“That would be perfect.”
“There are a couple of messages for you. They are on your desk.” She paused. “Mr. Wood?”
“Yes, Celine?”
“I really like my new job. Thank you.”
“I really like my new secretary. Thank you.”
She smiled and spun around with the grace of a ballerina. The click of the closing door, which was not too loud or soft, seemed to punctuate her first day.
The top note, which was stuck on the metal spike for holding such things, was from Professor Brookert. It just said he would call tomorrow. The second note was from Katarina. It had a number, and just said “Call ASAP.”
Henry dialed the number, and the desk clerk at her hotel answered. Henry asked to speak with Katarina, and he put the call through.
“Henry?!” came the voice on the other end, sounding a little shaken.
“I got your message. I meant to call earlier, but I have been out most of the day.”
“I need to see you. I need your help. Can you meet me somewhere?”
“What’s wrong?” Henry said, concerned about her tone.
“I can’t talk now. Meet me at The Dublin Rogue, in an hour.”
“Just tell me what’s going on?”
There was a few moments of breathing and sighs. “Henry, I need to see you in person. I’ll see you in an hour.”
Henry was about to ask again, but the click on the other end said “No more.”
Henry paced a bit, holding the message. He had tried to find out what had brought her back into town, but each time he did, she deftly changed the subject. Henry didn’t like waiting – patience wasn’t one of his virtues – but he had no choice.
The other notes were from Luna and Big Mike. They would wait until morning. Henry sat down and rubbed his sore right hand. His knuckles were bruised, and it reminded him why it was better to do battle words than fists.
In the third drawer was a bottle of vodka. Henry pulled it out and poured some into his empty and, he noticed, cleaned coffee cup. As he sipped it, he noticed that Celine had added four more coffee cups to the stack. He smiled.
Why did you have to get yourself killed Mickey? he thought. Another sip, and he felt the rage boiling down in his stomach again. Henry said, as he raised his cup, “Tell you what, Mickey. I will find your killer, and you keep an eye on my friends. Whatever it was you were looking into, sure seems to have a lot of powerful people involved. You keep them safe.”
It was sort of a prayer, but not really. He finished the vodka, put the bottle back, and then wiped out the cup and placed it with the others. Perhaps he would go to the bar now and a have a round or two, before Katarina arrived.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Henry walked to The Dublin Rogue. It was just as he remembered it. He had spent more evenings here with Mickey than he could count. Though it had been years, the faces were the same.
One by one, the familiars came over and gave their condolences. Henry appreciated each one. The peanuts on the bar were salty. Henry's tussle with the leather jackets had caused him to work up an appetite. It would have to wait.
Katarina walked in and Henry stood up to meet her. She threw her arms around him. “Oh Henry, you came…I am in so much trouble.”
Henry led her to a booth in the back. Her breathing was shallow, with slight shudders, fighting back the tears. It wasn’t at all like her. Henry motioned for two drinks and sat down next to her. He put his arm across Kat’s shoulder.
It took her a while to get going. She stuttered, stopped and started, and then just sighed. The drinks arrived.
“Tell me what is going on.”
She took a long drink and steadied herself. Henry swung around to the other side of the booth. She fiddled with her empty glass.
“The war was tragic in so many ways. The years after the war may have been worse. There are a lot of bad people in the world; they started the war. Many of them died. Those who remained carried on. Now I am one of those people.”
Henry took her hand. “I don’t believe it.” The words and the voice were kind. She wanted to stop there, take back what she had said, but she couldn’t. It was true.
“Dear Henry, let me tell you what I have become.”
Henry took her other hand and looked into her eyes…and waited.
“There are lines, black and white, which we don’t cross. Wars blur those lines, greed blurs them, and in the end, my own weakness whipped them away. I don’t know what is good or bad anymore. But let me start at the beginning.
“The first few years after the war, the art world was trying to regain its footing. Some painters, like Henri Matisse, had worked throughout. Others had been in hiding. The end of the war signaled the beginning of a new energy. Talented people, those who had survived, had so much pain, and they took it and put it in sculptures and paintings in ways that brought tears to my eyes.