LITMIR.BIZ

      The bar at Armstrong’s was one of Nelson’s favorite watering holes on Tenth Avenue. The menu was capricious and varied—and, more importantly to Nelson, the draft pints of Bass were reliable and cheap. Armstrong’s was one of Hell’s Kitchen’s best-kept secrets, known to locals but not to tourists, or to the bridge-and-tunnel crowd that swept down Ninth Avenue during rush hour.

      “That was quite a far-ranging lecture,” Lee remarked as the bartender set a pair of dripping amber pints in front of them.

      “Mostly these days I just try to keep myself amused,” Nelson replied, drinking deeply from the sweating glass. He wiped his upper lip and plunked the glass down on the bar. “Now that is what A. E. Housman was talking about when he said, ‘Malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.’”

      “Still, we need our Milton as well as our malt.”

      Nelson dipped a hand into the bowl of fresh popcorn sitting on the bar. “True. It’s funny, but I still remember reading Paradise Lost in school and thinking how interesting Satan was—and how boring Christ was.”

      “Satan is more human,” Lee agreed. “He’s conflicted, whereas Christ has everything figured out. Who can identify with that?”

      “Or maybe we just like our villains,” Nelson replied with a smile. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in the other direction. It smelled sharp and aromatic, like herbs.

      “Clove cigarettes,” he replied in answer to Lee’s look. “Some of my students smoke them. Supposedly they’re better for you.”

      “I don’t think Christ’s virtue is what makes him so opaque,” Lee remarked. “It’s his certainty. But even virtuous people are full of doubts and uncertainty. That’s what we relate to about Satan: he’s in pain, his soul is in torment. Christ is just so damn serene! Who can identify with that?”

      “Not me, my lad, not me,” Nelson answered with a wave to the bartender. “Another for me, my good man. You’ll have to catch up,” he added, seeing Lee’s half-full glass.

      Lee was concerned over the pace of his friend’s drinking. Nelson evidently picked up on this, because he laid a hand on Lee’s arm.

      “Don’t worry, lad, I don’t have any more lectures today. I’ve never yet turned up to class under the influence, and I don’t plan to start now. So how’s your case coming?”

      “We’ve got a suspect, but I don’t think he’s the man.”

      Lee told Nelson about Father Michael and his relationship with the dead girl. Nelson listened intently, his eyes narrowed.

      “He clammed up as soon as his lawyer arrived?”

      “Yeah. His lawyer kept saying it was the girl’s word against his, and that we had no crime to charge him with.”

      Nelson sighed. “He’s right, of course. You may be right that this priest isn’t the killer, but you should keep an eye on him.”

      “We are.”

      “Good. Now, how about one more round?”

      “No, thanks,” Lee replied, feeling uncomfortable. “I can’t drink quite as much as I used to.”

      “Keep such admissions to yourself, or they’ll have you thrown out of this place!” Nelson said loudly enough that the bartender could hear.

      He clearly did not want to discuss his drinking, and the force of his personality was like a wall between them. Lee was partly relieved. He had no desire to turn the tables on their tenuous father-son relationship. He was pretty certain his friend’s drinking had accelerated since his wife’s death, but the thought of confronting Nelson about it was daunting. He vowed to keep an eye on his friend, but babysitting Nelson’s drinking would have to take a backseat to finding the man who was stalking and strangling young women.

      He looked at the happy, relaxed faces all around him: the young Latino couple in the corner, the pair of students at the other end of the bar, the young mother with her son at the video game machine. He felt an irrational sense of responsibility to protect them all from a killer who—Lee was certain—would not stop until he was caught.