August 16, 1800h

	Hank Hogan stepped toward the kitchen at the sound of falling boxes and a 
muttered, "Oh, shit!"  Then he smiled as he heard his wife's voice saying, 
"Michael Patrick Hogan, d'ya think you're too old t'remember the taste of a bar 
of soap?"
	"Sorry, Ma," he heard Michael apologize sheepishly.
	"Another bacon cheese," Hank called back into the kitchen, returning back 
to the crowded bar to begin another sweep from one end to the other.  It was one 
of those nights where they really needed a second bartender, but Dixie was home 
with the flu and it was Garcia's night to have his kids, so the Hogan family was 
managing short staffed.
	Of course, that meant it was one of the busiest Thursdays of the year.
	At first Hogan thought it might be the heat, but the drinking around him 
had a faintly desperate quality that he associated with bad news in the 
department.  He was too busy to get the full scoop, but as the afternoon had 
worn on, he had gathered that some officer had been in a serious accident - off-
duty, thank god, but the kind of thing that made cops confront their own 
mortality.
	He was halfway down the bar when a sudden quiet descended.  He almost 
didn't want to look up.  He'd seen it before, a cop with a partner down, the 
situation on everyone's lips, and then he or she walks into the bar.  He never 
knew if it was embarrassment or respect that caused the other cops to go silent.
	He kept his eyes on the beer he was pulling, waiting for conversation to 
resume again.  Instead he heard someone give up their stool and a space open at 
the bar just to his left.  He had to look up, acknowledge the customer...
	"Hi, Hogan," he said, his eyes flatly unreadable.  "Scotch and soda, 
please."
	Hogan nodded, put the beers he'd poured on the bar and began mixing Graham Filbert's drink.