CHAPTER 2: AFTERSHOCK

Later, sitting together at a restaurant, Lennie and his daughter cast about for conversation, Lennie trying not to show how confused he was by her presence and she trying not to show how uncomfortable she was around him.  Her own dad.  She could never figure out what to say to him.

This is ridiculous, she thought, I'm twenty-five years old and I can't think of anything to say to my father.  Of course it doesn't help that I don't know anything about his life and he doesn't know anything about mine, and we really have no shared history to speak of.

Cathy mentally gave herself a shake.  Come on.  Make an effort.  Be a grown-up.

"So, you're still a nut for tuna fish, huh?" Lennie asked.

"Yeah, only no one makes it like you with the chopped-up pickles," she said, grateful he'd started the ball rolling.  He laughed slightly.

"Did you get that Father's Day card I sent you?"

Oh yeah, Lennie thought, the super-early one.  Some cartoon of a cow or something, and inside a choice for him to check off: " Sorry for sending this so late Aren't you proud of me for sending this so early?"  He'd never really understood her sense of humour, but appreciated the card nonetheless.

"Mm, right, yeah, it's, uh, it's on the hall mirror.  I thought I called to thank you," he said.  Then realized that no, of course he hadn't.  He hadn't called her in… months, probably.  Hardly ever called her, because he always felt like he was intruding when he did.  Hardly ever thought of her, because when he did he just felt vague unease and guilt over having failed as a father.  But hey, at least here she was now.  "You know, you look great, sweetheart," he smiled at her.

She smiled back.  He seemed sincere.  She knew her father loved her, he was just really bad at showing it.  That was probably why she hardly ever contacted him unless something made her think of him, like seeing him on the news.  Oh.  There was something to talk about.  Cathy suddenly wondered about the execution he'd witnessed.

"Yeah.  So you actually watched it," she said, and he caught the reference.

"Yeah, well, we figured we should, you know."  Yeah, what a great decision that was.  Driving for twelve hours, mulling the whole time, and still mulling.  Waste of time.

"Can't get that girl outta my head.  I mean it was just a fender-bender, right?"

"She just happened to dent the wrong Camaro."  This was not what he wanted to talk to his daughter about.  He never knew what he wanted to talk to his daughter about, but it sure as hell wasn't what he did for a living.  "So how'd you know where to find me anyway?"  And why did you want to find me? he thought to himself.

"I called the station, they told me it was your day off, so I figured, hey some of my best memories are picking up your winnings at OTB," she smiled a little wryly.  Lennie sighed inwardly.  This was part of why he avoided Cath.  He loved her, wished they could have a closer relationship… but every time he got together with her he was reminded of how badly he'd screwed up fatherhood.  Just another part of his past that he'd had to come to terms with, and most of the time he was OK with it – or at least, he accepted it.  But it was still damn painful.  Like a bone that's as healed as it's ever going to get, but still hurts when you put any pressure on it.

"I was a hell of a Daddy," he said ruefully.  Taking a kid to OTB.  What kinda loser does that?  If he saw some scuzzball today with a little girl at OTB, he'd keep an eye out for child abuse or neglect.

"You were fine," Cathy said, more gently than she usually spoke to him.

He nodded in thanks.  Nice of her to say so, even though they both knew it wasn't true.  "When I could stand up," he said self-deprecatingly, taking a drink of his soda water.  Soda water and lime, the official beverage of the recovering alcoholic.

Mercifully, Cathy changed the subject.  "At work I uh, beat the doctors' butts at poker," she said, smiling proudly.

"Straight draw?" Lennie asked.  There were a few things he and Cathy could talk about without bringing up painful memories, and cards was one of them.  She was a damned good player, too.  Chip off the old block.

"It's the only way," she said as if it was obvious.

"Yeah, cause that wild card crap, that's strictly-"

"-for fraternity boys and blue haired ladies.  I know," she grinned at him.  Good old Dad.  So laid back about most things, but certain things had to be just so.  Like poker, and horses, and pool.  All games.  Too bad he wasn't a little more conscientious about real life.  She thrust that thought away.  You're here to make an effort, she reminded herself.

"Atta girl," they shared the smile.  "Guess I did a coupla things right after all, huh?"  Lennie felt a warm glow.  He paused and thought for a minute.  "Your mom OK?" she nodded slightly.  Finally he couldn't take it any more.  "Cath, you gotta know, it's driving me crazy trying to figure out why you're here."

