When the Gods Are Away, page 10
Virgil turned to Patroklus. “Do you think we’re expected to get drinks if we’re just here to question people?”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
It had been two years since the time Virgil had spent half an hour in a bar. He looked around the room again and then back to the bartender, who hadn’t taken his eyes from them. “Maybe I could just explain what we’re doing and see what he says.”
Patroklus inclined his head.
Several of the patrons turned to stare as Virgil walked to the bartender. What gives me away as someone who doesn’t belong? My walk or the way I dress or some intrinsic quality that sets me apart from other people? My therapist would know.
When he reached the counter, the brawny bartender stopped polishing and set down the glass. “What’ll it be?”
“Um.” Virgil shifted. “We’re not actually here to drink. We’re, well, we’re investigating a, a crime. We think... I mean, the victim knew some of the people here. And he came here. So we were just going to ask a few questions.”
“Do what you want. What’ll it be?”
“Um.” Virgil looked down, then forced himself to meet the man’s eyes again. “We were thinking of not drinking. We’re sort of on duty. So... is that okay?”
The bartender’s face remained still as stone. “What do you think?”
Virgil blinked. “I—"
“You seem confused, so let me help. You have two options: you can buy a drink or you can get the fuck out of my establishment.”
The bartender looked like someone who worked out at least twice a day. He also looked like someone who didn’t get the opportunity to use his muscles as much as he would have liked.
Virgil put his hands in his pockets. “Okay. We’ll get something.”
“You want something fruity, with an umbrella and a cherry?”
“Uh.” Virgil swallowed. “No. Thanks, though. I’ll just have some wine, I guess.”
“Uh-huh. What kind?”
Virgil eyed the bottles lined up on the shelves behind the bartender, but didn’t take time to read any labels since the bartender and Patroklus were waiting on him. “Whatever’s cheapest.”
The bartender rolled his eyes and retrieved one of the bottles. “This one is only in my stock to serve as a warning that you should never buy cheap wine.” He twisted off the bottle cap and poured some of the red liquid into the glass on the counter. After returning the bottle to the shelf, he scooped some ice from the bucket next to him and dropped several ice cubes into the glass. “I do this for kids and other people who can’t handle alcohol.”
Virgil blinked. “O... okay. Thanks.”
“What will your friend have?”
Virgil turned to Patroklus. “What did you want?”
Patroklus made no motion and his face remained expressionless. “Water.”
The bartender nodded. “Him I can respect. Priests have an excuse for drinking like pussies.” He pulled a glass from the overhanging rack and filled it with tap water. “Eight drachma.”
Virgil pulled out the bills and laid them on the bar, leaving enough for a tip. “Okay. We’ll just be in here, asking questions.”
“Right.” The bartender dropped the money into the register and began polishing another glass.
Virgil picked up his glass of wine and took a sip, then another. “This is actually pretty good.”
“Figured you’d like it,” said the bartender.
“Do you think we could ask you questions first? Since you’re the bartender, you probably saw Nicholas a lot and –"
“What do you think?”
Virgil blinked. “Okay. Um, well, thank you, then.”
He shuffled away from the counter with Patroklus following at a sedate pace. After a few steps, Virgil paused to allow Patroklus to catch up.
“I guess,” Virgil said, keeping his voice low, “we can start walking around and asking people if they knew Nicholas. Did you need to prepare your spell?”
“Yes. Shall we?”
Patroklus led the way to an unoccupied booth. Advertisements on its wall featured women in bathing suits posing suggestively with wine bottles in their laps. Virgil took a seat across from Patroklus and set his drink on the wooden table next to an empty libation bowl. He didn’t know what the priest would do next. The spell catalogue only gave vague descriptions for some entries, focusing more on the spells’ effects rather than how to perform them. Sitting here now and watching Patroklus felt exciting, as Virgil was witnessing something new in the field of detective work. To his knowledge, no one had ever used this spell for a murder investigation.
The priest angled himself away from the bar's other denizens. Though no one stared directly at the pair, surreptitious eyes peered from mirrors and peripheral gazes focused on them.
