WITH A HUGE SIGH,WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR. SETTLED INTO THE WORN wooden booth in the rear of the Blarney Stone Tavern. Situated directly across the street from the New York Museum’s southern entrance, the tavern was a perennial haunt of Museum staffers. They had nicknamed the place the Bones because of the owner’s penchant for hammering bones of all sizes, shapes, and species into every available surface. Museum wags liked to speculate that, were the police to remove the bones for examination, half of the city’s missing persons cases still on the books would be solved immediately.
Smithback had spent many long evenings here in years past, notebooks and beer-spattered laptop in attendance, working on various books: his book about the Museum murders; his follow-up book about the Subway Massacre. It had always seemed like a home away from home to him, a refuge against the troubles of the world. And yet tonight, even the Bones held no consolation for him. He recalled a line he’d read somewhere—Brendan Behan, perhaps—about having a thirst so mighty it cast a shadow. That’s how he felt.
It had been the worst week of his life—from this terrible business with Nora to his useless interview with Fairhaven. And to top it all, he’d just been scooped by the frigging Post—by his old nemesis Bryce Harriman, no less—twice. First on the tourist murder in Central Park, and then on the bones discovered down on Doyers Street. By rights, that was his story. How had that weenie Harriman gotten an exclusive? He couldn’t get an exclusive from his own girlfriend, for chrissakes. Who did he know? To think he, Smithback, had been kept outside with the milling hacks while Harriman got the royal treatment, the inside story… Christ, he needed a drink.
The droopy-eared waiter came over, hangdog features almost as familiar to Smithback as his own.
“The usual, Mr. Smithback?”
“No. You got any of the fifty-year-old Glen Grant?”
“At thirty-six dollars,” the waiter said dolefully.
“Bring it. I want to drink something as old as I feel.”
The waiter faded back into the dark, smoky atmosphere. Smithback checked his watch and looked around irritably. He was ten minutes late, but it looked like O’Shaughnessy was even later. He hated people who were even later than he was, almost as much as he hated people who were on time.
The waiter rematerialized, carrying a brandy snifter with an inch of amber-colored liquid in the bottom. He placed it reverently before Smithback.
Smithback raised it to his nose, swirled the liquid about, inhaled the heady aroma of Highland malt, smoke, and fresh water that, as the Scots said, had flowed through peat and over granite. He felt better already. As he lowered the glass, he could see Boylan, the proprietor, in the front, handing a black-and-tan over the bar with an arm that looked like it had been carved from a twist of chewing tobacco. And past Boylan was O’Shaughnessy, just come in and looking about. Smithback waved, averting his eyes from the cheap polyester suit that practically sparkled, despite the dim light and cigar fumes. How could a self-respecting man wear a suit like that?
“’Tis himself,”said Smithback in a disgraceful travesty of an Irish accent as O’Shaughnessy approached.
“Ach, aye,”O’Shaughnessy replied, easing into the far side of the booth.
The waiter appeared again as if by magic, ducking deferentially.
“The same for him,” said Smithback, and then added, “you know, the twelve-year-old.”
“Of course,” said the waiter.
“What is it?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
“Glen Grant. Single malt scotch. The best in the world. On me.”
O’Shaughnessy grinned. “What, you forcing a bluidy Presbyterian drink down me throat? That’s like listening to Verdi in translation. I’d prefer Powers.”
Smithback shuddered. “That stuff? Trust me, Irish whisky is better suited to de-greasing engines than to drinking. The Irish produce better writers, the Scots better whisky.”
The waiter went off, returning with a second snifter. Smithback waited as O’Shaughnessy sniffed, winced, took a swig.
“Drinkable,” he said after a moment.
As they sipped in silence, Smithback shot a covert glance at the policeman across the table. So far he’d gotten precious little out of their arrangement, although he’d given him a pile on Fairhaven. And yet he found he had come to like the guy: O’Shaughnessy had a laconic, cynical, even fatalistic outlook on life that Smithback understood completely.
Smithback sighed and sat back. “So what’s new?”
O’Shaughnessy’s face instantly clouded. “They fired me.”
Smithback sat up again abruptly. “What? When?”
“Yesterday. Not fired, exactly. Not yet. Put on administrative leave. They’re opening an investigation.” He glanced up suddenly. “This is just between you and me.”
Smithback sat back. “Of course.”