She looked at him with that slightly disappointed look he hated, and the glow started to fade.  "Hey, I saw you on the tube, it's no big deal."

Damn, he thought.  The execution.  Great.  How to grow closer to your semi-estranged offspring.  Help kill a guy.  What does that say about your life?

Cathy looked down, suppressing a sigh.  Of course.  He had to ask if there was a reason.  Why would she just come see him, out of the blue?  Not like she was any part of his life or anything.

ooo000ooo

As they dug into their entrees, he had a thought.  "You didn't get married, didja?" he asked, half joking, half serious.  Would she have invited him to her wedding if she had?

Cathy's eyebrows went down slightly in a skeptical frown.  "Are you kidding?"

"Well you been living with that guy what, four years?"

"His name's Martin," she reminded him.  Four years, Dad.  Mom knows he likes strawberry soufflé and the Beatles and is scared of heights, and you can't even remember his name.

"Well, it's about time Martin grew up," he pointed out.  Martin, right.  Face like a weasel, but Cath seemed to like him well enough.  Time for him to settle down with her.

"He asked me plenty of times."

Lennie looked at her, surprised.  "You mean…"

"Why would I wanna get married?"

Lennie thought for a moment, stumped.  Sure, he was the first one to make jokes about marriage, but to hear his daughter dismiss it like that… it was disconcerting, to say the least.  Didn't all young women want to get married?  Wasn't it the guy who was supposed to run screaming for his freedom?  And… well, being called upon to defend the institution of marriage… it wasn't a position he was used to.  "Well there's plenty of reasons," he fished about for one.  "I mean, uh… kids, there you go," he said, relieved.  Young women wanted to have kids, right?

"Sure worked for you," Cathy said dryly.  He dropped his gaze.  OK, that one hurt.  She had a right to say it, but it still hurt.  There was a brief silence.  "What made you stop, anyway? Drinking."

Boy, was that ever not a subject he wanted to delve into with Cathy.  Ranked even higher than his job on the list of 'topics to avoid having a father-daughter chat about'.  "Ask me who got me started, much better story," he joked.

"I just assumed it was me," Cathy said quietly.

"Aw, come on," Lennie looked at her, genuinely disturbed.  Jesus.  She couldn't possibly think that, could she?

"I was seven years old when you stumbled outta my life. What's a seven-year-old gonna think?" she asked, trying to hide her disbelief at his surprise.  Had it actually never occurred to him that she would blame herself?  Had he actually never thought of that?  How blind could he be?  It was a well known truism to anyone who knew anything about children: kids are self-centered, they always assume things happen because of them.  For good or bad.

Guess he really didn't know a damn thing about kids.  No surprise there.

Lennie sighed.  OK.  Apparently his alcoholism was a topic he'd have to take off the avoidance list.  Just not today.  "I love you kiddo, but do me a favor, will ya? Today's really not the right day."

"Stupid idea, me and my dad, having lunch, talking like a couple of grownups…" Cathy said a little bitterly.

He'd disappointed her again.  He always disappointed her.  "It's been at the top of my wish list too," he said, trying to reach past her disappointment.

"You know you could call sometime. I have a phone," she said softly.  She was willing to try, if he was.  After all, here she was, making an effort.  Didn't he see that?

Lennie shook his head.  Sure.  He should just call her, out of the blue, after guzzling away his right to be her father almost twenty years ago.  "Yeah, right. 'Hi kid, uh, arrested a coupla mooks today, uh, sorry I ruined your life, uh, what are you doing for dinner?'"

"OK, you win," Cathy stopped him.

Damn it.  Again.  He disappointed her, he hurt her, it was like there was nothing he could do or say that was the right thing.  Maybe… maybe if she hadn't shown up today he wouldn't be screwing this up.  If he wasn't tired, upset, feeling old and jaded and upset about the execution…

Maybe he could try to explain it.  "Look, it's just…" he took a breath, trying to figure out how to express this.  "I see dead people all the time, only, they're already dead when I show up, see, then it's my job to go find the bastard who did it," he paused.  "Now, this morning, I watched a guy get killed, and I wasn't supposed to do anything about it," he paused again.  And now, knowing that she'd only come to see him because he'd been on TV because of it… ah, hell, how could he explain it to her when he couldn't even explain it to himself?  "I dunno, I guess I'm better when they're already dead," he finished lamely.

