New York Times bestselling author Lawrence Block returns with another riveting thriller.

Mystery Grandmaster Lawrence Block has enthralled readers for more than three decades with his novels featuring the lovable burglar Bernie Rhodenbarr, Keller, and

All the Flowers Are Dying

By Block, Lawrence

William Morrow & Company

ISBN: 0060198311

Chapter One

When I got there, Joe Durkin was already holding down a corner tableand working on a drink -- vodka on the rocks, from the looks of it. Itook in the room and listened to the hum of conversation at the bar,and I guess some of what I was feeling must have found its way to myface, because the first thing Joe asked me was if I was all right. I said Iwas fine, and why?

"Because you look like you saw a ghost," he said.

"Be funny if I didn't," I said. "The room is full of them."

"A little new for ghosts, isn't it? How long have they been open, twoyears?"

"Closer to three."

"Time flies," he said, "whether you're having fun or not. Jake's Place,whoever Jake is. You got a history with him?"

"I don't know who he is. I had a history with the place before itwas his."

"Jimmy Armstrong's."

"That's right."

"He died, didn't he? Was that before or after 9/11?"

That's our watershed; everything in our lives is before or after thatdate. "After," I said, "by five or six months. He left the place to a nephew,who tried running it for a few months and then decided it wasn't the lifehe wanted for himself. So I guess he sold it to Jake, whoever Jake is."

"Whoever Jake is," he said, "he puts a good meal on the table. Youknow what they've got here? You can get an Irish breakfast all day long."

"What's that, a cigarette and a six-pack?"

"Very funny. You must know what an Irish breakfast is, a sophisticatedguy like yourself."

I nodded. "It's the cardiac special, right? Bacon and eggs and sausage."

"And grilled tomato."

"Ah, health food."

"And black pudding," he said, "which is hard to find. You know whatyou want? Because I'll have the Irish breakfast."

I told the waitress I'd have the same, and a cup of coffee. Joe saidone vodka was enough, but she could bring him a beer. SomethingIrish, to go with the breakfast, but not Guinness. She suggested aHarp, and he said that would be fine.

I've known Joe for twenty years, though I don't know that ours is anintimate friendship. He's spent those years as a detective at MidtownNorth, working out of the old stationhouse on West Fifty-fourthStreet, and we'd developed a working relationship over time. I went tohim for favors, and returned them, sometimes in cash, sometimes inkind. Now and then he steered a client my way. There were timeswhen our relations had been strained; my close friendship with a careercriminal never sat well with him, while his attitude after onevodka too many didn't make me relish his company. But we'd beenaround long enough to know how to make it work, overlooking whatwe didn't like to look at and staying close but not too close.

Around the time our food arrived, he told me he'd put in his papers. Isaid he'd been threatening to do so for years, and he said he'd had everythingfilled out and ready to go a few years ago, and then the towerscame down. "That was no time to retire," he said. "Although guys did,and how could you blame 'em? They lost their heart for the job. Me, I'dalready lost my heart for it. Shoveling shit against the tide, all we ever do.Right then, though, I managed to convince myself I was needed."

"I can imagine."

"So I stayed three years longer than I intended, and if I did anythinguseful in those three years I can't remember what it was. Anyway, I'm done. Today's what, Wednesday? A week from Friday's my last day. So allI have to do now is figure out what the hell to do with the rest of my life."

Which was why he'd asked me to meet him for dinner, in a roomfull of ghosts.

It had been over thirty years since I put in my papers and retired fromthe NYPD, and shortly thereafter I'd retired as well from my role ashusband and father, and moved from a comfortable suburban house inSyosset to a monastic little room at the Hotel Northwestern. I didn'tspend much time in that room; Jimmy Armstrong's saloon, around thecorner on Ninth between Fifty-seventh and Fifty-eighth, served as acombination of living room and office for me. I met clients there, I atemeals there, and what social life I had was centered there. I drankthere, too, day in and day out, because that's what I did back then.

I kept it up for as long as I could. Then I put the plug in the jug, asthe old-timers say, and began spending my idle hours not at Jimmy'sjoint but two blocks north of there, in the basement of St. Paul theApostle. And in other church basements and storefronts, where Ilooked for something to put in the empty places alcohol used to fill.

Somewhere along the way, Jimmy lost his lease and moved half ablock south and a long block west, to the corner of Fifty-seventh andTenth. I'd kept my distance from the old place after I sobered up, and Iavoided the new one for a while as well. It never did become a hangout,but Elaine and I would drop in for a meal from time to time. Jimmy alwaysserved good food, and the kitchen stayed open late, which made ita good choice after an evening at the theater or Lincoln Center.

I'd been to the service, at a funeral parlor on West Forty-fourth,where someone played a favorite song of his. It was "Last Call," byDave Van Ronk, and I'd first heard it when Billie Keegan played it forme after a long night of whiskey ...

Continues...

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