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He drained his glass, then looked around and found their waitress and made a circle motion aound the table for her to bring another round.

“Since the bastards bought Liberties Bar,” Tankersley said, “which I’m sure you know was forever the watering hole for us old Homicide guys, there’s been a great hunt for the next one.”

“There’s a nice space upstairs,” Payne said. “Used to be home for the original proprietors, Catherine and William McGillin. If Ma and Pa reared a dozen or so kids up there, it might be able to handle some slugs from Homicide.”

Tankersley smirked and nodded.

“Anything would beat what those hipsters did to Liberties,” he said. “Turned the damn thing into a artsy-fartsy place with fruity drinks, gave the food fancy names, and jacked up the prices on everything. I don’t know what the hell is going on with this city. Gentrification is turning that whole NoLibs-Fishtown area weird. Guys shaving their heads while growing dirty beards damn near down to their navels. And the girls not shaving their legs and armpits. With all that hair, squirrels could nest.”

Payne chuckled.

“Thanks for that mental image,” he said, “but you’re right. It’s become a mini Brooklyn wannabe.”

“And what the hell is a craft cocktail, exactly?” Tankersley went on, holding his martini up. “Just pour me a simple drink, for chrissakes.”

“I’m working on moving my fiancée out of that area,” Payne

said. “I probably missed out on one place today. Someone put in an application on the condominium I wanted ahead of me.”

“Hell, Matt, there’s others,” Wohl said. “There’s always others.”

“We talking condos or women?” Tankersley said.

They all chuckled.

“You know,” Tankersley said, his tone turning solemn, “I was just thinking about how I once lost a really good friend—lost a great drinking buddy—to a tragic accident.”

“Jesus,” Payne said. “Sorry to hear that.”

Tankersley nodded as he looked, stone-faced, back and forth between Payne and Wohl.

“Crazy part,” he said, “is it was entirely avoidable.”

“What happened?” Payne said.

Tankersley took a sip of martini, then said, “Poor bastard got his finger caught in a wedding ring.”

Wohl snorted.

“Sorry,” Tankersley said, looking at Payne. “Peter mentioned you were having—how do they say it these days?—issues with your relationship.”

Payne glanced at Wohl, and thought, Amy did stick her nose in this.

“Girl troubles,” Wohl said.

“That’s redundant,” Tankersley said, his tone somewhat bitter. “And I say that whatever the hell’s going on, Matt, she’s probably doing you a huge favor.”

“How so?” Payne said.

“I just had this conversation with my nephew, who’s probably about your age. Told him that forgetting marriage might not be a bad option. I’ve been married twice.”

Payne grinned, shook his head, then made a grand Go ahead gesture with his hand.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” he said.

Tankersley nodded, and said, “They gamed the system, women did. Damn thing’s rigged in their favor.”

“What system?”