Removing a smooth stone from his robe, Patroklus held it between two thin fingers while using his body to shield it from the views of the other patrons. He waved his free hand in circular motions over the stone and spoke in a low tone, voice no more than a whisper.
“Aletheia, imbue this token with your knowledge and skill. Guide it to reveal lies or deceptions that we may work in your name.”
The stone glowed once, a bright orange, before returning to its normal dull color. No one in the room reacted.
Virgil took a sip from his drink. “Okay. So does that mean we’re ready now?”
“Almost.” Patroklus let the stone rest in his palm, still hidden from the rest of the establishment. “Tell me a truth and a lie.”
Right. Make certain the stone worked. “I am a homicide detective.”
Nothing happened. Patroklus nodded. “Now the lie.”
“People like me.”
The stone glowed bright orange for a brief moment before returning to its original color. Patroklus closed his hand around the stone. “It is done.”
Good. Now he needed to decide whom to talk to first. Virgil scanned the room. Whom would Nicholas have spent the most time with? The group drinking in the corner booth? The foursome playing that dice game? The solitary man staring at the ceiling? The two engaged in a hushed discussion? The cluster playing darts? The lutist on the stage next to the bar? How would I even begin the conversation?
“Where should we start?” he asked.
“I have no suggestion.”
“Um.” Nicholas had mentioned spending time with a couple groups of people. Virgil stood and shrugged. “Let’s try over there.” He walked toward the corner booth, hoping the silence behind him meant the priest followed.
The three in the corner booth looked up with narrowed eyes when Virgil and the priest came close. “Yes?” asked the man with long sideburns.
“Um.” I’m annoying them. I annoy everyone. “Did any of you know Nicholas Manikas?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “No."
"Sorry," said Virgil. "It's just... I'm investigating a murder. So, are you sure you didn't know Manikas?"
"None of us knew him," said a man in a white shirt. "Now, leave."
Virgil glanced at Patroklus, who gave him a subtle nod. The truth stone must have agreed with them. “Okay. Sorry for your time. I mean, sorry to bother you and thank you for your time.”
The group’s conversation resumed as Virgil retreated to the center of the room. Patroklus looked at him without expression.
“It could have been a worse start,” Virgil said. Patroklus made no reply. “Look, maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe we’re not going to find anything useful by talking to anyone here.”
Patroklus nodded. “That is true. I am unsure what you hope to gain by acting on that possibility, though.”
Virgil’s stomach twisted. “Sorry. You’re right. Um, let’s go over there next.” He pointed to the people playing darts.
Diaper-pissing Ares. I should have started there. The diary had mentioned dart players.
The four men seemed even less happy at the interruption than the previous group. “What is it?” demanded the one with an array of knives on his belt, arms, and legs. In his diary, Nicholas had mentioned someone who loved knives. Malcolm?
“Hi,” Virgil said to Malcolm’s knives. “We’re investigating a murder. Did—"
“Are you a police officer?”
Virgil shook his head. “No. Homicide detective.”
“Good.” The man leaned back. “Didn’t want to fight to the death at the moment. Although...” He seemed to appraise Virgil. “It might not go too badly.”
Virgil blinked and sipped from his glass. “I guess not, yeah. I just want to ask a few questions."
“Is that...” The man peered closely at Virgil’s drink. “Are those ice cubes in your wine?”
“Um.”
The man shook his head. “Never mind. I was going to make fun of you for it, but it actually takes some balls to walk around with a drink like that.”
One of the other men, bald with a goatee, threw a dart that landed in the 7 wedge of the target. He grinned. Virgil identified him as Tomas from Nicholas’ diary.
It was so odd to meet these people he had read about earlier. Like interacting with cartoon characters.
Malcolm slapped Tomas on the back. "You enjoy your little victory now. I'll have you crying by the end of the night."
"Whatever, Malcolm Greasehands."
"Um," said Virgil. "Did any of you know Nicholas Manikas?"
Malcolm and Tomas stared at each other. They appeared... puzzled.
