Beware the Solitary Drinker by Cornelius Lehane Page A

me, lest I neglect my primary role in his life. “Maybe Oscar would give you a raise if you cracked the case.”
    â€œI don’t want to crack a case. You read too many books. Why would I want to catch a murderer?” I dropped some ice cubes in his glass with one hand and poured with the other.
    â€œMaybe you believe in justice. Maybe you don’t want Danny to get screwed. More than likely, though, it has to do with Angelina’s sister, who seems to be your type. Whatever the reason, you’re the man for the job.”
    â€œCatching the murderer?”
    â€œPrecisely.”
    â€œWhat if I get killed? Murderers kill people.”
    â€œUnarguably true,” Carl said, taking a healthy slug of his scotch. “You’d have to be careful.”
    â€œWhy would I do that? Why don’t you?”
    â€œYou have more at stake than I do. You, in fact, have taken responsibility for the two people most heavily involved. But I’d like to be kept informed.”
    Reuben arrived and behind him the rest of the last-call winos, drifting in from the other joints along Broadway that had sense enough to close up before four. This was the time of night when I made my living. I concentrated on my work, forcing myself to move faster and faster, planning far ahead so I never had to stop to think, just run, my fingers flying on the cash register keys, holding the liquor bottle in one hand, soda gun with the other, using the calluses between my thumb and forefinger to twist the caps off the beer bottles, glad-handing the guys I liked, making a joke, taking a joke, scooping money off the bar, sliding a beer past three or four regulars to Eric the Red at the end of the bar, keeping Oscar in Budweisers. High-speed life on Broadway.
    Carl joined the winos in the chase, settling in to serious drinking and the serious thoughts behind the booze. I kept his scotch full, charging him for every fourth or fifth drink, until he no longer noticed what I did. The booze hit its mark. He fought whatever battle it was with whatever held him captive, and, for that moment, after that ninth or tenth scotch, he had it on the run. He was coming out on top and would stagger off with the other winos into the Broadway night sure he had won, only to wake in the morning to find he hadn’t after all. Whatever it was he thought he’d fought off would still be there, perched on the bedpost, waiting for the night and the scotch and the next battle.
    I drank a couple of beers while closing up, then sat in the darkness at the bar. When I’d been there for a half-hour, I heard tapping on the window. It was Peter Finch.
    â€œI don’t suppose I could get a drink this late,” he said shyly. Not one of the winos, he didn’t know how things worked late at night. He thought I closed up the bar and went home.
    I gave him a scotch on the rocks. He looked shaken. “I didn’t know it was murder,” he said after his first swallow. “Thanks a lot.”
    Taller than me—and thinner—in pretty good shape, his light colored hair thinning in front, his face pale and thin, Peter always seemed serious and thoughtful, even more so now. “I stopped the interrogation,” he said. “They’re holding him on a drug charge, not murder.”
    â€œWhat happened? What did he say? Why did they arrest him?”
    â€œSomeone called the police this morning…said he saw Danny with the girl around four or five in the morning the night—or morning—she was killed. Danny said he was here that night. He thought you could tell me something that can help him.”
    â€œI don’t know anything that would help him. The only thing I can tell you is Carl might have seen her with someone else that same night after I saw Danny with Angelina.”
    Peter’s eyes sprang open. “With Danny? Danny said he wasn’t with Angelina that night.”
    I shrugged.
    Whatever energy had been