Free Bloodline by Warren Murphy

pondered the idea for a moment, then put an affectionate arm around his cousin’s shoulders.
    “Brothers,” he said. “Why not?”
    Nilo took his knife from his pocket and with practiced hands snapped it open. Without hesitation, he pierced the tip of his index finger and then reached out for Tommy’s hand. Tommy winced but let himself be cut. Then Nilo pressed their two bloody fingers together, even as he flipped the knife closed with one hand and put it back into his pocket.
    “There,” he said. “Now we are blood.”
    “Good enough,” Tommy said. “But learn your English anyway. Papa’s looking for a job for you, and it’d help if you could speak the language.”
    Nilo seemed not to be listening. “Brothers,” he said again. “You and me. Until the end.”
    *   *   *
    I T HAD BEEN A QUIET TOUR OF DUTY, but even though his detective partner, Tim O’Shaughnessy, had been looking longingly at the exit door for more than an hour, Tony Falcone would not leave the precinct until the exact moment their shift ended.
    “If you are not the worst pain in the ass in the entire world, I’d hate to meet the one who is,” O’Shaughnessy grumbled.
    Tony stood up and put on his hat and coat. “Just being honest with the citizens who pay our salary,” he said.
    “Save it for Saint Peter. Let’s get out of here.”
    The two men walked down the steps of the precinct, out into the cold January night. They were a study in contrasts. Falcone was medium height and, although he was muscular, he appeared almost frail next to O’Shaughnessy, who was a huge man, more than six feet five and weighing close to three hundred pounds. Falcone was dark and seemed always to be scowling—a look caused more by his nearsightedness and his vain refusal to wear eyeglasses than by any surliness of character. O’Shaughnessy was blotchy red-faced with the pre-alcoholic road map of capillaries crisscrossing his face, which was almost always set into a smile—a deceptive grin that masked a violent fury of a temper. They had been partners for ten years, ever since the Irishman had been assigned to the precinct.
    They followed a well-worn path over to Broome Street, where Mike Mercer had run a tavern since before Falcone had joined the force almost a quarter of a century earlier.
    Falcone was surprised that the streets were so quiet. Prohibition was about to become the law of the land; it was America’s last legal drinking day, and he had thought that all the lushes in the city would be loading up one last time.
    The previous day he had read a story in the newspaper, reporting on a speech made by the Rev. Billy Sunday in Norfolk, Virginia. Someone had held a mock funeral for John Barleycorn, and the Rev. Sunday said, “Good-bye, John. You were God’s worst enemy. You were hell’s best friend. The reign of tears is over.”
    Maybe Billy Sunday was right, Falcone thought, but only time would tell. He did not see how anyone, not even the Congress, could tell a whole country to stop drinking and expect them to do it.
    When they walked into the tavern, Mike Mercer was behind the bar talking to another pair of off-duty detectives. He nodded to Falcone and O’Shaughnessy and, without bothering to ask, poured double shots of Irish whiskey and set them down in front of the cops, along with beer chasers.
    “My turn,” Falcone said, and began to reach into his pocket for money.
    “Don’t bother,” Mercer said. “It’s on the house tonight. My treat.”
    “It’s only just a new year,” O’Shaughnessy said. “Not the Second Coming of the Holy Ghost.”
    “My last night of business,” Mercer said.
    “This is a bad joke, right?” O’Shaughnessy said. There was a worried look on his face.
    “No joke,” Mercer said. “I know a lot of people are talking about ignoring it, but I’m going to obey Prohibition. I’m going to shut down for a couple of weeks and go to Florida. When I come back, this old joint will be totally