"He get killed?" Malcolm asked. "When did that happen?"
Virgil gestured in the general direction of Nicholas' apartment. "A couple nights ago. On the twenty-ninth."
"You know who did it?"
"No, that's why I'm here. I—"
Tomas stepped closer, thick wine fumes rolling from him and clogging Virgil's nostrils. "You're trying to accuse us, aren't you? Why do you think we did it? More importantly..."
Tomas pushed Virgil. A light push, but with enough force to show it could have been much harder. "Even if we did do it, how do you think you're going to prove it?"
Even if Virgil had done well in his combat training courses, and he decidedly had not, he would have hesitated to apply that knowledge to Tomas. He took a step back.
"I'm not supposed to do trials by combat. That's not my job. I just ask questions."
Malcolm laughed and fingered one of his knives. "You just try to ask us questions. Go ahead."
"Okay." Virgil looked to Patroklus, but the priest responded by drinking his water. "Do any of you know who killed Nicholas?"
The men laughed. No sign of hurt, or anger, or sadness. Nicholas thought these people were his friends?
"Nope," said Tomas. "Although, I wouldn't blame anyone for doing it. He was an asshole."
"No, he wasn't."
All heads turned to an older man sitting by himself in a corner. The man leaned forward now, both hands clutching his glass. His eyes drooped downward. “He was a nice guy. I liked him.”
The young man wearing the shark-tooth necklace, Artorios, shook his head. “Jakob, Nicholas was always making fun of you and telling you to not be such a coward and to fix your problems. I doubt he ever said anything nice to you. He certainly didn’t say anything nice about you.”
“I know.” Jakob shrugged. “He listened, though. He listened to everything I ever told him. No one else ever did.”
“Just means he was bored and lonely.” Artorios laughed. “Doesn’t mean he was a nice guy.”
"Nicholas seemed nice to me," said Virgil. "He just had a difficult time."
Artorios snatched the darts from Tomas' hand. "If you know so much about him, why are you asking us?"
Virgil shifted. "I don't. It's just... he had to have done something nice, right? Malcolm." Virgil tried to ignore the way Malcolm stroked his knives. "Did Nicholas do anything nice for you?"
"He certainly gave me a lot of money." Malcolm laughed. "Wagers on dart games. Guy was terrible, but thought he was Olympics material."
Tomas pointed to a man in a sheer white shirt whose muscles looked equally as deadly as Malcolm's knives. "Nicholas gave money to Caius."
"Yeah." Artorios threw a dart. "Remember what he called you?"
"Called me a beggar." Caius shrugged. "Still lent me the money. And after I paid him back the money, I paid him back for the beggar remark." He flexed his muscles.
Artorios threw another dart. "I remember that. That was hilarious."
"Speaking of that..." Caius sidled over to Artorios and, as Artorios threw his last dart, struck the man on the back. The dart flew wild, striking an advertisement next to a patron's head. "Nicholas owed you money, didn't he?"
The bar patrons sat up straighter, watching the conversation between Caius and Artorios with what looked like trepidation. Virgil noted the exit and the path through the tables he would need to take to reach it.
"Asshole. We're on the same team." Artorios shouldered Caius out of the way and strode to the wall to retrieve his darts. The tension in the bar dropped a notch, but didn't vanish. "He owed a lot of people money. Like Malcolm."
Debt. A prime motive for murder. Virgil wrote the information in his notebook.
"So what?" Malcolm took the darts from Artorios. "He got fired. He needed to borrow money."
Artorios laughed. "Only he didn't call it 'borrowing.' Said he considered it a gift."
"He was going to pay." Malcolm threw a dart. "Not anymore, I guess."
Virgil glanced at Patroklus, but the priest said nothing. No lies so far, then.
Caius turned to the dice players in one of the booths. "Hey! You guys loan him anything?"
The dice players looked up from their game. Three raised their hands, but the fourth shook his head. “Not me.”
Patroklus nudged Virgil. From within the priest’s sleeve, the stone glowed orange.
