Serial

17

Despite the early hour, Quinn and Jerry Lido sat next to each other on bar stools at O’Keefe’s Oasis. They were the only ones in the place consuming alcohol. The three other drinkers, two men and a woman, were sipping coffee. Quinn had consumed only half of his mimosa-a mixture of champagne and orange juice-when he generously ordered another scotch and water for Jerry. It had been Quinn’s idea to come here.

“Better ease up on those,” the bartender said to Jerry, as he placed the drink on the bar.

“Not to worry, Jim,” Jerry answered with a grin. “I got my desecrated driver.”

Jim glanced disapprovingly at Quinn as he moved away down the bar. O’Keefe’s was near Jerry’s apartment, and Jerry was one of the regulars. Maybe they liked him here. Jerry wasn’t a bad guy when he wasn’t involved in selfflagellation.

Quinn got Jerry talking about the investigation and his computer expertise, and suggested they leave so Jerry could demonstrate something online. On the walk to Jerry’s apartment, they ducked into a liquor store and bought a bottle of J amp;B scotch, Jerry’s favorite. Quinn paid. He knew Jerry was great with his computer when he was sober. Drunk he was brilliant.

After about an hour, Quinn said good-bye and left Jerry’s apartment. Deep in an alcoholic and electronic trance, concentrating on his monitor and mouse and nothing else, Jerry barely noticed.

When Quinn entered the office, Pearl looked at him pretty much as Jim the bartender had in O’Keefe’s.

“You smell like booze,” she said.

“I’ve been-”

“I can guess what you’ve been doing. Drinking with Jerry Lido. Where is he?”

Quinn glanced around. “Where’s who?”

“Are you drunk, too?”

“Who’s too?”

“ Too would be Jerry Lido, who I’m sure is soused despite the early hour.”

“No, I’m not soused. Nor am I smashed nor looped nor plastered. Jerry’s on the edge, I’d say.”

“You’re sure right about that.”

“He’s working now on his computer. Maybe he’ll come up with something.”

“Like sclerosis of the liver.”

“Don’t be so rough on him, Pearl.”

Pearl simply stared at Quinn. She made him feel drunk, though he was sure he wasn’t. She could do that.

He shrugged. “I’ll be working,” he said. “At my desk.”

“Don’t try to drive it,” Pearl said.

That afternoon Quinn was alone in the office when a short, stocky man wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt entered and glanced around with his head tilted back, as if orienting himself while making sure the air was safe to breathe. He walked directly to Quinn’s desk. Quinn figured he was in his fifties, a fit fifties. His hair was buzz cut and his chin was thrust outward and upward. His bearing was that of a small person who’d grown up in a tough neighborhood. If his forearms were larger he would have made a great movie Popeye. He stood in front of Quinn’s desk and fixed a calm blue stare on him. Up close like that, Quinn could see the road map of fine wrinkles on his face and upped his estimate of the man’s age to over sixty.

“You’re Quinn,” the man said, in a tone that suggested insult.

Quinn thought it might be a good idea to start locking the street door and requiring people to ring to get in. “And you are?”

“A friend of Bill. You know what that means?”

Quinn nodded. It was the way members of Alcoholics Anonymous identified themselves to each other.

“Another friend of mine’s also a friend of Bill. Jerry Lido.”

“One of Bill’s best friends, I would imagine,” Quinn said, wondering now where this was going, and having some suspicions.

“I’m Jerry’s sponsor in AA, Quinn. The one he goes to for help if he’s having trouble, or if he’s fallen off the wagon.”

“Jerry’s wagon travels a bumpy road,” Quinn said.

“Over the last few years I’ve gotten fond of Jerry.”

“He could use all the friends he can get.”

“Not friends like you.”

Quinn leaned back and held a pencil at both ends in his huge hands with surprising delicacy. “What makes you say that?”

“I went to visit Jerry and he told me what was going on. I know what you’re doing. You know an alcoholic does or learns things when he’s drunk, and sometimes he can only remember them when he’s drunk again.”

“Sobriety’s a different world,” Quinn agreed.

“And you want Jerry to visit his other world so he might get in touch with certain memories.”

“And capabilities. He’s a genius on the computer when he’s drinking,” Quinn said honestly.

“You’re using Jerry for your own ends. Taking advantage of him.”

Has this guy been talking with Pearl?

“Jerry’s involvement in this investigation might save lives,” Quinn said. “He wants to help. In fact, he came here begging to help.”

“And you took him up on his offer.”

“He thinks he can find atonement,” Quinn said.

“He searched for that in a bottle and didn’t find it, and he’s not going to find it by drinking with you and then going online and doing things that could land him in jail.” The stocky little man appeared disgusted. “My guess is you don’t even really drink with him. You probably pour your liquor into a potted plant when he isn’t watching.”

“That only happens in movies,” Quinn said.

“Jerry’s my responsibility, and I’m here to ask you not to be his enabler just so he might ferret out some information that’ll help you.”

“You say I’m using Jerry. Yes, I am. That’s because I know it might be worth it. He knows it, too. That’s why he wants to help.”

“I think it’s simpler than that. I think you’re an obsessive bastard who’ll stop at nothing.”

“To find and stop a serial killer? Yeah, maybe I’m exactly that.”

“Well, I’m obsessive when it comes to saving Jerry from the bottle.”

“Then we’re at cross-purposes. Jerry’s a big boy. He wants to aid in this investigation, and we accept his offer.” Quinn stood up behind his desk. “I’m afraid that’s how it’s going to be, at least until we nail this killer.”

Seemingly without moving a muscle the little man seemed to grow several inches, though he was still looking up at Quinn. “I’m asking you man to man, politely as possible, to leave Jerry Lido alone.”

“I can’t do that. And it seems to me that whatever Jerry’s doing is up to him.”

The man swiped his bare muscular forearm across his lips, making a face, as if he’d taken a bite out of Quinn and didn’t like the aftertaste.

“I can’t say it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he said, and spun and headed for the door.

“He can, you know,” Quinn said.

The man paused and looked back.

“Can what?”

“Jerry can find atonement in what he’s doing.”

“While killing himself with alcohol. Anyway, it’s saints that find atonement by dying. And Jerry’s no saint.”

“One more thing,” Quinn said, as the man was opening the door.

“What’s that?”

“Your name. You never told me your name.”

“My name is Joe Nethers, and don’t you forget it.”