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I shook my head sadly. "Tewel," I said candidly, "You look like a detective who needs a drink. I'm buying." His eyes unfocussed again and he muttered something almost inaudible on the theme of "I don't drink on duty", then thought better of the sentiment. He stood up and stumbled the few steps to the door, lifting his hat from the peg almost as an afterthought. I followed him, retrieving my own titfer carefully enough from the massed piles of reports to avoid a minor avalanche and tugging it onto my head at a jaunty angle. There was a drinking-den almost directly across the road from the precinct station, one of those places with jokey names best translated here as the Rat and Toadstool. I suspected, correctly, it would be populated almost exclusively by off-duty cops, enlivened with the kind of hangers-on that police bars seem to attract: wannabe juniors who couldn't pass the police entrance exams but who thought that some of the glamour would rub off through sheer proximity; boors who retired from the force an age ago but were so attached to their stories and anecdotes that they hung around seeking an opportunity to impart their wisdom to anybody who would sit still long enough; a few desperate informers who hadn't yet found any officer mug enough to offer money for the information they might or might not possess, and a number of ladies of dubious provenance who could not, of course, actually be hookers, because of course prostitution is illegal and therefore had no place in an establishment frequented by the collective arms of the law. The cavernous interior was dark and crowded, with solitary drinkers populating almost every stool on both sides of the long bar, and booths and alcoves separated by high partitions to provide the kind of privacy most of the denizens might prefer for their meetings and liaisons. The low buzz of conversation filled the space, not quite drowning out the tinkling of some radio tuned to a channel featuring instrumental muzak selected, it seemed, to pass through the ears without interacting with a single brain cell in its passage. Tewel and I managed to snag a recently-vacated booth in one of the quieter corners. I slid in one side, tossing my trilby on the heigh shelf behind the seat. Tewel hesitated, then seated himself opposite. He kept his hat on, hunching down and leaning forward over the table to keep his face in shadow. Maybe he didn't want to be seen associating with the likes of me. The bar staff were obviously well-trained, or perhaps just unusually keen to augment their wage with gratuities, and one black-garbed example was at our table within seconds. I ordered scotch on the rocks, then looked over at Tewel; he hesitated, then ordered bourbon and branchwater. The drinks were in front of us on paper coasters a few moments later, accompanied by a little bowl of the spicy fungi usually served in these establishments. I picked up my glass and silently toasted Tewel, then sipped at the brown fluid cautiously. Actually, it was not too bad. Tewel returned my salute, then put down about half of the spirit as a single mouthful which had nothing to do with tasting the spirit and everything to do with the immediate ingestion of alcohol. Then he dug into the bowl of snacks, scooping out most of the contents before popping them rapid-fire into his mouth. "When was the last time you ate anything, Tewel?" I asked, "Or for that matter, got any sleep?" The police sergeant stopped dead, the hand holding the last of the beer nuts half-way to his lips. "I don't sleep much," he growled in response, "And I had some dinner a day or two ago. Look, don't worry about me, Gask. I'm fine." I didn't agree with him, but kept my opinion to myself. I signalled the barkeep again and ordered a few likely-looking snacks from the menu, the kind of over-salted treat intended to make the punter want to drink more, and a second round of the spirits. Something told me I might be ordering a wheelbarrow to transport Tewel home later on.
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Part 69