Change was too difficult. It made for too many uncertainties. His father would stay until either he or the building gave out, and Conor's money was on the building.
It was a tired old tenement, the sort that you found everywhere in the city, and over the past few years it had lost most of its middle-class pretensions. The stairway walls had been dabbed with graffiti, not anywhere near the amount you'd find in one of the city's slums but enough to make it clear that the residents were fighting a battle they'd probably end up losing. There was even some graffiti on the apartment doors, though there was none on the one marked 4E. Had his father cleaned it off, or were the spray-can artistes afraid to screw around with him?
Conor smiled, knew what the answer had to be, and jabbed the doorbell.
To his surprise, the door opened almost immediately. His father was always cautious. City people were, by habit. Cops were, by nature.
"Well, don't stand there," the older man said sharply. "Come in."
Conor stepped inside the narrow entry hall and the door swung shut after him.
"Dad, you know, you shouldn't open the door without asking—"
"Of course, I know. You think I'm senile? I saw you, coming up the block."
Conor looked past his father into the living room. It was caught in a time warp, exactly the same as it had been when he was growing up, the orange sofa, the matching club chair, the brown shag rug with a clear plastic runner covering the area you walked on to get to the other rooms. But the high-backed chair that was his father's, the on
e that had stood before the TV for as long as Conor could remember, had been moved closer to the window. The TV had been moved, too.
His father saw him looking.
"I like to be able to see out," he said. "Keeps 'em on their toes, down in the street, knowing there's somebody that don't take any crap watchin' em."
Conor nodded. Had there been a whisper of defensiveness in his father's voice? John O'Neil was still tall and unstooped, with that same look of whipcord strength he'd always possessed, but his hair had gone completely white and there was a prominence to the bones in his face, as if his skin had become too tight.
"It's good to see you again, Dad."
"You should have called before you came by." John looked at his watch. "I have an appointment in a little over an hour."
Conor smiled. There was nothing like a warm greeting to make a man feel welcome.
"I won't be long," he said, deciding to return tit for tat. "Something came up and I want to check it out with you."
His father's brows lifted. "With me?"
"Yeah. If you've got a minute, that is."
John nodded, turned and marched into the kitchen. Conor followed. His father was filling the kettle with water. Tea, Conor thought, repressing a shudder. God, he hated the stuff, had hated it ever since he could remember, but it didn't matter. His father didn't keep coffee in the house. It wasn't good for you, he said, something about the caffeine, and there'd been no convincing him there was just as much caffeine in tea, nor even in getting him to give over a bit of kitchen space to a percolator and a can of coffee, as Conor had once foolishly suggested.
Rules were rules, in this house, and John O'Neil made them all.
"Sit down."
Conor pulled a chair out from the red Formica table, force of habit making him choose the one where he'd eaten three times a day until he'd turned eighteen. His father dumped tea bags into two thick china mugs, plunked both down on the table, then settled himself across from Conor.
"So," he said, "what is it that's brought you here?"
"How've you been, Dad?"
"I have good days and bad." His father looked him over. "I see you've gained some weight."
"No, I don't think—"
"Have to watch that, once you get past thirty."
"Yeah, well—"
"What kind of jacket is that? Some fancy new style?"