Shade of Pale by Greg; Kihn Page B

standing with two Styrofoam cups of coffee in his hands. “Dr. Whaler?”
    â€œYes? What is it, Jones? Have they found my sister?”
    â€œWell, no.”
    Jukes pursed his lips. “Oh.… Well, what do you want?”
    Jones stepped forward, held out one of the cups, and smiled. “Would you like some coffee?”
    â€œIs that what you came here for? Coffee? If you’ve got something to say, why don’t you just say it, OK?”
    George stopped; his face fell. Jukes felt a pang of remorse; he hadn’t meant to be so blunt. Being blunt and mean-spirited was not his style, and it felt strange.
    â€œLook; I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat; it’s just that I’m under a lot of stress right now.”
    â€œI know how you feel,” Jones said. “It’s a sick fuckin’ world.”
    George looked past Jukes into the living room. Jukes waved him in. He handed Jukes one of the cups, and they sat facing each other in a pair of matching leather armchairs.
    Jones sipped his coffee. “You know, I’ve been thinking about this Banshee thing and it’s really buggin’ me. I’ve been considering the possibility of a link between Loomis, Killian, and the mystery woman.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWell, I went over to Killian’s apartment to have another look at his stuff, and the landlord said that all of his poetry had been taken by a friend of his, a guy named Sean Cheney. I tracked this Cheney guy down, and what do you know? He’s got a bookshop down in Soho, the Turf-Cutter’s Enchantment. It’s a radical Irish place; I checked it out.”
    Jukes nodded wearily.
    â€œI need your help. I want to establish a connection between the two deaths and the Banshee, an Irish connection.”
    â€œYou think Loomis was mixed up with something political?”
    â€œMaybe. Who knows? At any rate, I thought you might like to go over there with me—you know, as a consultant—and take a look at the man’s writing. It might shed some light on this whole thing. The fact that you’re a shrink and Loomis was under your care …”
    Jukes sipped the coffee; its bitter scent invigorated him. “You want my impressions?”
    â€œYeah, any insights you might have. If you do this for me, maybe I can help you find your sister. I’m not promising anything, you understand, but I’ve got some influence around the department. Some of the guys can be slow, unless you light a fire under their asses. Besides, I feel bad for you. I figure you must be pretty upset.”
    â€œThat’s an understatement,” Jukes said. “All right, Jones, you’re on. When do you want to go?”
    Jones put down his coffee. “How about right now?”
    Detective Jones had mercifully let his cigar go out during the drive, and Jukes thanked God that he didn’t have to breathe those noxious fumes again. Jones spoke conspiratorially through his stained teeth. “Let me do the talkin’. If they think we’re cops they won’t lift a finger to help us.”
    â€œOK.”
    The street was littered with discarded papers and empty bottles. A graffiti-covered newstand stood at the corner. The cheap hand-painted sign on the side screamed: STR ANGLER STILL AT LARGE!
    They got out of the car and entered the Turf-Cutter’s Enchantment.
    It was a secondhand bookstore, musty-smelling and lined with overstocked, dusty shelves. The two men browsed for a few minutes, disappearing into the stacks. No salesman approached them.
    In time, Jones stepped up to the counter where a bearded man sat smoking a pipe and reading a book, ignoring them.
    â€œExcuse me, but I’m looking for something by Brendan Killian.”
    â€œKillian?” The man looked up.
    â€œYeah. I figured you might have something.”
    He put down his book. “Well, you came to the right place, mister. I happen to have all