There was a bar menu beside him, and a list of specials chalked on a board that might as well have been written in Sanskrit, they’d been there so long and unchanged, but nobody was eating. Nobody was doing much of anything, because Mickey was the only person in the place, the bartender excepted, and he looked like he’d consumed nothing but human growth hormone for the past decade or so. He bulged in places where no normal person should have bulged. There were even bulges on his bald head, as though the top of his skull had developed muscles so as not to feel excluded from the rest of his body.

“Get you something?” he asked. His voice was pitched higher than Mickey had anticipated. He wondered if it was something to do with the steroids. There were peculiar swellings on the bartender’s chest, as though his breasts had grown secondary breasts of their own. He was so tan that he seemed at times almost to fade into the wood and grime of the bar. To Mickey, he looked like a pair of women’s stockings that had been stuffed with footballs.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Well, order something while you’re waiting. Look on it as rent for the stool.”

“Friendly place,” said Mickey.

“You want friends, call the Samaritans. This is a business.”

Mickey ordered a light beer. He rarely drank before nightfall, and even then he tended to limit his intake to a beer or two, the night of the visit to Parker’s house excepted, and that night had been exceptional in so many ways. He wasn’t thirsting for a beer now, and even the thought of sipping it made him feel queasy, but he wasn’t about to offend someone who looked like he could turn Mickey inside out and back again before he’d even realized what was happening. The beer arrived. Mickey stared at it, and the beer stared back. Its head began to disappear, as though responding in kind to Mickey’s lack of enthusiasm for it.

The door opened, and a man stepped inside. He was tall, with the natural bulk of someone who had never felt the need to use any form of artificial growth enhancers stronger than meat and milk. He wore a long blue overcoat that hung open, revealing a substantial gut. His hair was short and very white. His nose was red, and not just from the cold wind outside. Mickey realized that he’d made the right choice in ordering a beer.

“Hey,” said the bartender. “It’s the Captain. Long time, no see.”

He reached out a hand, and the newcomer took it and shook it warmly, using his free hand to slap the man’s substantial upper arm.

“How you doin’, Hector? See you’re still using that shit.”

“Keeps me big and lean, Captain.”

“You’ve grown tits, and you must be shaving your back twice a day.”

“Maybe I’ll keep it long, give the boys something to hold on to.”

“You’re a deviant, Hector.”

“And proud of it. What can I get you? First one is on the house.”

“That’s decent of you, Hector. A Redbreast, if you don’t mind, to get the cold out of my bones.”

He walked down to the end of the bar where Mickey was sitting.

“You Wallace?” he asked.

Mickey stood up. He was about five ten, and the newcomer towered over him by seven or eight inches.

“Captain Tyrrell.” They shook hands. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

“Well, after Hector has obliged me, the drinks are on you.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

Hector placed a substantial glass of whiskey, untroubled by ice or water, beside Tyrrell’s right hand. Tyrrell gestured to a booth against the back wall. “Let’s take our drinks down there. You eaten yet?”

“No.”

“They do a good hamburger here. You eat hamburger?”

Mickey doubted that this place did a good anything, but he knew better than to refuse.

“Yes. A hamburger sounds fine.”

Tyrrell raised a hand and shouted the order to Hector: two hamburgers, medium, with all the trimmings. Medium, thought Mickey. Jesus. He’d prefer it charred to within an inch of its life in the hope of killing whatever bacteria might have taken up residence in the meat. Hell, this might be the last burger he ever ate.

Hector duly entered the order on a surprisingly modern-looking register, even if he operated it like a monkey.

“Wallace: that’s a good Irish name,” said Tyrrell.

“Irish-Belgian.”

“That’s some mix.”

“ Europe. The war.”

Tyrrell’s face softened unpleasantly with sentimentality, like a marshmallow melting. “My grandfather served in Europe. Royal Irish Fusiliers. Got shot for his troubles.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Ah, he didn’t die. Lost his left leg below the knee, though. They didn’t have prosthetics then, or not like they do now. He used to pin up his trouser leg every morning. Think he was kind of proud of it.”

He raised his glass to Mickey.

“Sláinte,” he said.

“Cheers,” said Mickey. He took a mouthful of beer. Mercifully, it was so cold that he could barely taste it. He reached into his satchel and produced a notebook and pen.

“Straight down to business,” said Tyrrell.

“If yo J A“Ifu’d prefer to wait…”

“Nah, it’s good.”

Mickey took a little Olympus digital voice recorder from his jacket pocket, and showed it to Tyrrell.

“Would you object if-?”

“Yes, I would. Put it away. Better still, take the batteries out and leave that thing where I can see it.”

Mickey did as he was told. It would make things a little more difficult, but Mickey had reasonable shorthand and a good memory. In any case, he wouldn’t be quoting Tyrrell directly. This was background, and deep background. Tyrrell had been quite clear about that when he had agreed to meet with Mickey. If his name appeared anywhere near the book, he’d stomp Mickey’s fingers until they looked like corkscrews.

“Tell me some more about this book you’re writing.”

So Mickey did. He left out the more artistic and philosophical elements of his proposal, and tried to tread as neutral a path as possible as he described his interest in Parker. Although he hadn’t yet ascertained Tyrrell’s views on the subject, he suspected that they were largely negative, if only because, so far, anyone who liked or respected Parker had refused point-blank to talk to him.

“And have you met Parker?” asked Tyrrell.

“I have. I approached him about an interview.”

“What happened?”

“He sucker-punched me in the gut.”

“That’s him all right. He’s a sonofabitch, a thug. And that’s not the worst of it.”

He took a sip of his whiskey. It was already half gone.

“You want another one?” asked Mickey.

“Sure.”

Mickey turned to the bar. He didn’t even have to order. Hector just nodded and went for the bottle.

“So, what do you want to know about him?” said Tyrrell.

“I want to know what you know.”

And Tyrrell began to talk. He spoke first of Parker’s father, who had killed two young people in a car and then taken his own life. He could offer no insights into the killings beyond suggesting there was something wrong with the father that had passed itself on to the son: a faulty gene, perhaps; a predilection toward violence.

The hamburgers arrived, along with Tyrrell’s second drink. Tyrrell ate, but Mickey did not. He was too busy taking notes, or that would be his excuse if he were asked.

“We think the first man he killed was named Johnny Friday,” said Tyrrell. “He was a pimp, beaten to death in the washroom of a bus station. He was no loss to the world, but that’s not the point.”

“Why do you suspect Parker?”

“Because he was there. Cameras picked him up entering and leaving the station during the killing window.”

“Were there cameras on the bath J A on the broom door?”

“There were cameras everywhere, but he didn’t appear on them. We just got him entering and leaving the station.”

Mickey was puzzled. “How could that be?”

For the first time, Tyrrell looked uncertain. “I don’t know. The cameras weren’t fixed then, except for the ones on the doors. It was a cost-cutting measure. They moved from side to side. I guess he timed them, then moved in conjunction with them.”