Douglas Preston - The Cabinet of Curiosities

“The usual, Mr. Smithback?”

“No. You got any of the fifty-year-old Glen Grant?”

“At thirty-six dollars,” the waiter said dolefully.

“Bring it. I want to drink something as old as I feel.”

The waiter faded back into the dark, smoky atmosphere. Smithback checked his watch and looked around irritably. He was ten minutes late, but it looked like O’Shaughnessy was even later. He hated people who were even later than he was, almost as much as he hated people who were on time.

The waiter rematerialized, carrying a brandy snifter with an inch of amber-colored liquid in the bottom. He placed it reverently before Smithback.

Smithback raised it to his nose, swirled the liquid about, inhaled the heady aroma of Highland malt, smoke, and fresh water that, as the Scots said, had flowed through peat and over granite. He felt better already. As he lowered the glass, he could see Boylan, the proprietor, in the front, handing a black-and-tan over the bar with an arm that looked like it had been carved from a twist of chewing tobacco. And past Boylan was O’Shaughnessy, just come in and looking about. Smithback waved, averting his eyes from the cheap polyester suit that practically sparkled, despite the dim light and cigar fumes. How could a self-respecting man wear a suit like that?

“ ’Tis himself,” said Smithback in a disgraceful travesty of an Irish accent as O’Shaughnessy approached.

“Ach, aye,” O’Shaughnessy replied, easing into the far side of the booth.

The waiter appeared again as if by magic, ducking deferentially.

“The same for him,” said Smithback, and then added, “you know, the twelve-year-old.”

“Of course,” said the waiter.

“What is it?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

“Glen Grant. Single malt scotch. The best in the world. On me.”

O’Shaughnessy grinned. “What, you forcing a bluidy Presbyterian drink down me throat? That’s like listening to Verdi in translation. I’d prefer Powers.”

Smithback shuddered. “That stuff? Trust me, Irish whisky is better suited to de-greasing engines than to drinking. The Irish produce better writers, the Scots better whisky.”

The waiter went off, returning with a second snifter. Smithback waited as O’Shaughnessy sniffed, winced, took a swig.

“Drinkable,” he said after a moment.

As they sipped in silence, Smithback shot a covert glance at the policeman across the table. So far he’d gotten precious little out of their arrangement, although he’d given him a pile on Fairhaven. And yet he found he had come to like the guy: O’Shaughnessy had a laconic, cynical, even fatalistic outlook on life that Smithback understood completely.

Smithback sighed and sat back. “So what’s new?”

O’Shaughnessy’s face instantly clouded. “They fired me.”

Smithback sat up again abruptly. “What? When?”

“Yesterday. Not fired, exactly. Not yet. Put on administrative leave. They’re opening an investigation.” He glanced up suddenly. “This is just between you and me.”

Smithback sat back. “Of course.”

“I’ve got a hearing next week before the union board, but it looks like I’m done for.”

“Why? Because you did a little moonlighting?”

“Custer’s pissed. He’ll bring up some old history. A bribe I took, five years ago. That, along with insubordination and disobeying orders, will be enough to drag me down.”

“That fat-assed bastard.”

There was another silence. There’s one potential source shot to hell, Smithback thought. Too bad. He’s a decent guy.

“I’m working for Pendergast now,” O’Shaughnessy added in a very low voice, cradling his drink.

This was even more of a shock. “Pendergast? How so?” Perhaps all was not lost.

“He needed a Man Friday. Someone to pound the pavement for him, help track things down. At least, that’s what he said. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to head down to the East Village, snoop around a shop where Pendergast thinks Leng might have bought his chemicals.”

“Jesus.” Now, this was an interesting development indeed: O’Shaughnessy working for Pendergast, no longer shackled by the NYPD rules about talking to journalists. Maybe this was even better than before.

“If you find something, you’ll let me know?” Smithback asked.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you can do for us with that something.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You’re a reporter, right? You do research?”

“It’s my middle name. Why, you guys need my help with something?” Smithback suddenly glanced away. “I don’t think Nora would like that.”

“She doesn’t know. Neither does Pendergast.”

Smithback looked back, surprised. But O’Shaughnessy didn’t look like he planned to say anything else about it. No use trying to force anything out of this guy, Smithback thought. I’ll wait till he’s good and ready.

He took a different tack. “So, how’d you like my file on Fairhaven?”

“Fat. Very fat. Thanks.”

“Just a lot of bullshit, I’m afraid.”

“Pendergast seemed pleased. He told me to congratulate you.”

“Pendergast’s a good man,” Smithback said cautiously.

O’Shaughnessy nodded, sipped. “But you always get the sense he knows more than he lets on. All this talk about how we have to be careful, how our lives are in danger. But he refuses to spell it all out. And then, out of nowhere, he drops a bomb on you.” His eyes narrowed. “And that’s where you may come in.”

Here we go. “Me?”

“I want you to do a little digging. Find something out for me.” There was a slight hesitation. “See, I worry the injury may have hit Pendergast harder than we realized. He’s got this crazy theory. So crazy, when I heard it, I almost walked out right then.”

“Yeah?” Smithback took a casual sip, carefully concealing his interest. He knew very well what a “crazy theory” of Pendergast’s could turn out to mean.

“Yeah. I mean, I like this case. I’d hate to turn away from it. But I can’t work on something that’s nuts.”

“I hear that. So what’s Pendergast’s crazy theory?”

O’Shaughnessy hesitated, longer this time. He was clearly struggling with himself over this.

Smithback gritted his teeth. Get the man another drink.

He waved the waiter over. “We’ll have another round,” he said.

“Make mine Powers.”

“Have it your way. Still on me.”

They waited for the next round to arrive.

“How’s the newspaper business?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

“Lousy. Got scooped by the Post. Twice.”

“I noticed that.”

“I could’ve used some help there, Patrick. The phone call about Doyers Street was nice, but it didn’t get me inside.”

“Hey, I gave you the tip, it’s up to you to get your ass inside.”

“How’d Harriman get the exclusive?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, they hate you. They blame you for triggering the copycat killings.”

Smithback shook his head. “Probably going to can me now.”

“Not for a scoop.”

“Two scoops. And Patrick, don’t be so naive. This is a bloodsucking business, and you either suck or get sucked.” The metaphor didn’t have quite the ring Smithback intended, but it conveyed the message.

O’Shaughnessy laughed mirthlessly. “That about sums it up in my business, too.” His face grew graver. “But I know what it’s like to be canned.”

Smithback leaned forward conspiratorially. Time to push a little. “So what’s Pendergast’s theory?”

O’Shaughnessy took a sip of his drink. He seemed to arrive at some private decision. “If I tell you, you’ll use your resources, see if there’s any chance it’s true?”