes I leak like a cracked sieve—I aggravated it during the Rittenhouse shooting yesterday—but I’ll be okay.”

Tankersley nodded.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, then after a sip of his drink, went on. “I was really sorry to hear that Peter left Homicide. Especially when I found out he’d gone to Internal Affairs. That’s a thankless job. But he was the youngest to make staff inspector, you know. And then—now—the youngest inspector.”

Payne grinned. “Yeah, and speaking of modesty, Peter’s never quick to let that slip in conversation—that is, never more than a time or two every other week.”

Wohl, somewhat discreetly, gave Payne the finger.

Tankersley saw it, chuckled, and said, “He did a helluva job putting dirty cops, some of them high-ranking, in the slam. I don’t have to tell you that most cops, of all ranks, while they don’t like to admit it, really have ambivalent feelings toward dirty cops. And, unfortunately, toward the cops who catch the dirty ones and send them to the slam. That thin blue line can be hard.”

Payne nodded wordlessly.

“But dirty cops damn sure do deserve the slam,” Tankersley went on. “And guys like Peter, who put them there, deserve the gratitude and admiration of every honest police officer.”

The brunette waitress delivered Payne’s martini. It, like the others, contained no olives or other garnish.

“One Russian Standard vodka martini,” she said, touched Tankersley’s shoulder, and added. “No fruit, per Tank’s orders.”

“Perfect,” Payne said. “Thank you.”

Matt held it up in a toast. They followed with their glasses.

Matt began: “Here’s to cheatin’, stealin’, fightin’, and drinkin’ . . .”

Tank grinned, and picked it up: “. . . If you cheat, may it be death. If you steal, may it be a beautiful woman’s heart. If you fight, may it be for a brother. And if you drink, may it be with me.”

“Hear, hear,” Wohl said as their glasses clinked.

After taking a sip, Wohl said, “I was telling Tank about Washington’s situation after coming in at number one on the list for captain.”

“And the whole thing stinks to high hell,” Tankersley said. “The Black Buddha is one of the brightest cops I know, and, on top of that, he’s a damn good egg. But it happens. You don’t have to piss in someone’s beer, like I did, to have your career cut short.”

“When I got to Internal Affairs,” Wohl said, looking from Tankersley to Payne, “I learned that, years earlier, Tank had quietly turned in a couple guys, one of whom happened to be related by marriage to a future one-star, who he discovered were skimming cash and narcotics seized from the homes of dealers who got themselves whacked.”

“Thinking dead men don’t talk,” Payne said.

“And then he helped take them down,” Wohl, nodding, went on. “After that, Tank got passed over three times. He finally had had enough of the politics and decided it was time to just retire. It was a big loss for the department.”

“Not for me. While I miss working with some of the men—like Jason, who was just cutting his teeth—I don’t miss the bullshit politics one bit.”

“Do you really think what you said, that Jason’s career is getting cut short?” Payne said.

“I didn’t say that. I said it was my career.” He paused, sipped his martini, then added, “But Jason’s situation doesn’t sound good.”

After a pause, Payne said, “Do you regret your time in? Would you do it again?”

Tankersley turned his head in thought.

“That’s a good question. But, then, times have changed. It’s a tough environment out there. Probably? Maybe? But, I don’t know. Moot point anyway.”

Payne nodded, looking around the room.

“I’m curious,” he said. “How’d you guys wind up here? I’ve always liked the place. They’ve got a lot of interesting history on display”—he motioned with his head across the room—“including over there, every liquor license they have had since 1871, framed on the wall.”

Tankersley held up his martini glass in another toast.

“Because,” he said, “this place appreciates what it is. Here’s to the old Liberties. R.I.P.”