“Come on, Tim,” said one of the man’s friends. “I saw you give it to him.”
Tim. Nicholas’ friend from the Dyonisium. The person who had first brought him to The Ferryman’s Oar.
Tim shrugged and leaned back. “Fine, I loaned him money. I just don’t want to be accused of killing him because I gave him some drachma.”
Malcolm handed the darts to Caius. “You think Nicholas planned this?”
Caius shook his head. “You mean, did he plan to die so he didn’t have to pay us back? It’s a bad plan, man. Besides, he said he was looking for jobs.” Caius threw his dart, though he seemed less than satisfied with his result.
Virgil swallowed. "What jobs?"
Malcolm glared as if Virgil had interrupted the conversation. "He had big dreams. He was going to be a security guard at a mall. He was going to be a security guard at Pericles Center, or at Socrates and Friends, or Platonic Electronics.” Malcolm took a sip of wine. “Never seemed to work out for him.”
Caius threw his first dart. "His last night here was hilarious."
"That's true." Malcolm took another drink. "He came in, had four drinks in twenty minutes, and said he was going to go apply for another job.”
Virgil took notes. “What time was that?”
“Who does that?” Tomas said, watching Caius. “Chugging wine, getting completely drunk, middle of the night, knocking on some company’s door and asking for a job?” Caius threw the dart and the other players cursed. “At least Nicholas went out memorably.”
"Was it really the middle of the night?" Virgil asked.
"Yes." Tomas frowned. "I already said that."
"Do you know where he was applying?"
Tomas shrugged. “Don’t know. He didn’t say. I don’t think it matters, really. Going anywhere stumbling-drunk in the middle of the night asking for a job takes some balls.”
Virgil wondered what to write about that clue. Something about Nicholas having balls?
The dart players kept talking, and Patroklus only showed the orange stone on a few occasions of obvious exaggeration. Everyone had an alibi. No culprits, but at least Virgil knew some places to check next.
Before leaving, Virgil nudged Patroklus and gestured toward Tim. The man had been quiet most of the night and had, for a brief time, occupied a special position in Nicholas’ social life. Both were reasons for suspicion.
Tim folded his arms across his chest when Virgil and Patroklus approached. "What?"
“Hi,” said Virgil. “Um, our intelligence says you and Nicholas were good friends.”
“Yeah.” Tim shrugged. “Although it was more like I was his friend, but he wasn't mine."
“Okay. Did you notice anything odd about him in the past two weeks? Any differences in behavior? Did he say anything unusual? Did you two have any arguments?”
“That’s a lot of questions.” Tim took a drink. “I don’t know the answers to any of them, and I don't know why I should tell you if I did.”
“Do you have any information that would be helpful in apprehending the person who killed your friend?”
“No.”
Patroklus nudged Virgil. The stone glowed orange again. Virgil nodded.
“Tim, we’re trying to find out who killed your friend. Someone killed a person you cared about.”
"Like I said, he wasn't my friend. I was his friend. There's a difference."
Virgil nodded. "I understand. Still, he has family who care about him. If you died, wouldn't you want your family to know who did it? So they could avenge you?"
Tim laughed. "Don't see how likely it is someone could manage to kill me."
One of his companions chortled. "Whatever, man. I've seen you wrestle. Doesn't take much to knock you on your ass."
Tim snarled and grabbed the man's throat. The man slammed his palm into Tim's nose, then elbowed Tim's arm and twisted it behind his back.
Virgil took a step away while Tim's other companions began pounding the table. All other patrons in the bar had stilled their activities to watch.
"Say, 'mercy'!" shouted the man who had pinned Tim.
"Fuck you!" Tim's face had turned bright red.
The man pulled Tim's arm higher. "Say it!"
Tim cried out, but shook his head. When the man pulled the arm even higher, Tim grunted. "Mercy!"
The man released Tim and sat back. "You owe me a drink."
The other patrons returned to their own conversations. Tim coughed and clutched his arm. "Fine. But you just caught me by surprise. Won't happen again."
