Beware the Solitary Drinker by Cornelius Lehane Page A

Broadway bums cried, “Hey Brian.” Sam the Hammer sat on a bench with the Boss. I went over.
    The Boss, who is small and thin and has a kind of olive complexion that might make him Latin or Arab or Greek or even Black, did not get up. He sat on the park bench in the middle of Broadway as if he were in his office sitting behind a desk.
    â€œYou’re a good guy, McNulty,” the Boss said.
    Uncomfortable because I didn’t know what he was up to and embarrassed because I did in a weird way enjoy his praise, I waited.
    â€œThis little girl’s murder was a terrible thing…such a pretty thing…really wild about you, too.” The Boss didn’t look at me when he spoke. This made me nervous, as did his manner of speaking, because he went off on tangents and became elliptical. He left big clumps of information out of what he was saying when you weren’t really sure what he was talking about in the first place. “I like you, McNulty. These other guys don’t know.…They talk like they know something. You told that guy it was smoke.…Smoke he told him,” the Boss said to Sam and chuckled.
    I didn’t know what the Boss was talking about, but I knew, as sure as I stood there, that he was warning me.
    â€œA shoe salesman,” the Boss said and chuckled again. This one, I remembered. One of the college kids had discovered the Boss was connected, as they say, and was drunk enough to bother him. He asked me if it was true, and I told him I thought the Boss was a shoe salesman. The Boss had overheard.
    â€œI’m fifty-three,” the Boss said. “A man of peace.…They all come to me.…I tell them I’m a man of peace.” He looked at me through his half-closed eyes for confirmation, so I agreed with him.
    â€œThe cops think I know something. What do I know?” This time he waited for an answer with his eyes closed.
    â€œI don’t know what you know,” I said.
    He chuckled good-naturedly. “They all want to know what I do.”
    â€œI don’t know what you do,” I said. He laughed once more, taking out his coke vial, shoving some up his nose with his little spoon. He handed it to me, but I said no, I wanted to sleep.
    â€œYou’re smart,” he said, “because you don’t ask questions and you don’t know answers.” He seemed finished when he said this, leaning back on the bench, letting his eyes droop, drifting away into his own thoughts.
    â€œI’m going to bed,” I said, taking the opportunity to edge away.
    â€œGood-night, McNulty,” said the Boss.

Chapter Four
    The next morning—afternoon to everyone else—when I walked out of the shadows of 110th Street into the sunlight and bustle of Broadway on my way to Tom’s at 112th for breakfast, a park bench in the middle of Broadway called to me once more.
    This time, Danny Stone sat on the bench, alone on the island except for an old lady in a gray overcoat who had parked her shopping bags beside him and was rooting through the garbage barrel. Danny looked like he’d been up all night. This wasn’t a meeting I wanted. Danny knew I’d seen him with Angelina. I didn’t know if he’d pretend I hadn’t seen him or ask me to lie. I didn’t know what I’d say or do in either case; too much strategy was involved, certainly too much strategy before breakfast.
    â€œI’m going to eat,” I told Danny. “Wanna come with?”
    â€œI want to talk to you about something.” His eyes were cold, his face serious, his manner chilling, as if he’d discovered some wrong I’d done him and was here to do something about it. “Let’s walk.” He started west across Broadway.
    â€œWhere you going?”
    â€œTo the park.”
    I froze. My face must have registered the shock I felt, because when he looked at me his did. We’d both made the same connection. He stared, as if