Except it doesn't, not really, because he keeps telling himself what happened, whispering it into the shot glass that the bartender keeps refilling with bourbon whenever he sets it down. He's not sure how many he's had other than not enough, so he keeps mumbling the words and the guy keeps pouring, and Tim's not sure which one of them is going to stop first, but knowing his luck, it sure as hell won't be him.

There's a girl on his left that he's relatively certain is a hooker, but he's not vice so he doesn't care, and she's not looking in his direction anyway. He wonders if he should show interest, wonders if maybe he just needs to get laid and maybe everything will be better. That's what Beau says, even though Kay always asks him how he would know, but maybe he's right. A good night in the sack with someone equals out two dead uniforms and a killer who's getting off with nothing but a rap on the back of his hand.

He takes another shot and stares down at the counter and remembers in the movies, where they used to line up the glasses so you could see how drunk you were getting. Count out dead brain cells and bad ideas by the shot glass and know when you finally hit your limit and when you passed it and when you couldn't stand up without falling. He liked cowboys and good guys, guys you could tell were good by the color of their hats and how they treated their horses and by the fact that the prettiest, smartest, nicest girls fell in love with them, even if they weren't quite the men they were supposed to be.

"I could be that kind of guy," he tells his empty glass, listening to the strange tone of the words against the glass. He turns to the girl who still isn't looking at him and nods. "I could wear a white hat."

"You do," comes the voice on the left, low and soft and so familiar that it takes Tim a few moments to recognize it, to turn his head and let his gaze settle on his partner. "Only now it's called a badge."

"Pardner." He laughs, mangling the word with the worst Texas accent he can manage, which is pretty bad, even to his own ears. "Howdy, pardner."

"Howdy, Tim." The words are so incongruous in Pembleton's smooth, cultured voice that Tim laughs again, slamming his hand against the counter. "Let me take you home."

"Nope." He likes the sound of the word, the extra syllable adding something, making it seem more definitive. "Nope. Staying here. There's more bourbon." He watches as the bartender fills his glass. "See? Can't leave while there's still bourbon."

"I'm pretty sure you've had enough, Tim."

"I have had enough," he nods before he shoots back the drink, letting it pour down his throat, long past the burn. "I've had enough of reporters and cops and criminals, Frank. I've had enough of bad guys walking away while police officers - good, upstanding, honest, hard-working police officers - get grilled by the press and their own fellow officers. I've had enough of doing the right thing, because it doesn't matter. I've had enough of pretty much everything except this bourbon, because so far it's the only thing that hasn't misrepresented itself to me."

"I've never misrepresented myself, have I? So maybe you could come with me instead of staying here with the bourbon. Let me get you home. Pour you into bed."

"You ever wonder why they're called shots, Frank? You think it was because the glasses are the size of how far a bullet went into a bar back in the old west? You think it's because every one feels like you've been hit in the gut? You think it's because you get enough of them in you, you'll bleed out like Harrison did?" He stares into his empty glass and frowns. "Of course, he only got shot four times. By that logic, I should be dead. Maybe I am. Am I dead, Frank?"

"Dead drunk, maybe." Frank stands up and takes his arm, turning the stool and turning him. He slides off easily, stumbling against Pembleton's solid bulk. "Let me take you home, Tim."

"Sure. Home. Home's good. Home's…I don't want to go home, Frank." He laughs softly, leaning against Frank as Pembleton thumbs bills out of his wallet, paying the tab without blinking an eye. "Home's dark. Cold. You have a nice home, I bet. Wife. A fire. Do you have a fire, Frank?"

"No fire." He wraps an arm around Tim's waist and starts walking, the force behind them both. Lights flash from the dance floor and everyone looks ghostly and unreal. Their movements are jerky, the strobe light blinding and disorienting. "It's ninety degrees out."

"Huh. Feels colder." He shivers as they get to the door, the air conditioning giving way to the sticky, clinging heat. Sweat runs down his spine, but he doesn't feel hot. He feels cold. Frozen. "I can make it from here. Can make it home."

"I'll take you. For my own piece of mind."

"Mean streets." Tim nods. "We live on the mean streets. Got it." He starts walking toward his car, stumbling over the uneven sidewalk, his uneven feet. "I still feel sober, you know that? Not that it's so surprising. Can't even get drunk right."

"You are drunk, Tim."

"Am I?" He nods and leans against a building, looking around for his car. "Suppose I am. I have a car. I remember. I left the courthouse and came over here in my car. I remember. I remember the courthouse, Frank. Flashes going off in my face like the strobe light in there. Microphones and questions. 'How does it feel, Detective Bayliss?', 'What will you do now, Detective Bayliss?', 'What's going through your mind, Detective Bayliss?', 'Is it true that the shots were fired with your gun, Detective Bayliss?'." He laughs, the sound unnatural to his ears. "I remember that."

