Beware the Solitary Drinker by Cornelius Lehane

herself down on a corner barstool, she took stock of the place with what I sensed was mild disapproval, then looked at me questioningly. “Do you always work behind the bar?”
    â€œI’m the bartender.”
    â€œOh.” She looked confused. “I thought you owned the bar.”
    I didn’t know why she would think that.
    â€œYou said I should come to your bar. I thought you meant you owned it.”
    I poured her a dark rum and grapefruit juice and braced myself. She’d put on a good bit of make-up, but it didn’t hide the reddened eyes and the puffiness beneath. She had a professional kind of presence. I wouldn’t say it was a false front. But it was automatic: a smile, a handshake, a way of giving her full attention, as if what you said must be really important. I didn’t know what she did for a living. But she was polished, used to making her way in some area that used to be a man’s world. Much of this style was muted by the toll Angelina’s death had taken on her. But, like I said, how she presented herself was automatic. She was charming without trying, without even thinking about it.
    â€œI’m not sure this is the right place to find out much about your sister,” I said. “I didn’t know her that well. She took singing lessons, I know. She worked further downtown…. You’d probably find out more about her down there.” I was tiptoeing around because I didn’t want big sister Janet to find out too much about Angelina’s habits in Sin City, and I especially didn’t want one of Oscar’s blabbermouths to spill the beans about Rocky’s porno flicks.
    â€œAngelina was here the night she died,” Janet said by way of establishing that she was settling in for a while. “Who were her friends? Did anyone here now know her?”
    â€œShe wasn’t here that long,” I said, groping for an answer that sounded like it said something without actually doing so. I’d become an oracle—except I taught untruth. “People knew her, I guess. I don’t know who all were friends.”
    â€œDo you know if she had a boyfriend?”
    â€œI think she was sort of shopping around.”
    â€œDid she try you for size?” Janet Carter arched an appraising eyebrow.
    Even though I didn’t say anything, she seemed to have her answer. I began to think a red light lit up on my forehead when I toyed with the truth.
    Nigel picked that moment to arrive. He was a pretty good yacker so, while I would have preferred Carl, Nigel would do, certainly better than Reuben or Oscar or Sam the Hammer. Self-effacing as usual, and in much better shape than the last time I’d seen him, Nigel perked up immediately—as all of the regulars would—as soon as he spied the new and pretty female face at the bar.
    Janet Carter carried herself well, and her body fit nicely into her more relaxed clothes, her breasts straining just so slightly against her silk blouse that was open along her neck, her jacket tapered along her hips. She was good to look at, though some hardness in her manner suggested not easily touchable. She flashed him a brief smile, and Nigel beamed.
    â€œHe knew your sister,” I told Janet, and Nigel’s face dropped like I’d kneed him in the balls.
    I didn’t blame him. One of the advantages a bartender has is control of the conversation—he can get two people next to one another talking or arguing then walk away to the end of the bar. For them, committed more or less to their chosen barstools, walking away is not so easy.
    I hoped Nigel would keep her busy with small talk, so she wouldn’t get a chance to pump the regulars for any real information. He usually had a lot to say. Every situation that came up reminded him of something that had happened to him in the past. His stories weren’t boring, but they somehow never related to him, the teller. If he told of getting stoned