Not a Creature Was Stirring(79)

“It’s late,” Gregor said gently. “And you’re not exactly in a prime shopping area.”

“True. But you could have been in the area. I tried to call you, you know, after they did that piece about you in The Inquirer. Your number’s unlisted.”

“I unlisted it because of The Inquirer piece.”

“Nuts,” Flanagan said wisely. The primal ooze began to bubble, and he took it off the plate. In the harsh light of the fluorescent lamps that lined the ceiling, his face looked even more mottled and more mournful than it had in the outer room. It also looked infinitely tired, with that bone-crushing weariness that comes of digging through slime for centuries without getting any nearer to cleaning up the mess. Gregor felt suddenly very sorry for the man.

“I don’t suppose it’s been much of a picnic around here since I left. I’m sorry I didn’t think about how beat you’d be at this time of day. I saw where I was and I just came in.”

“You were in the neighborhood,” Flanagan said.

“I was driving through. Or rather, a friend was driving me through.”

“That’s good. You were never much of a driver.” Flanagan had found his coffee mugs. He put them on the desk and filled them. “But I meant what I said. I’m glad to see you, as long as you’re not involved in some drug thing. I can’t take the drug thing any more. It’s one of those days. Sometimes it doesn’t faze me. Sometimes I get very attracted to the Gordian knot solution. I just want to get hold of an AK-47 of my own and blow these jerks to kingdom come.”

“I’m not involved in any drug thing,” Gregor said. “I never was.”

Flanagan shrugged. “So? You had ax murderers and people who ate their mothers for breakfast. Literally. Also other people’s mothers. It doesn’t sound much better.”

“It wasn’t. But the past tense is important, Jim. I’m retired.”

“Funny,” Flanagan said. “You don’t look retired.”

Gregor took the mug of coffee Flanagan had pushed in his direction and gave it a try. It was worse than his own. Much worse.

“I’ll tell you something,” he said. “I’m glad I came in. I’ve been sitting around the last couple of months, wondering if I’d have felt better if I hadn’t retired. Not that I could have done anything about that. I’m fifty-five. I’ve hit the age limit—”

“I was sorry to hear about Elizabeth, Gregor.”

“I know. You sent a card. I appreciated it, even if I didn’t answer it. But Jim, I’m glad I’m not still in it.”

“I’m fifty-two,” Flanagan said. “Some mornings, I count the time. It’s not the same. Drugs changed everything, Gregor, drugs and this weird attitude they’ve all got now.”

“I know what you mean. They don’t know the difference between fact and opinion. To them, the law of gravitation isn’t even a theory. It’s a biosociologically determined concept.”

“It’s the laws of morality I’m worried about. I don’t care about the sex so much. People have been sleeping with people they shouldn’t be sleeping with forever. But the other things. Catch this, Gregor. We’ve got petty theft problems in the office.”

“Here?”

“Here. Pencils. Pens. Paper clips. Junk. Theft for the sake of theft.”

“I think I liked it better when guilt was in fashion,” Gregor said. “I also think we’re getting old. Listen to us. We’re talking about the young as ‘them.’”

“The young are ‘them.’” Flanagan said it firmly.

Gregor took another sip of his coffee, decided he was not feeling suicidal enough to try to finish it, and pushed the mug away across the desk. “The thing is,” he told Flanagan, “I didn’t just come to talk. I need some information I don’t even know if you have.”

“Really? What did you do? Decide to go private?”

“Not exactly.” Gregor explained his arrangement with Jackman and his involvement in the Hannaford case. He was gratified to see that Flanagan was impressed. “The problem with it all,” he said, “is that I’m sure Jackman is right. Bobby Hannaford is not straight: Bobby Hannaford is in trouble up to his eyeballs. It’s the easiest thing in the world to see.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is. And from the look on your face, Flanagan, I’d say you think so, too.”

“I know so,” Flanagan admitted. “I want to know why you know so.”

“Because he spends more money than he has, but he doesn’t have that—that look people get when they’re in serious debt. I was thinking about it today when I was out at Engine House. One of the other brothers, Christopher, he has that look. Kind of an adrenaline worry and a paralysis at the same time. Bobby Hannaford looks like a man who thinks he can do something about his problems. Do you see what I mean?”