The Casebook of Justice in Dixon, The Case of the Just desserts, Part 2.

The name is Justice, Jack Justice.

I enjoy a drink as much as the next man, sometimes more.

I am no one's idea of a connoisseur, and I mostly cannot

tell a fine wine from a bottle of something brewed behind a radiator, but it has been suggested

that too much experience with the latter has abused my poor palate past the point of appreciating

the former, and that's as may be. I like a quick drink, a quiet drink, a late drink, or an early drink. I don't advocate

excess, but I'm not fanatically opposed to it either. All in all, as with most subjects, I am no one's

idea of a role model and zero people should emulate my behavior for any reason, even if it is only

mildly reprehensible. All of which is by way of saying that unless you are very new to these

ribled little tales of adventure, you know perfectly well that I am not above the occasional

day drink, and that the idea of settling a bellyful of corned beef hash with a bourbon or two was

not what set my teeth on edge about Sabian's plan, if it could be called out with a straight

face. The girl detective was also uncharacteristically quiet, and I suppose that it was the prospect of walking with Sabian into a room filled with people who had openly discussed killing him quite recently that gave her pause.

As we followed the good lieutenant's car along 8th Street towards the welcoming arms of O'Hanrahans and the Delaney mob therein,

I discovered that she had other concerns.

"'You don't think he's serious, do you?' she asked at last.

"'There was only one member of our party who befit the third-person singular pronoun,

and I briefly assumed that I knew what we were talking about.

"'If he's not going to O'Hanrahans, he's putting on a heck

of an act, I opined. Not that, idiot, she scowled. I mean, you don't think he'd actually retire,

do you? I shrugged. Bound to happen one of these days. He's not wrong, the bump in the pension

...