Cathy sat back and looked at him, frowning slightly.  Nope.  That hadn't made any sense to her either, she didn't get it and she was still hurt.  Story of his life.  Of their life.

ooo000ooo

More food, more stunted bits of conversation, more uncomfortable silences.  Their conversation had slowly deteriorated until she was throwing out more and more digs at him, and he was countering with more and more half-joking comebacks, his only defense against her disdain.  Their regular relationship.

Somehow they'd gotten through an entire meal.  A big one.  One of the few other things they shared – both had enormous appetites.  Rey would've had a fit at the sheer volume of unhealthy food they'd both downed, Lennie thought, smiling to himself.

"What?"

"No, just… my partner's a kinda health nut – well, compared to me, anyway.  He'd probably have a heart attack seeing you eat like I do."

Oh, that was pretty funny, Cathy thought.  Point out the fact that she overate in difficult situations, that she had to work like hell to stay slim.  Not that he'd know that.  Not that he knew anything about her.

"What?" he asked, seeing her frown.

"Nothing, nothing."  Why bother to let him know about her dieting efforts.  Not like he'd care.  He took in her scowl and wondered what he'd said wrong this time.  Maybe it was time to just cut their losses for today.

"Here, why don't I get the bill?"

"You sure?  You got anything left after OTB?" she asked disdainfully.

"Oh, sure, I might even have more waiting for me back there, I bet just before we left.  I was thinking I might stop by, see how it went."

Of course, she thought.  Back to OTB.  Not like he could offer to go shopping with her, or see a movie, or anything.  He caught her look.

"You uh, you wanna come along?"

"Why would I wanna spend time at OTB?  I did that enough as a kid.  It's not my thing," she said brusquely.

Oh.  Of course.  And why should she want to spend time with him?  She'd done her daughterly duty.  He should probably just be grateful for lunch, awkward as it had been.  He got the bill, paid it in silence.

ooo000ooo

Later, as they left the restaurant, both feeling let down, she decided to not stew silently about the food thing.  Maybe she should tell him about that, at least, and maybe next time he wouldn't make such a crass comment about how much she ate.

"You know, I've been dieting," she said abruptly.

"Oh yeah?  Why?"

"I don't wanna get fat."

"Hey, you look fine, sweetheart," he said, trying to be encouraging.

"That's because I'm dieting."  How dense could he be?

"I never saw the point in dieting."

"Well there's also my health.  I am a nurse, you know."

"What, nurses aren't allowed to eat?"

"I'm in health care.  A good diet's part of good health."

"You sound like my partner.  I eat plenty, I'm fine."

"Yeah?  And how's your liver?" she jibed.

"What's left of it hasn't given up on me yet," he answered evenly.

"Mom's dieting too."

"Yeah?  Good for her.  How's she doing?"

"OK.  Don't you talk to her?  I mean, I thought you guys had to work out some stuff about her selling the old apartment…"

"Yeah, well, we did that through her lawyer.  Him and me are real good buddies now.  That reminds me, I oughtta send him a Bundt cake."

"Yeah, not like you'd wanna keep in touch with her or anything," she muttered.  Or me.  Or any part of your sorry past.

"Well, you know, there's nothing like divorce to really cement a friendship."

"You cops, you're all the same.  Peel away that thick skin and you find a heart of brick," she said wearily.

"Oh, now I get it.  You saw me on TV and remembered how much you hated me," he joked bitterly.  The more time they'd spent together today, the closer to the surface her dislike of him had grown.  He should've known the brief reprieve at the beginning of lunch wouldn't last.  And how could it?  There was too much hurt in their past to have any kind of a civil present… or future, for that matter.

"No, but I'm beginning to," she muttered.  What a waste of time.  Here she was, a grown woman, still trying to… what?  Have a Daddy?  Fill the need she'd had when she was a little girl, to have this sorry bastard actually give a damn about her, take care of her, put her first instead of a bottle, a horse race… or just about anything else?

"Somebody said 'I'd rather be a terrible warning to my children than a good example,'" he took refuge in humour as usual.

Great.  Very funny.  Good thing he could joke about how much he'd let her down, how much he continued to let her down, because it sure didn't get a chuckle outta her.  "You were funnier when you were drunk.  I gotta go to work," she said abruptly.

"I'll get you a cab," he offered.

"It's OK," she looked at him in distaste.  "You know, you were right.  You are better when you find the people already dead," she turned away and walked off.

