Having said all that, he jerked his head forward, ignoring my presence. I studied his profile and wondered how old he was. He could have been in his late thirties, but he looked an unhealthy forty-five, maybe closer to fifty. Closer to the end. He had nothing more to give. Not to me, probably not to anyone. I didn't want to talk to him anymore. I didn't want to be anywhere near him. But I had one more thing I needed him to tell me.
I got up from my stool and said, "How long have you been a lush?"
That got his attention. He whirled in his seat and gaped at me.
"Not that I care, but it's important I know if you started before August 1939. Because I need to know whether your investigation was worth a damn, or if I need to do it all over again."
"You son of a bitch," he snarled.
He lurched to his feet and lunged at me, swinging a roundhouse at my head. I could see it coming from a long way off and ducked it easily. His momentum took him past me, and I thought he was going to fall flat on his face. But he surprised me by keeping his feet and taking another swing, a short one, this time with his left. I was a little late in jerking my head out of the way this time, and his fist glanced off my mouth. It barely hurt—he didn't put much behind his punch—but it was enough to mash the inside of my lip against my teeth. I tasted blood.
Rivlin stood with his hands on his knees, heaving, his two swings having taken a lot out of him. The urge to belt him one was strong. My fingers were balled into tight fists and itching for permission to plant themselves in his face. I managed to curb the craving. Hitting him was a bad idea. I might get a good night's sleep by doing it, but the downsides were considerable. First, punching a cop is one of the fastest ways to land in the deepest of trouble, even when the cop took the first swing. Second, I still wanted him to answer my question, and he wouldn't be able to do that if I knocked him unconscious. And third, our little party was no longer private. The other patrons had risen from their seats and were standing close by, ready to intervene if they were needed, but clearly hoping they would not be. The bartender was pointing at me. "We don't need no trouble here. Get out!"
"I need an answer," I told Rivlin. Which I did; otherwise I would not have pressed him. Truth was, I felt sorry for him. He was broken, and what I was doing was the equivalent of stepping on the pieces, crunching them into smaller fragments.
"Did you hear what I said?" the bartender shouted.
"I'll go in a minute," I told him. To Rivlin I said, "Well?"
Sweat had broken on the sergeant's brow. He wiped at it with a trembling hand. There was hatred in his eyes now, and in his open mouth I could see his clenched teeth.
"You're lucky I don't bust up your face right now," he said. "You think you're better than me, don't you? You think I'm just some drunk who can't work a case. Well, you're wrong. I did everything I should have on that case. Everything."
His voice cracked on that last word, and his gaze dropped. I couldn't be sure he was telling me the truth. I think he might not have been sure of himself, either. He wasn't going to give me a straight answer. He might have been a drunk ten years ago, or he might have had his drinking under control. Maybe it had affected his work, and maybe it hadn't. I would never know.
"All right," I said, "I get it."
I fished a one-lira note from my pocket, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it to the bartender.
"Get him another bottle," I said.
It was past six thirty when I left Rivlin to wallow in his wine and misery and wound my way north. Either the heat had broken or something else was chilling me, because I felt cold. I was also ashamed. A part of me—perhaps most of me—had longed to put my fist in Rivlin's face, even though he posed no real threat to me, even though hitting him would have served no purpose other than personal gratification. My father would have not recognized this part of me. If he had known of it, he would have mourned it.
I lit a cigarette, shaking off my dark thoughts along with the match. My stomach began rumbling, and I realized I was hungry.
On Rothschild Boulevard, I found a small café with a radio that played jaunty European music and had a light dinner. I often had a drink with dinner, but on that evening I found the thought of alcohol repellent. I had seen men destroyed. Watching one destroy himself was stomach turning in a whole different way.
As I ate, I ran my conversation with Sergeant Rivlin through my mind. What he'd said about the killer being a madman who had chosen his victims at random could very well be true, but I didn't believe it. This had nothing to do with facts or logic. I simply did not want to believe this was what had happened.
