A Flash of Green by John D. MacDonald Page A

Nothing could seriously touch him who watched. No blame could accrue to him who sat on the shady knoll and watched the armies at war. If you were offered a higher knoll, a better vantage point, why not accept? The invulnerable armor of the combat correspondent was the dry smile, the mental note, the clinical observation of self in relation to the furies observed. So all the breasts were wax, all the cries were recorded, all the blood was red enamel.

Five
    THE SPANISH MACK WAS a cinderblock tavern east of Palm City, right at the city line, just over the highway bridge crossing Foley’s Creek. From there the creek wandered south and west, eventually emptying into Grassy Bay. It was a functional operation, without juke, pinball, bowling games or television. The habitual customer knew he would always find unobtrusive air conditioning, indirect lighting, comfortable chair or bar stool, enough soundproofing to keep conversations private, expert bartenders, local gossip, and package liquors at moderate prices.
    Less than half the bar stools were occupied. They took two stools at the middle curve of the bar. Howie, the smaller bartender, greeted them by name and took their orders. As he placed Jimmy’s drink in front of him he said, “Friend of yours was in, Jimmy. Left about a half hour back. The guy with the scar.”
    “Brian Haas?”
    “That’s his name. I always forget it.”
    “Drinking?”
    “First he had tomato juice. Then two fast doubles. Bang, bang, and he slapped the money down. Don’t look at me like that, Jimmy. They ask for it and I sell it, unless they’re stoned coming in. The only reason I’m telling you, I remember it was a year ago, wasn’t it, you were hunting for him all the time.”
    “Thanks, Howie,” Jimmy said. He excused himself and phoned Nan. He looked at his watch as the phone rang. It was five of one. When Nan answered he asked her if Bri had come home.
    “No, and I was beginning to worry, Jimmy. Do you want him to call you when he gets in?”
    “No. By accident I just found out he had some drinks about a half hour ago, at the Spanish Mack. He must have come here from the paper.”
    He heard the long weary sound of her sighing exhalation. “Oh, damn it, damn it. God damn it, Jimmy. He’s been edgy. He’s had a lot of trouble sleeping. He didn’t go to the last couple of meetings. He made excuses.”
    “I thought you ought to know, Nan. Is there anything I can do?”
    “Thanks, no. I’ve got a number to call. They’ll get people out looking for him. Did he buy a bottle there?”
    He asked her to wait a moment. He came back to the phone and said, “No. No bottle yet.”
    “Well, here we go again,” Nan said, with a kind of desolated gallantry. “Thanks for phoning me, Jimmy. I better make that call right now.”
    When Jimmy went back to his drink, Shannard said, “Trouble?”
    “He’s been off it fourteen months. The last time he went three years. His wife’s alerting the AA’s to track him down. Maybe if they grab him soon enough, they can steer him off it.”
    “I know Haas by sight, of course.”
    “He’s been the route, Leroy. A sweet and brilliant guy. When he was in his twenties he was a top man in the business. Right after the war the drinking started. He drank his way through all the papers who’d take a chance on him, and drank his marriage away, and most of his health, drank himself right down into skid row. Then some kind of rehabilitation outfit got hold of him and picked up all the pieces they could find and put him back together, and scouted a job for him and sent him down here to Ben Killian. Ben tucked him under my wing. I never thought it would work at all. It was hard to communicate with him. He was like some kind of a refugee, like a man who managed to escape by some miracle when his homeland was blown to hell, so that nothing which can ever happen to him again will be very important. But when he started to do all right with routine assignments, he