Beware the Solitary Drinker by Cornelius Lehane Page A

with the Allman Brothers or driving from Chicago to Minneapolis with Jerry Garcia, you thought it was exciting or interesting but it did nothing to alter your opinion of Nigel who was telling the story. He still seemed wimpy and uninteresting.
    But my plan didn’t work. She got away from him, managing to accost Reuben and Duffy, the Boss, and even Oscar. She created discomfort, not unlike Sheehan, as she went from one bar stool to the next. She paid no attention to the clear differences in class and style, not seeming to notice how the winos reacted—as if the madam of the house had descended into the servants’ quarters.
    â€œAll of these men knew Angelina,” she said well into the night when she came to rest on her barstool after floating from one end of the bar to the other for a couple of hours. She didn’t seem concerned that I’d misled her. “Everyone is so nice.”
    Ignoring her sociable smile, I watched instead the sadness and rage hiding in her dark eyes.
    â€œDid you find out all you need to know?” I asked, suspecting she hadn’t found out much.
    â€œI’m not really sure what I found out.” Her expression grew quizzical as she thought over what she’d heard. “Everyone talks in riddles.” She’d just spoken to Sam, and before that Oscar, so the longer she thought it over the less sure she would be.
    Just like god damn Sheehan to pick that moment—when I thought I might hustle her out of the joint—to saunter in and sit down beside her.
    â€œHello, McNulty,” he said, wiping at the bar in front of him with his fingers as if it might be sticky. “Had a couple of days off?” I waited for him to acknowledge that the bar was clean. “Went to the girl’s funeral I understand.” He leaned forward onto his elbows. “Nice gesture…See anyone from the neighborhood?”
    Janet hadn’t taken her eyes off Sheehan since he sat down, so it didn’t take him long to sense her interest. Turning to her with a more engaging manner than I thought him capable of, he held out his hand and said, “I’m Detective Pat Sheehan.”
    â€œI’m Janet Carter. Are you investigating my sister’s murder?”
    â€œYes. I am,” he said. He looked her over in an appraising sort of way that I thought she should find offensive, but she didn’t seem to notice, or care if she did notice.
    She didn’t take her eyes off his face. Her own face was rigid.
    â€œI’m surprised to see you in New York. In fact, I’ve just finished reading a statement you gave to the Springfield police this morning.”
    â€œDo you know who killed her?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI want to find out,” Janet said. Her voice shook, and she seemed to freeze over. It was rage—anger so deep and brooding that it surprised me. She’d been wearing a pretty convincing mask, this poised professional from Massachusetts. For that moment, she seemed as tough as Sheehan.
    â€œSo do we,” said Sheehan. “Maybe you could convince McNulty here and his cronies to cooperate.”
    When she turned to look at me, the rage was still in her eyes, but it wasn’t directed against me as I expected it to be; it went inward. She went after herself, a look of bitterness you might associate with failure or despair or self-hate. She might fit into Oscar’s after all.
    Sheehan stood up and without speaking to me walked to the end of the bar toward Oscar, said something to him, then left the bar without looking at me again.
    When he left, Janet nursed a drink and brooded for a long time. She seemed to have lost interest in conversation but did tell me she’d be in town for a couple of days, staying at a hotel in the Sixties, the Empire, next to Hanrahan’s.
    Trying to cheer her up with a bit of New York City lore, I told her it was the hotel the ballet dancers stay in when they come to town to dance at