"Tim." Frank's voice is as soft as the touch on Tim's arm, pulling him away from the wall. "Let me take you home. I have my car. See? Right there. Just waiting for us."

"I'll understand, you know." Tim lets him guide him to the car, lets him ease him into the seat, lets him do whatever he wants. He's tired of fighting. "Tomorrow. I'll understand."

Frank settles behind the wheel and snaps his seatbelt, giving Tim a quick look as he starts the car. "Understand what?"

"When you go into Gee's office." He laughs again and stares at his hands. They're so white. He thinks there should be blood on them, underneath the nails where it never quite goes away. "Remind him that you're better without a partner."

"You know, I don't know that that's true." Pembleton backs out onto the street and turns the car away from the bar and toward Tim's apartment. "I mean, I've gotten kind of used to having you around."

"Now you're just lying to me. Placating me. I don't like to be placated." He turns his hands over, looking at the backs of them, still wondering why there's no blood. He runs his thumbnail against the cuticle of one, wondering if he can break the skin. "You hate having a partner. You hate being responsible for someone else. You want to play by your own rules and do things your way and I get in the way."

"Maybe that's why you are my partner." Frank takes one hand off the wheel and covers both of Tim's with it, stilling him, keeping him from digging at his own nails. "Stop."

"I should have blood on my hands, Frank."

He nods. "You did. We washed it off. It's gone now. Let it be."

Tim nods and relaxes his hands beneath Pembleton's, but Frank doesn't move and Tim likes the pressure. He closes his eyes, trying to remember the last time someone touched him in something other than anger or hostility or fear. He's not sure he can. He's not sure that time even exists. "You don't have to be nice to me."

"I'm never nice."

He laughs and leans his head back against the seat. "You're being nice now."

"No, I'm not. I'm being calm. I'm being rational. You're drunk and therefore it's coming across as nice. I am not nice."

"Right. Got it. You are not nice, even though you're being nice." Tim turns his head toward Frank but doesn't open his eyes, just keeps himself focused in that direction. "Do you know where I live?"

"I'm a detective, Bayliss. I know everything." Tim can almost hear Frank's smile, so he opens his eyes just enough to see it, to answer it with one of his own. "Besides, I've taken your drunk ass home before."

"I don't want to go home, Frank."

There's a long pause and Tim wants to move, to escape from the heat of Frank's hand on top of his, but it's like a weight holding him in place. Frank fingers flex slightly like a faint symbol of comfort. "I could stay for a while."

"You should get home to Mary. It's nice, isn't it? Having someone to come home to?"

"Nice. Yeah." Frank nods and pulls his car up to the curb. "Sometimes it's nice."

"All the time it's nice. You're just trying to make me feel better again."

"Have you ever known me to try to make someone feel better?"

Tim looks at him and smiles, turning his hands over beneath Frank's, his fingers grazing his palm. "Yeah, Frank. Just long enough to catch them off guard before you nail them to the wall."

The apartment is like a sauna, closed up and claustrophobic. Tim opens the empty freezer to let the cool air filter into the room, sticking his head inside so that the sweat beads into shivers against his skin. Frank swipes his handkerchief across his forehead and surveys the room, being a cop and looking for things out of place, exits, hiding spots. Tim turns his head to watch him then opens the refrigerator door and glances inside. Cartons of questionable Chinese food and something green that probably didn't used to be and beer. "Thirsty?"

"Is it cold?"

"That's what the advertisements say."

"Yeah."

He takes two and opens them, passing one to Frank before weaving his way between his jacket and a pile of mail to fall onto the couch. It's too soft and broken to be comfortable, but he sleeps here more than on his bed, because at least here he doesn't feel alone, like there should be someone lying next to him. "You read Shakespeare, Frank?"

"Sometimes I try to figure out how your brain works, Bayliss, and it mystifies me."

"I was just thinking about Lady Macbeth, you know? She goes mad, trying to get her hands clean, thinking they're still covered in blood. My hands are too clean. Wouldn't you figure it? I even screw up going mad."

"You didn't kill them. Those cops. You didn't kill them. You're not responsible." Frank takes a drink of his beer and watches Tim. He's like a snake, all eyes and weaving motion, even though he's standing still.

"I lost my gun."

"It happens."

"Doesn't happen to you. Bet it never happens to you. Frank Pembleton, king of the cops." He leans back and laughs. "The untouchable man. Doesn't believe in God because God stopped believing in Frank Pembleton. How does it feel, Frank? How does it feel to be so goddamn perfect?"