Lennie gazed after her.  This was why he didn't try to contact his daughter all that frequently.  Make that ever.  Because when they did get together… it hurt like hell.

ooo000ooo

Back to OTB.  Tippy-Top hadn't won after all.  Another wad of money down the drain, thank you very much Fat Frankie over in Chelsea.

More races, more losses, more mulling over lunch with Cathy.  It was like they talked past each other, just couldn't connect.  She seemed to want to get along with him, but then they'd get together and she'd jab at him and he really couldn't do anything about it, couldn't seem to say or do anything to not disappoint her.

And now this.  'I just assumed it was me'.  He winced, thinking how much that must have hurt her.  How could he possibly make amends for that?  How could he possibly make up for having made a little girl feel responsible for her father's out-of-control life?

He couldn't.  And in the face of that, his hard-won sobriety was meaningless.  Sure, he'd been sober for years.  But what did it matter?  Who really cared that he was sober, other than him?  How did his being sober now make up for him being a drunk before?

He left the OTB parlour, tired, poorer, still obsessing.  Walked for a while, thinking, regretting.

'I just assumed it was me'.  He knew she resented him, he'd known for a long time, but it had honestly never occurred to him that she might have grown up blaming herself for his drinking.  No wonder she hated him.

Hell.  He'd worked so damn hard to stop.  It had been the toughest thing he'd ever done in his life, climbing the Twelve Steps to sobriety, going against so much: habit, lifestyle, inertia, addiction, his own personality, his history… but he'd done it.  It had taken everything in his power to beat his alcoholism and he'd finally done it.  Gone from 'alcoholic' to 'recovering alcoholic'.  And for what?

Times like this, he could really use a vodka.

Right, Lennie, that would be the perfect end to a perfect day.  Dive right back into the bottle.

And why the hell not?

Sobriety.  It didn't matter worth a damn.  He could never go back and undo the damage he'd done.  He had two daughters, neither one of whom he could relate to.  Two ex-wives who hated him, with good reason.  Colleagues in a bunch of different precincts who could all share Lennie the Drunk stories.  What did Rey say?  He'd checked him out when they were partnered.  "You were a good cop.  Then you fell into a bottle.  You climbed out, but the jury's still out."

The jury was still out.  Almost four years sober, but of course the goddamn jury was still out.  And it would stay out.  There would always be people who would not let him live down his past.  Colleagues, superiors… Rey's pretty little wife, who worried that her precious darling would get hurt being partnered to an unreliable alcoholic… and of course his daughter.  And as much as he joked about it, it hurt like hell.

Sobriety.  The toughest achievement of his life, and it really didn't matter worth a damn.  Apparently the real crowning achievement of his life was that today he'd helped kill a guy.  There, that was something to be proud of.  No daughter to say "To Dad, thanks for beating the bottle", but a bunch of cops giving him a standing ovation at the precinct, some old farts toasting him at O'Haran's, a waitress coming on to him, all because he'd helped kill Mickey Scott.

Maybe he should go get liquored, at least he'd be able to stop thinking about this for a little while.  Who the hell was he staying sober for anyway?  Who was he kidding?  He was too damn old to turn over a new leaf, and nobody would let him anyway.

He looked up at a neon sign.  A bar.  And if he remembered right, this one had pool tables, so if he decided to stay on the wagon, he could always try to shark back some of what he'd lost on horses today.

ooo000ooo

He approached the bar.

Naw, don't drink.  Don't do it, said the little angel on one shoulder.  Do it, do it, you know you'll feel better, and there's no real reason not to, said the little devil on his other shoulder.  Lennie approached a barstool, wondering at the image in his head.  Angel and devil?  What was he, three years old?

"Uh, seat's taken.  Buddy's on the phone," said a heavyset middle-aged man.

Lennie suddenly noticed another man approaching.  Raised his eyebrows.  Jack McCoy?  In a dive like this?

"This your buddy?" he pointed to McCoy.

"Like brothers," the man said a little blurrily.

"Detective Briscoe," McCoy said with good cheer.  Whoa, Lennie caught the slight slur and the whiff of Scotch.  Executive Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy was not feeling much pain right now.  Lennie's practiced eye estimated about eight drinks, give or take, over a few hours.  For a man of McCoy's build and regular tolerance for Scotch, that would put him somewhere on the border between very tipsy and slightly drunk.

