"We're not thinking of redecorating, Jon. This is about identification, not redoing the breakfast nook."
Another man, his face wasted with AIDS, said, "I've seen this man. I've seen him in here and I've seen him on West Street. Maybe half a dozen times over the past two years. On a couple of occasions he was with a woman."
"What did she look like?"
"Like a Doberman pinscher. Black leather from the toes up, high-heeled boots, and I think she was wearing spiked cuffs on her wrists."
"Probably his mother," someone said.
"They were definitely hunting," the man with AIDS said. "They were on the prowl for a playmate. Did he kill those boys? Is that why you're looking for him?"
The question startled me into an unguarded response. "One of them," I said. "How did you know?"
"They looked like killers," he said simply. "I had that thought the first time I saw them together. She was Diana, goddess of the hunt. I don't know who he was."
"Cronus," I suggested.
"Cronus? Well, that would fit, wouldn't it, but it's not the thought I had. I remember he was wearing a floor-length leather coat and he looked like a Gestapo agent, somebody who'd come knocking on your door at three in the morning. You know what I mean, you've seen those movies."
"Yes."
"I thought, these two are killers, they're looking for someone to take home and kill. You're being silly, I told myself, but I was right, wasn't I?"
"Yes," I said. "You were right."
I took the subway to Columbus Circle and picked up the early edition of the Times on my way home. There were no messages at the desk and nothing interesting in the mail. I turned the TV on and watched the news on CNN and read the paper during the commercials. Somewhere along the way I got interested in a long article on drug gangs in Los Angeles and reached to switch off the television set.
It was past midnight when the phone rang. A soft voice said, "Matt, it's Gary at Paris Green. I don't know if you care, but the fellow you asked about the other night just walked in and took a seat at the bar. He might drink up and walk out the minute I hang up, but if I were guessing I'd say he'll stay put for a while."
I'd taken my shoes off, but other than that I was ready to roll. I was tired, I'd had a late night last night, but to hell with that.
I said I'd be right over.
* * *
THE cab ride couldn't have taken more than five minutes, but before it was half over I was wondering what the hell I was doing. What was I going to do, watch the man drink and figure out if he was a killer?
The absurdity of the whole thing became still more evident when I opened the door and went in. There were just two people in the whole place, Gary behind the bar and Richard Thurman in front of it. The kitchen was closed, and before they'd left the waiters had put the chairs on top of the tables. Paris Green wasn't a late joint, and Gary usually closed down the bar around the time the waiters finished and went home. I had the feeling he was staying open tonight on my account, and I only wished there was more sense in it.
Thurman turned at my approach. Some people barely show their drink. Mick Ballou is like that. He can take on a heavy load and the only outward sign of it is a slight hardening in the gaze of his green eyes. Richard Thurman was just the opposite. One look at him and I knew he'd been making a night of it. It showed in the glassiness of the hard blue eyes, the suggestion of bloat in the lower part of the face, the softening around the pouty mouth.
He nodded shortly and went back to his own drink. I couldn't see what it was. Something on the rocks, neither his usual light beer nor his pre-dinner martini. I picked a spot eight or ten feet down the bar from him and Gary brought me a glass of club soda without asking.
"Double vodka tonic," he said. "Want this on your tab, Matt?"
It wasn't vodka and I didn't have a tab there. Gary was one of the few bartenders in the neighborhood who wasn't trying to make it as an actor or writer, but he had a head for drama all the same. "That'll be fine," I told him, and I took a long drink of my soda water.
"That's a summer drink," Thurman said.
"I guess it is," I agreed. "I got in the habit of drinking it year round."
"The Brits invented tonic. They colonized the tropics and started drinking it. You know why?"
"To keep cool?"
"As a malaria preventive. Preventative. You know what tonic is? What's another name for it?"
"Quinine water?"
"Very good. And you take quinine to prevent malaria. You worried about malaria? You see any mosquitoes?"
"No."
"Then you're drinking the wrong drink." He raised his own glass. " 'Claret for boys, port for men, and for heroes it's nothing but brandy.' You know who said that?"
"Some drunk, it sounds like."
"Samuel Johnson, but you probably think he plays right field for the Mets."
"You're talking about Darryl Strawberry now. He a brandy drinker?"
"Jesus Christ," Thurman said. "What am I doing here? What the hell is the matter with me?"
He put his head in his hands. I said, "Hey, cheer up. Is that brandy you're drinking?"
"Brandy and crиme de menthe. It's a stinger."
No wonder he was shitfaced. "A hero's drink," I said. "Gary, give my father here another hero's drink."
"I don't know," Thurman said.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You can handle one more."
Gary brought him another stinger and set up another glass of soda for me, whisking away the one I'd barely touched. Thurman and I raised our glasses at each other, and I said, "Absent friends."
"Jesus," he said. "Not that one."
"How's this, then? 'Here's to crime.' "
His shoulders drooped and he looked at me. His full lips were slightly parted. He looked as though he was about to say something, but then he changed his mind and took a long swallow of his drink. He made a face and shuddered a little as it went down.
He said, "You know me, don't you?"
"Hell, we're practically old friends."
"I'm serious. Don't you know who I am?"
I looked at him. "Wait a minute," I said.