The Greek’s was closed when I got there, but I rattled the door until he opened it, cursing. He stopped when he recognized me and held the door open. Gusts of rain followed me in before he could slam it shut behind me.
“What a night,” he said. “Don’t you never sleep?”
“If you don’t like the weather here,” I said, “why don’t you go back to Greece?”
“Greece?” He limped through the dark saloon behind me. “Greece. She’s like a mother to me. But I hate my mother.”
“Who you kidding? You never had a mother.”
“You hungry, Mike? How about a nice salad?”
“No. I want a drink. You know how bad I want it when I come to this place for it.”
He glanced around his polished, richly upholstered saloon with Greek scenes in giant paintings alternating with huge, tinted mirrors around the walls. He spread his hands and sighed. “You and Doc Yerrgsted. You don’t care where you drink.”
“Is he around?”
He nodded toward the rear booth over which a small lamp glowed. He shook his head. “He don’t want to talk to nobody. He sits. I speak. He growls. He hates me, hates this place so bad I sometimes wonder why he never goes home.”
“You mean he don’t live here?”
“He don’t live—period. Except here.” The Greek tapped at his heart with his cupped fingers. “Tonight it’s worse than ever. I ask. But he won’t say.”
I leaned against the bar while he went behind it, poured me a double shot, filled another glass with water.
“A man died tonight,” I said.
“A friend to you and Doc?”
“He wouldn’t have spat on either of us. They say he committed suicide.”
“Ah? A sad way to die. Do I know his name?”
I took a quick drink at the bourbon. “He never came in here to drink, if that’s what you mean. His name was Tom Flynn.”
The Greek stared. “Mister Thomas Flynn.” He breathed deeply. “A great man.”
‘A regular Steve Canyon,” I said. I held the bourbon glass in my fist. “Or maybe a Li’l Abner.”
He swallowed, frowning. “I see. You make a joke. You don’t care, huh?”
I shrugged, pushed my empty glass toward him. “Maybe I don’t blame him. He was a good man in a rotten town. “Sure. Give me that bottle. I’ll go back and speak to Doc. You talk like one of those Greek comedies. I hate to see a grown bartender cry.”
He pushed the bottle across the gleaming bar to me. “Why don’t you go somewhere else to do your drinking, huh? Do me a favor. This town got mighty few good men like Thomas Flynn. It’s time to stop and think about it. Talk about it We should feel sad. Even you. Not for him, but for you. For this town.”
“You know Ernest Hemingway?”
He shook his head.
“You talk like he invented you.”
He leaned against the bar. “Nobody invented me, you dumb cop.”
I stood very still, watching him, until he looked away. He must have been really worked up to talk to me like that.
I paused beside the rear booth. Doc Yerrgsted sat slumped over the table, his head on his arms. He lifted his face slowly and looked up at me. His moustache twitched slightly. He said nothing. Very carefully, he lowered his head on his arms again.
The Greek brought himself a small glass of wine. He pulled a chair to the end of the booth and sat down. He glanced at the Doc and then at me without saying anything.
After a long time, Doc Yerrgsted raised his head again. His eyes, glistening like bourbon, focused on me with difficulty.
“Well, Ballard, see you got back from the scene of the crime.”
“Crime?” I poured myself a drink. “What crime? Flynn committed suicide.”
Doc laughed. “Very unlikely. I have been a man of medicine for many years—witnessed many phenomena. However, one I’ve never seen. I’ve never seen a suicide shoot himself in the back of the head.”
I laid my hand on the table top, opened it. It was still streaked with the blood that had smeared it as I drew it away from the back of Tom Flynn’s head out near the Essex Turnpike. I stared at the blood on my palm until Doc turned his head, refocused his eyes upon it. The Greek leaned forward, staring at my hand.
I felt icy inside as I asked Doc, “Are you going to put that in your official report?”
For some moments it was quiet in the Greek’s bar. Doc stared across the table at me, a twisted smile pulling his moustache out of shape.
When he did speak, he ignored my question. “You two. Both of you are fine men. You understand, I drink only with men I trust, and respect. You, Greek—and you, cop—” he could really make something nasty out of that word—”I feel a great attachment to both of you. That’s why I can tell you this. I—I’m going to tell you men something I never told anybody before—in my life.”
He licked at his moustache, stared at us as though he had never seen either of us before. He said nothing for a long time, and seemed to have forgotten he had promised to reveal untold secrets.
“Doc is an after-dinner speaker.” I winked at the Greek. “He throws out a promise to get your attention and falls asleep on it”
“Sleep.” Doc wiped his hand across his mouth. “Perchance to dream. Ah, there’s the rub. I can’t endure all this, cop. Can’t you understand? You’re an intelligent man. You must be, cop, though in your racket you’ve never had to exercise any mental powers. There must be acres of intelligence in that ugly head of yours—unused, untapped. Then try to understand what life has done to me? I was at Yale Medical. I made quite a record there. They—they invited me to—intern at Johns Hopkins—I didn’t have to beg, to apply, to stand in line.... Oh, no. Later they invited me abroad—I worked with great surgeons in Austria.... I learned, cop, what a glorious, glorious science I was picking at with my little brain—” He sat up straight suddenly, flinging out his arms and staring at us with wild eyes. “Of course, I’ve failed... we’ve all failed. We’ve made compromises—”
He stopped talking, shuddered convulsively and sat staring at his hands, trembling before him. He dropped them suddenly hiding their tremors under the table. “But I’m no tramp to be pushed around, cop. You understand that? What are those lines—?
“Give me to drink Mandragora
That I might sleep out this great gap of time....
“This evil time. I’ll have no part of this ugly business. I’ve compromised before. I—I am nothing. But my profession—my—” He jerked his head up suddenly, his face twisted, staring at me. “They sent you here to find me, didn’t they?”
I shrugged. “They thought I might be able to find you.”
“Look at him, Greek. Young. Strong. Intelligent. And yet what is he? What are you, Ballard? A messenger? A call boy? Errand chaser?”
“I chase errands when they tell me to.”
“Are you proud of yourself?”
“I never bother to think about it. I just collect pay checks. The same as you. You ready to go?”
“No!” The word burst from him. “Why, I’ll never do it. I’ll never sign a false statement about Tom Flynn’s death—they could never force me to do that.”
I shrugged. After a moment I said, “How long do you think the Greek would let you sign tabs in here, Doc—if you weren’t the M.E. any more?”
Doc shivered. We both turned to look at the Greek. He held the Doc’s gaze for a moment, then dropped his head, looking at the empty wine glass in his fist.