"Counselor," he greeted him, a little dourly, and started to take off his coat.  He'd been hoping to either drink or decide not to drink on his own.  So much for that.  He couldn't get drunk in front of somebody he worked with, somebody who knew he was an alcoholic.  He'd lose whatever credibility he had left, possibly even his job if word got out.

"Out of aall the gin joints in all the world, etc. etc. etc," McCoy pronounced, sitting down.  Lennie nodded.  Yeah.  Of all the gin joints I had to choose one with a co-worker in it.  Close enough to a co-worker, anyway.  "Is it my imagination or are you not exactly thrilled to see me?" McCoy observed.  Good eyes, even when tipsy, Lennie thought.

"Oh, it's just that I thought that the Constitution provided for the separation of work and play," he smiled, trying to cover his disappointment at seeing McCoy here.  It wasn't McCoy's fault.

"That's funny.  He's funny," McCoy commented to the heavyset man.  "No work here, Detective.  This is play, pure and simple, I bet you didn't think I had it in me," he said with slightly intoxicated pride.

Lennie chuckled.  "To tell you the truth I never thought about it," he replied, sitting and realizing that no, if he had thought about it, he wouldn't have figured McCoy for a guy who would ever want to hang out in a working class bar getting plastered.

"Barkeep, a drink for my friend here," McCoy signaled expansively.

"Yeah, club soda with lime," Lennie said automatically.

"Make it a double, on me," McCoy slurred slightly.

"Sure you uh, haven't had enough already?" Lennie asked, a little amused.  Jack McCoy getting hosed.  Pretty funny sight.  If Adam Schiff could see him now…

"This is what it's all about," objected McCoy.  "Coupla drinks, with a coupla guys…" he checked his watch,  "coupla hours…"

ooo000ooo

Coupla hours indeed.  "What does that say?" McCoy blearily showed Lennie his watch about an hour or so later.

"Says she isn't coming, whoever she is," Lennie told him with humour.  He'd watched in envious amusement as McCoy crossed the border between tipsy and drunk and over into completely soused, waiting for somebody to come pick him up.  No big mystery who that somebody was.

"What makes you think-"

"Twenty-five years on the force."  As if it took a detective to know that the only person who could make a man wait and wait, getting more and more wasted, checking his watch until he couldn't read the numbers any more, was a woman.  And Lennie had figured out a long time ago who that woman was.  Especially with McCoy's reputation for dating assistants – Claire's too, she'd dated another boss of hers a few years ago.  Didn't take a detective to put two and two together like that.

McCoy started to get up unsteadily.  "At least she's Irish," Lennie commented.  Come on, McCoy, get off it, everybody knows you sleep with Claire Kincaid.  The 'we're just co-workers' act is pretty thin.  McCoy looked at Lennie in brief surprise, then seemed to decide to take it in stride and finished getting off the barstool.

"Hey, hey, you know what?  Maybe I better take you home," Lennie stood up as McCoy stumbled a bit.  So much for falling off the wagon today; instead maybe he'd help out another drunk.  Lucky bastard, being able to use booze to numb himself without it being a disaster.  Although, from what he'd seen and heard, Jack McCoy downed enough Scotch, with enough frequency, to make Lennie a little suspicious that maybe he had a problem too.  But hey, at least he didn't have a reputation as an alcoholic.  Skirt chaser, maybe, but not alcoholic.  Some people had all the luck.

"I don't believe there's any law against taking a cab while intoxicated," McCoy said unsteadily.  He put on his jacket.  "Been a good day, hasn't it, Detective?"

"For who?" Lennie asked.  Not for Mickey Scott.  Not for him.  Sure as hell not for McCoy, stuck here, stood up by his little chickadee.  Although from what he was seeing, McCoy wasn't feeling too upset about it right now.  Too pickled to feel much, probably.

"Good guys pulled through, bottom o' the ninth," McCoy replied, putting his coat on over the jacket.  He high-fived Mike's hand in farewell as he started to weave off, then turned around.  "And to hell with 'er," he smiled.

