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      With special appreciation for bartenders everywhere.

      I don’t know what we’d do without you.

       1

      WHEN SUMMER BROKE in Manhattan, the sun burned hotter, the days turned muggy, men demanded their beer ice-cold, and women expected the martinis chilled. The sun was setting on one such blistering Thursday evening when the middle-aged female approached the long mahogany bar, a blush on her cheeks and her mouth creased in an apologetic smile.

      Gabriel Cormac Silas O’Sullivan, owner, bartender and general patsy of a brother, felt a familiar sense of inescapable doom.

      “I think there’s a problem with the ladies’room,” the woman began. “For the last ten minutes the door’s been locked, and there’s…moaning coming from inside. Sometimes female, sometimes male. I think there’s something lewd going on in there.”

      Tessa Hart, an employee whom Gabe had previously considered loyal, turned to him, trying not to laugh. “He’s your brother.”

      Ah, yes, his brother. More like the worm in his tequila, the backwash in his beer, the sediment in his wine. And that was being kind. “I don’t want to claim him. Not really.” There were three O’Sullivan brothers, but Gabe and Daniel were normal. Sean, not so much.

      Tessa pointed an accusing finger at him. “You own this place. Do your job.”

      Thus he was shamed into performing his duty as owner of Prime, the infamous Manhattan bar that had been in the O’Sullivan family for nearly eighty years. Nowadays, the wooden floors creaked when you walked across them, but they glistened from fresh polish. Three dark mahogany bars shaped to form a “U” around the room, a brass railing running underneath.

      Rows of photographs covered the walls. Some famous mugs, some mugs not so famous. Front and center behind the main bar were the pictures of the last four noble generations of O’Sullivans. An O’Sullivan had poured for sitting Presidents, Mafia dons, Joe DiMaggio and Bob Dylan—and now, apparently, this fine establishment was serving as the No-Tell Motel for one Sean O’Sullivan.

      Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

      Gabe scanned the bar, wondering which nubile young thing Sean had torpedoed this time. Slowly it dawned on him exactly who was missing and he grinned. Okay, maybe Sean wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately that didn’t put the ladies’ room back in business.

      He took the old, narrow staircase down to the twin doors that marked the ladies’ room and the men’s room, then rapped once on the former, hard and authoritative.

      “Open up. It’s the police. According to regulation ten-forty-three of the NY City Code, lascivious conduct is forbidden in public places.”

      From beyond the door came Sean’s voice, stuck in the throes of more passion than Gabe wanted to imagine. “This wasn’t a public place until you stuck your yap in it, Officer. And by the way, there’s no Regulation ten-forty-three. I know the law.”

      “Are you insulting one of New York’s finest?”

      “No, I’m insulting my baby brother. Now go away and spare your brother a good seven—ah, darling, that’s perfect—make it fifteen minutes.”

      “We have paying customers who need to use the facilities.”

      There was a pointed silence, followed by more lurid groaning.

      Gabe leaned against the door, making himself comfortable. “Did you tell her you were a lawyer, Sean? Because I don’t know why the women keep falling for that one. I guess it’s hard for a man in the sanitation industry to attract a certain class of woman, although you ended up married easy enough. Could have been the pregnancy, I suppose? How’s Laura doing, by the way?”

      Gabe waited, counted to three…and finally heard the low murmur of heated voices. Not heated enough, dammit. Who knew a woman with so much power in the health department would be so desperate? Didn’t matter, Gabe could stoop even lower. “The clinic called. The test results were positive, but with proper medication and professional counseling, you’ll be able to live a completely normal life.”

      Eventually Sean’s voice sounded again, a little less steady this time. “Go away. And have pity on a man who’s about to go onto his fourth tour of duty and won’t see a woman again for the next—aahhh—nine months.”

      How any woman—especially a NewYork City health inspector—could mistake his brother for a soldier was out of the range of rational possibility. Yet for some reason, rationality, Sean and women never went together anyway. Gabe banged on the door.

      Sean yelled back. “You’re embarrassing the poor woman, Gabe. Be a gentleman and leave.”

      Gabe shook his head. “All right, but don’t think I won’t remember this,” he threatened.

      “Instead of worrying about me, why don’t you worry about Tessa?”

      So typical of Sean. Diverting attention from the matters at hand. Three-card monte with emotional overtones. Sadly Gabe was suckered into it, because Tessa had enough problems to worry about, and it would be hell if something else came up and bit her in the butt.

      “What about Tessa?” he asked.

      “Employees not coming to Dr. Phil? Tsk-tsk…”

      “What about Tessa?” Gabe repeated, seriously considering busting the door down, but he’d only replaced it three months ago, and doors weren’t cheap, especially the seven-feet tall, two-feet wide, custom-made kind.

      “Give me another six minutes and I’ll tell you the whole story, because it’s obvious she’s keeping secrets from you.”

      With a frustrated sigh, Gabe put an “out of order” sign on the ladies’ room door and went back upstairs. Thursday nights lacked the chaos of the weekend, but when the Yankees were on television, the crowd skewed to beer and bets. Even some of the daytime regulars were there, as well. Judging by the happy faces, the Yankees were winning.

      An embarrassingly short