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The wake was finally over. I had shaken hands with every one of the pitiful number of mourners and listened unheedingly to their mumbled words of sympathy and consolation. It took no solace from the conventional words of comfort. I could not even tell if their expressions of compassion were genuinely heartfelt or merely platitudes mouthed to avoid embarrassment on their part or mine. Gumshoe left early to guide Rosie home, to the upper world of sunlight and the teeming human kind. They had been seen standing close together throughout the burial and the wake, she crying on his shoulder and he comforting her with a degree of tenderness which made me suspect that they might want to see more of each other in the future. I was right, of course; it would not be three years before I would be attending their wedding, standing in the deep shadows of a little chapel in a quieter part of New York City, the sparse guests and sombre witnesses an unwitting reminder of today's events. Or maybe it was just me. I was alone, at last. Around me, the caterers were close to finishing tidying away the plates and glasses, and removing the crusts of the mass-produced sandwiches and the dregs of cheap wine that seem to be called for at these events. It was time to leave. I could have gone home - if that is the right word for the tiny and rather cold little apartment I rent by the month. I could have gone anywhere. As it turned out, I found my way to that sophisticated hotel bar where by good fortune alone I found Arnie and Lorny at their station at the counter, speculatively eyeing the bar's clientele and on the lookout for one or two who would have the inclination - and the money, of course - to become clients of their own. The girls turned and saw me as I entered the bar. In my best dark suit and dark tie, my hat and coat freshly cleaned, I might have been mistaken for this night's john. I weaved across the floor and parked myself on a stool two down from those occupied by the professional ladies. They must have seen the look on my face. Lorny looked over with the concern visible in her large dark eyes while Arlie moved around to sit next to me. She gestured to the bartender and a large whiskey soon appeared in front of me. "What happened?" she asked softly. "Trinity's funeral," I said simply, "It was today." There was a pause, a soft exhalation from both girls. "Gask," Arlie said, laying her hand on my cheek in an authentically tender fashion, "You need a drink. And you need some company, so that you don't drink too much. Tonight, my friend, we will be looking after you." I got that drink - in fact, I got a lot more than one - but the drinking was well-paced and, in any case, the alcohol seemed to have been evaporating from the glass before it ever made it down my throat. Arlie and Lorny guided me to a booth and sat one either side of me, comfortably close. All evening, they regaled me with tales from their own experience. They were earthy and uninhibited, ruthlessly exposing the many foibles and weaknesses of the male of the species. The cut and thrust of their descriptions and their worryingly accurate observations from real life would have my hair curl, if I had any. I ignored the glances - pitying or amused or faintly jealous - from the waiting staff and the more knowing of the bar's clientele. And I laughed, a lot - a lot more than I would usually do - and somehow managed to put the events of the day out of my mind, at least for a while. I got the company, too. Much later, I awoke in the darkness, a sleeping form who turned out to be Arlie under the sheets next to me. Not my bed. She was a whore with a heart of gold, and had taken me in as one professional to another. I have no idea, even to this day, what might or might have happened between us under the covers in Arlie's bed. Again, it was time to leave. It really was time to go home this time.
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Part 103