“Smart too,” Farrell said.
“But modest,” I said.
It was a little past five-thirty in the evening and the bar was lined with people. Made you wonder about the work people did if they had to get drunk when they finished.
“Quirk says you get full cooperation,” Farrell said. His speech wasn’t slurred, but there was a thickness to his voice. “Says you’re pretty good, says you might come up with something, if there’s anything to come up with.”
I nodded and sipped a little beer.
“Sort of implies that I won’t,” Farrell said. “Doesn’t it? Sort of implies that maybe I’m not so good.”
“You got other things to do. I don’t.”
Farrell emptied his shot glass, and drank the remainder of his beer. He nodded toward the bartender, who refilled him. There was a flush on Farrell’s cheeks, and his eyes seemed bright.
“How many people in this room you figure are gay?” he said.
I glanced around the room. It was full of men. I swallowed a little more beer. I looked at Farrell and shrugged.
“Everybody but me,” I said.
“Pretty sure you can tell by just looking?”
“It’s a gay bar,” I said. “I know you’re gay. Quirk told me.”
“I’m not so sure I like that,” Farrell said.
“Why, is it a secret?”
“No, but why is he talking about it?”
“As an explanation of why you might be stuck on a dead-end case.”
“I never thought Quirk cared.”
“I don’t think he does.”
“Lotta people do,” Farrell said.
“True,” I said.
We sat for a while.
“You figure fags got no iron?” Farrell said.
“I assume some do and some don’t,” I said. “I don’t know enough about it to be sure.”
We sat some more.
“I’m as good as any cop,” Farrell said.
I nodded encouragingly.
“Good as you too,” Farrell said.
“Sure,” I said.
Farrell drank more whiskey. His speech was still fully formed, but his voice was very thick.
“You believe that?” he said.
“I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care if you are as good as I am or not. I don’t care if you’re tough or not, or smart or not. I don’t care if you are gay or straight or both or neither. I care about finding out who killed that broad with a framing hammer, and so far you’re not helping me worth shit.”
Farrell sat for a while staring at me, with the dead-eyed cop that all of them perfect, then he nodded as if to himself. He picked up the whiskey and sipped a little and put the glass down.
“You know,” he said, “sometimes if I’m alone, and there’s no one around…”
He glanced up and down the bar and lowered his voice.
“… I order a sloe gin fizz,” he said.
“A dead giveaway,” I said. “Now that we’ve established that you’re queer and you’re here, can we talk about the Nelson case?” I said.
“You got the case file,” Farrell said.
“Yeah, and I’ve seen the house, and I’ve talked to the children.”
“Always a good time,” Farrell said.
The bartender came down and looked at Farrell’s drink. Farrell shook his head.
“They’re under stress,” I said.
“Sure,” Farrell said.
“Tripp and his wife had separate rooms,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Which doesn’t mean they didn’t get along,” I said.
