Until You

Conor glanced down at himself. He was wearing his leather jacket, which was about as stylish as his well-worn jeans.

"No," he said, "it's not any kind of style. It's just a flight jacket. A bomber jacket, I think they used to be called."

John O'Neil took a noisy sip of tea.

"In my time, a man went to work, he put on a suit and a tie."

Dammit, here we go!

"Listen, Dad, I know you said you've got an appointment, so why don't I tell you—"

"Of course, I keep forgetting. Yours isn't that sort of job. You don't report to an office each morning, sit down behind a desk and get ready to face the day."

"Dad—"

"But then, you aren't practicing the law, even though you've the right to do so. I've never understood how you could do it, ignore your true profession and dabble in such nonsense instead."

Conor clenched his jaw. Sidestepping this topic was like trying to sidestep a charging elephant. It was useless, even to try.

"We've talked about this," he said with deliberate calm, "and you know that's not true. I don't dabble in nonsense. I work for the federal government. And one of the reasons I qualified for this job was because I've got a law degree."

"Edgar Murphy's boy. Kevin, his name is. You remember him? He took the Bar before you, of course, went straight into college from high school, the way you should have done instead of running off and enlisting."

"Dad," Conor said, "I didn't come here to—"

"Kevin's just been made a full partner in a firm specializes in insurance claims."

"That's nice."

"Bought himself a fine house in Glen Cove."

"Yeah, terrific. Dad, listen—"

"You're letting everybody move ahead of you."

Conor could feel his patience stretching to the breaking point. "Look," he said, "I didn't come here to argue."

"I'm not arguing, I'm merely stating facts. You're not a kid anymore. It's time you got a real job."

"Dammit, I have a real job."

"You play cloak-and-dagger games with a group of little boys who don't want to grow up."

"Jesus Christ—"

"And watch your mouth!"

Conor slammed his fist on the table, shoved his chair back and stalked into the living room. What in hell had he been thinking of, coming here? He and his father had never managed five minutes without an argument in their lives; why would he have thought today would be different? As far as the old man was concerned, he was still a kid to be ordered around.

To ask the man for help was crazy.

Yes, but what choice did he have? If there was even a chance the old man could tell him something about Vincent Moratelli, it was worth eating all the humble pie he could dish out.

Conor ran his hands through his hair, squared his shoulders and returned to the kitchen. His father was still sitting at the table, stony-faced.

"I'm sorry if my language offended you," Conor said stiffly.

"You're a grown man," his father said, just as stiffly. "I've no right to censor your speech but this is my home and I expect you—"