"How can I not believe in God and still be goddamn perfect?" Frank sits on the coffee table in front of Tim and tilts his beer in Bayliss's direction. "There's a logical error there somewhere."

"Of course there is. Did the Jesuits like you, Frank? Did they think you were a brilliant kid who had so much potential or did they just think you were an annoying know-it-all?"

"You're not a nice drunk, Bayliss."

"I'm not. I'm not nice. Everyone thinks I'm nice too, did you know that? Sweet, nice, innocent Tim. You guys think I'm a joke. A clown. The office idiot sitting in his corner with the dunce cap on. You laugh at me like I don't get the joke."

"How should we treat you?"

"With respect. With some damn respect. I'm a good detective. I'm a damn good detective, and I deserve some respect. I solve cases. I turn red names to black. I do this job, Frank." He takes a long swig of beer and then lets his hand go slack, the bottle resting on the couch as he leans his head back. "I did this job. I was a good detective. I did deserve respect."

"So this guy wins." Frank nods before taking a drink of his beer and then setting it aside. He sucks his lower lip in and then pushes it out, covering his upper lip with it and then wiping his mouth with his hand. "You fuck up, and, okay, you did fuck up, Tim. You fuck up and this guy wins. Not only does he barely get his hand slapped, but he pushes you off the force because you think you're a bad cop. So he wins. Twofold. Damn good odds you're giving this guy, Tim. No wonder you're a shitty gambler."

"You know, on second thought, you should go home."

Frank looks at him for a minute and then laughs, deep and thick and it hurts Tim's ears. "Did you want me to comfort you, Bayliss? Did you want me to sugarcoat the truth? Did you want me to say something to make you dream sweet dreams as I tucked you into bed? Is that what you wanted?"

"No."

"No. No, you didn't. You wanted me to punish you. You wanted me to say all the things you're thinking, because you think if someone else says them, they must be true. You want me to tell you that you killed those two boys. You want me to tell you that it's your fault. Well I can't. Because I'm a detective, Bayliss, and I work on facts. You're running on emotion and gut and pain and you need to sleep it off with the booze. You do your job. That's what you do. Not always right and not always perfect, but it's a damn sight better than it not getting done at all."

"I don't like you, Frank."

"You don't have to like me." Frank blows out a slow breath and shakes his head. "I don't want you to like me. I want you to do your job. You're not on the force to make friends. You're not a detective so people will like you. People don't like us. We show up at their houses and tell them people they love are dead. We dig through their lives looking for jealousies and hatreds, harbored feelings and reasons. We paw through memories and misunderstandings and treat everyone like a suspect. People hate us, Bayliss. People hate us because we never have good news."

"All I ever wanted to do was be a cop."

"That was your first mistake."

"A good cop."

"Yeah. That was your second." Frank moves over to the couch and stretches his legs out, his feet hitting Tim's legs about mid-calf, emphasizing the difference in their heights. "Be a good detective, Tim. Cops follow rules. Cops follow orders. We…we're different than cops. We find answers. We get in the box and we find the deep, dark places through any means necessary. We do what we have to do. We go where we have to go. We take them there, guiding them down like Charon crossing the river Styx. We're the underworld."

"You believe that?" Tim turns his head, looking at Frank questioningly. "That we're different than cops?"

Frank smiles wickedly, his teeth too white, too bright as he turns his head. "Don't you?"

Tim doesn't answer for a long moment, his eyes dropping to Frank's mouth. They do this, he knows that. They get too close, like there's a secret there that they're sharing. Second grade teachers and first loves, names and things they shouldn't tell, things they shouldn't know about each other. They're partners, not friends. They're partners, nothing more. "You should go home, Frank." Frank shifts, his elbow on the back of the couch, his hand dangling and Tim can feel it stirring the air just above his head. It would be easy, so easy. "Mary's probably wondering where you are."

"Yeah." Frank's chin juts out slightly as he closes his teeth together like he's biting off whatever else he might say. Tim watches the line of Frank's jaw, watches everything. Frank sees exits and Tim sees ways in, ways too small for him to fit through anymore. "I should go. You gonna be okay?"

He wants to say no. He wants to break down and lose control, but the booze has burned off in the heat, sweated out into his cheap suit and he can't do it anymore. There's just that purpose left, that damn purpose he can't get rid of, can't exorcise. "Yeah. I'll be fine."

"No. You won't. And that's going to get you killed some day." Frank stands, his hand barely brushing along Tim's cheek, his jaw. "But until then, it's gonna keep making you one hell of a detective." He nods toward the door. "See you tomorrow. Partner."