Goren got arrested with the rest of them. They were ushered into the holding cell along with five other prisoners who had the pleasure of being NYPD's guest for the night.

Fin cursed and paced near the bars, glaring at anyone who gave him the opportunity. Bobby watched, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He glared, too. Tutuola was teaching him a lot. Within an hour, they were pulled from the cell, apparently for interrogation.

They were taken to interview rooms. The blinds were closed, and they were each given a meatball sub and their choice of either a coke or a beer. Captain Flanagan even managed a two-pat hug for each man on his team.

They took their time eating, calling family, and getting reacquainted with their fellow detectives. Finally, as the better part of an hour had passed, they were briefed on the finer points of their cover and sent back to holding. They wouldn't be off duty until their aliases were supposedly off to night court. Then they could disappear.

It was standard to take 3 days after an undercover assignment. After that, the detectives checked in, tidied any loose ends in the paperwork, and then took more time off if they needed it. The longer the assignment, the more time was granted.

Bobby left the narcotics unit ready for a bottle of scotch, a cigarette, a girl if he could find one, and a long hot shower. He was pondering the order he would enjoy those things when he remembered his promise to his mother. He'd already inquired about his father over the phone in the interview room; he knew he was due to be released from the hospital the next day.

With a scratch to his head, Bobby drove his car to a corner pharmacy and bought his bottle of whiskey. He paid for a pricier one in celebration of a job well done. Then he drove to his mother's house, parked, and walked slowly up the porch steps, wondering exactly what he would find inside.

At last he pulled the screen door, newly repaired, and left it against his shoulder while he selected the key from the several that hung on his ring. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. He glimpsed the movement peripherally and raised his arm just in time to deflect the full force of the blow, but his Mother's iron skillet managed to make contact with his right arm and his skull.

The whiskey bottle shattered when it hit the floor, and Bobby felt worse about that than his own pain. "Ma!" he shouted. "It's me!"

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh Bobby, I'm sorry, I didn't know. After all this time I didn't expect you to just open the door and walk in like that!"

"S-s-s-sorry, Ma."

"My God, did I hurt you?"

"Well…" his voice was a little whiny. He rubbed his sore arm and then touched his fingertips against his head. "Yeah."

"Oh dear!" She threw her arms around him.

Bobby indulged her for a moment, then pulled away, holding his hand against his right arm. "I'll get some ice, then I'll… clean this up," he said, gesturing to the lost bottle of scotch pooling on the floor.

The curses were on the tip of his tongue, but Bobby kept control of his tongue. His arm ached, and he wondered if she'd broken it. The last thing Bobby wanted to do was upset his mother. If Lewis was right, she was already teetering on the edge of sanity. He had to pretend that he was fine. He found a plastic bag in the kitchen and made a quick ice pack. Then he gave his arm a quick look before draping the ice over it. It was red, but didn't seem to be swelling. He held his breath and hoped the ice was all he needed. Bobby tied his ice pack onto his forearm with a dish towel and then grabbed another with his left hand to clean up the mess.

She was already talking. "They kept you and your brother from me."

"Nah, Ma, I was working. I told you that, remember?"

"Y-you did? Oh, yes. You did." She smiled at him sweetly. "I forget things, sometimes, Bobby."

He smiled at her, trying to keep the towel from dripping on the floor. He felt the ache in his arm and had a fleeting desire to suck the scotch right out of the damp towel.

"B-but Frank, he hasn't called, I haven't seen him. And they got to your father, Bobby. They got him good. He's in the hospital, you know."

"Dad's all right, Ma. He's going home."

"But they got him, Bobby!"

Bobby bit his bottom lip. "Ma…" he had to be careful how he worded things. "Isn't it possible that he just… forgot to take his medication like he's supposed to?"

She gaped at him, but he could see in her expression that she realized the truth in what he said. It was a good sign. Maybe he'd missed the worst of it this time.

"Hey, Lewis came by, didn't he?"

She smiled. "Yes, Lewis. He's just as sweet as when he was a boy."

Bobby grinned. "I tell him that all the time, Ma." He laughed at his own humor. "He fixed the door for you, right?"

"Yes, and he helped me when the toilet was running, too."

Bobby finished cleaning the mess and sat down on the couch. His mother sat beside him. She untied his ice pack from his arm and frowned at him. "I'm sorry, Bobby," she said again.

His face softened with his smile. "I'm okay, Mom. Let's see what's on TV, okay?"

At ten a.m., Bobby was just settling into a sound sleep. His mother had kept him awake half the night, pacing the floor and ranting. He had finally convinced her to go to bed, and by some miracle she had actually fallen asleep.

His pager buzzed, rattling against the coffee table. He grabbed it quickly, checking the number as he silenced it. He didn't recognize the number. Bobby got up, went to the phone and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Dad, you called me?" Bobby said, recognizing the voice.

"I need a ride home from the hospital, Bobby."

"Uh, yeah, okay. I'll uh, I'll be there soon."

"Sooner is better than later. They bill by the second around here."

"Yeah, all right, Dad. All right." He hung up the phone and rubbed his pounding head. He looked up at the stairs, and quickly set aside the thought of waking his mother. Bobby scrawled out a note for her, freshened up, put on a clean t-shirt, and left the house, locking the door behind him.