"To hell with all of 'em," Lennie muttered.  To hell with pretty little Claire Kincaid standing up McCoy, to hell with McCoy celebrating death, to hell with Rey not batting an eye over it, to hell with Van Buren not even bothering to go, to hell with Scott, and most especially to hell with Cathy and to hell with him.  He was sick and tired of trying.  To hell with all of them.  Let the little devil win, and bye bye little angel.  "Hey pal," he waited till he caught the bartender's eye.  "You know what club soda's good for?" he pushed his glass away, "Cleaning the grill.  Gimme a vodka, straight up."  What a relief.

ooo000ooo

The ten o'clock news had come on and Lennie had finally seen the clip of himself as he came back from the washroom.  There he was, next to Rey and Claire at the entrance to Attica, on the way out after the execution.  Quick shot, the lights just caught their faces as they walked to the parking lot. McCoy had been behind Claire and his face hadn't shown up in the blink-and-you-miss-it spot.  Too bad.  McCoy had been pretty proud of himself.  He sat down next to Mike, McCoy's heavyset friend.

Nice guy, Mike.  They'd become pretty good buddies.

"Hey, I just saw me, on the TV," he chuckled.  Funny to see yourself on the little box.

"Wha?" Mike asked.  Mike had been matching him drink for drink – pretty impressive since it looked like he'd been matching McCoy drink for drink before Lennie came along.

"Me and my par'ner.  On the tube."

"How come?"

"We got 'im, we're the cops got Mickey Scott."

"Huh?"

"That bastard that got executed t'day," ex-e-cu-tid, a long word, "me an' my rookie par'ner, we got 'im.  Pretty easy collar, lotsa witnesses, real sonofabitch to bring in though.  Then McCoy prosecuted him," pro-se-cu-tid, another long word.

"No way.  You were the guys?" Mike asked in disbelief.

"Yup.  We caught 'im, McCoy cooked 'im."  Cooked 'im real good.  Real prouda himself, too.

"Lemme buy you another," Mike said in drunken camaraderie.

Ah, why not.  The guy was dead, somebody might as well get something out of it, right?  "Hey, you can buy 'em all night, little buddy," he said cheerfully, clapping Mike's shoulder.  "Kill me twice, Jimmy," he told the bartender.  This was much better than trying to stay off the sauce, trying to be a dad, trying to be what he wasn't.  Might as well take pride in something, and everybody else seemed to think he should be proud of having caught Scott.  The hell with Cath, 'I just assumed it was me'.  Well, this time it is you, sweetheart.  A woman drove me to drink, and I never had the decency to thank her, said good ol' W.C. Fields himself.  "You got kids?" he asked Mike.

"Try three."

"Mm.  I got two girls," he smiled, two beautiful girls.

"You must be proud."

"Proud, yeah," sure, what's not to be proud of?  He downed another vodka.  They'd both gone to college despite him.  Cathy was a nurse, good job, seemed to be doing OK except on those days when she decided to include her sad excuse for a father in her life.  She was doing good.  Coulda been anything, coulda been a teacher, coulda been a lawyer, coulda been the weather lady, "You know who kills me, the weather lady.  The weather lady says, it's 65 at the airport," Mike leaned closer and Lennie peered at him earnestly.  "Who gives a damn?  Nobody lives at the airport," Mike cracked up and Lennie followed suit.  "She hates my guts," he mentioned.

"The weather lady?" Mike asked, confused.

"No, my kid," Lennie corrected him.  The weather lady, right.  'Course, the weather lady would also hate his guts if she was his daughter.  "Her mother cheats around on me, and she hates my guts."  That still stung a bit, after all these years.  Being cheated on.  Little more vodka would take that away too though.

"Hey.  You shoot stick?" Mike suggested.  Nice guy, trying to cheer him up.

Pool, yeah.  Something else he was good at besides guzzling booze and pissing off his daughter.  He smiled in anticipation and said casually, "Once or twice."

ooo000ooo

Much, much, later, he had indeed won back some of what he'd lost with the horses.  Mike had told him something about McCoy playing darts, and he'd set out to outdo McCoy's darts prowess with his own pool prowess.  Prowess.  What kinda word was that?  A Jack McCoy word.  He sank a ball.

"What is it with you guys?  First darts, now pool?" Mike was dismayed.

"Never mess with a civil servant, my friend," Lennie told him, setting up another shot.  So Jack was a darts shark.  Wouldn'a taken him for one.  EADA Jack McCoy, hanging out in bars and playing darts with the salt 'o the earth.  Funny.  He took the shot.

"Too much time on your hands," Mike jibed as they watched the balls go.  There, another one down.

"Yeah, too much time, not enough time," wasn't there a song with time in it?  He used to know it, how'd it go, "''Tis I'll be there-'" he took a shot, then recognized a slight figure in a black leather jacket coming through the haze.  Who?  Hey! "Whoa, looka' this!"  Little Claire Kincaid.  Dressed like a little rebel.  Finally here to pick up her little rebel biker boyfriend.  Who'da guessed they were button-down shysters?

"You've been drinking," she told him.  Sharp eyes on that girl.  That's why she got the big bucks, cause she noticed stuff like that.

He slapped the pool table in mock dismay.  "That's what's causing this!" he threw the stick down onto the table.  'Course he was winning every game, but Mike was getting some shots in, which he wouldn'a if Lennie hadn'a been so drunk.  Then again, if he wasn't drunk, he'd be sober, right?  And that was no fun.

"This your kid?" Mike asked.

That was funny too.  Nice when everything was funny.  Claire, being his kid.  "Aah, let's see.  Do you hate my guts?" he asked her.  She looked at him, puzzled.  She didn't get it.  'Course not.  Kids these days.  No sense o' humour.  Claire, Rey, Cathy, so damn serious all the time.  "I guess not."

"Jack called me."

Good old Jack, right, that's why she was here.  Sorry, too late, sweetheart.  "Jack.  Jack turned into a pumpkin.  C'n I buy you a drink, Counselor?"

"No thanks," she probably didn't drink.  Didn't know what she was missing.  What would Claire be like drunk?  Probably silly.  Girls got silly.  Guys got funny.  Told jokes.  He knew some jokes.

"Oh – OK, I got one for you," how'd it go, "How come California has the most lawyers, an' New Jersey has the most toxic dumps?" Get a little chuckle.  Come on, somebody's gotta stop being so damn serious around here.

"Because New Jersey got first pick," she answered him, and you call that a smile?  Kids.  Life's too short to be so serious.

"You don' get it," he smiled at her ruefully, and why should she.  Nobody born after 1950 could tell or appreciate a joke worth a damn.  Mike and Jack, they were funny guys.  Cathy, Rey, Claire, though, all the kids in his life were the same.  No sense o' humour.  What's the point?  How can you get through your sorry life without a laugh or two?  'Course, none o' them had any reason to need to hide behind jokes.  They weren't all failures, like him.

"Look, why don't you get your coat, and I'll drive you home," Claire said to him gently.  Oh, OK.  Why not?  He'd pass out, maybe go to OTB tomorrow.

Wait - didn't he go to OTB today?

ooo000ooo

"Home, James," he told Claire, leaning back in the car.

"Where to?"

"I use' ta know," he told her, chuckling.  Where the hell was he?  No idea, but he knew his address.  Coral Avenue, like he lived on a reef or something.  Or a reefer.  No, no reefers, just good old vodka, whisky, gin…

"So this morning really bummed you out?" said little Claire.

"Do I look bummed out to you?" nah, he wasn't bummed out.  Drunken bum, maybe, but not bummed out.  "You know, it wouldn't be so terrible," he mused.

"What's that?"

"If you were my kid," he told her.  Stick with the program, kiddo.

"I guess I should take that as a compliment," she smiled.  Nice girl.

"Hey, yer smart, yer pretty, you got a good job, and," this was the important part, "you don't hate my guts."  That would be nice.  A kid who didn't think he was a pathetic old drunk.  Even when he was.

"Lennie, I doubt your daughter hates you," Claire told him.  Such a nice girl.  Driving him home.  His daughter would probably just let him pickle himself some more.  But Claire really didn't know much about life.  None of these kids did.  Surrounded by fresh-faced idealistic kids, and except for Claire, all of them thought he was a failure.  Ah well, let him be a failure then.  A lot easier and a lot more fun than trying not to be.

"Oh-ho, no, you don't know 'er, you don't know 'er," he told Claire.  What was it Cath had said?  'You're right.  You are better when they're already dead.'  Who says that to somebody they don't hate?  "I don' even know 'er."  Never really took the time to.  Probably why she hated him.  One of so many reasons.  He didn't know her, never had, never would.  Too late now.  "I never will, I never will," he finished miserably, voice dropping to a whisper.  Never will.

Suddenly a loud sound was assaulting his ears and a bright light was blinding him and he wanted to tell Claire to lay off the horn, didn't she realize he was drunk and that was too loud a sound around a drunk guy and then the car was suddenly shaking violently with a godawful shriek of metal what the hell was that and then whirling around and Claire wasn't a very good driver was she, you don't spin a car like that whoa, Claire, you're gonna get us killed -