added. "A healthy person would not frequent such an establishment."
"I'll say. I feel like having a few tests run on myself after that visit," T.S. declared.
Auntie Lil just sniffed. She'd seen worse in her day. "I'm coming back early this evening," she announced. "Are you with me or against me?"
"Damn right, I'm with you. You're not prowling around here after dark alone." T.S. looked up and down the deserted sidewalks. Cars whizzed by every few seconds without slowing. It was a lonely place for a bar and a great place for a mugging.
"I must begin the surveillance," Herbert apologized. "I will not be able to join you."
"Then it's just you and me, kid," T.S. told Auntie Lil. "But if we're coming back here, I've got to confess that I definitely need to find a nice bar and have a few drinks first."
Several drinks, several hours and several dinners later, T.S. and Auntie Lil returned to the Westsider. A few hours had made a big difference. Not necessarily a positive difference, but a big one just the same. They could hear the loudest change as they approached. Behind the black-painted windows, jukebox music blared and they were assaulted by a fresh wave of pulsating sound when they pushed open the front door. The female bartender was gone, replaced by two fat balding men in dirty white aprons who scurried back and forth serving the thirsty crowd. Nearly every stool at the bar was taken and many of the booths were occupied as well. The patrons were an odd mixture of construction workers, sanitation and traffic department employees, neighborhood rummies and an occasional waitress still in her uniform. The smell of old beer had been replaced by the odor of bodies packed together après ten hours of manual labor.
They found Detective Santos sitting alone at a booth, staring at a soundless baseball game on the television. Three empty highball glasses sat before him. He held a fourth, filled only with ice, cradled in both hands.
Without asking, Auntie Lil and T.S. slid into the seat across from him. He looked up with bleary eyes. "No hope," he told them, shaking his head sadly. "They're twelve games out and only have ten games left. Another magnificent season is at end for the New York Yankees." He raised his glass of ice cubes toward the television set in toast.
"Do you know who we are?" Auntie Lil demanded. She was furious to find her friendly detective replaced by this boozing, discouraged human being.
Detective Santos stared at her, mystified. "Is this a scam?" he asked. He answered his own question by flipping open a small wallet and displaying a gold detective's badge. "If it is, better find a new mark."
"Young man. You're drunk and it's not even eight o'clock." Auntie Lil was truly indignant. She did not believe in getting drunk until ten o'clock, at the earliest.
"I remember you," George Santos said suddenly. He leaned forward and blinked. "You're the lady that Lieutenant Abromowitz hates."
"That's me. And this is my nephew, Theodore. The lieutenant hates him, too," she added helpfully.
"Is that so?" Santos looked T.S. up and down and smiled drunkenly. "In that case, it's a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine," T.S. returned drily.
"Are you on duty?" Auntie Lil demanded.
Santos tilted back his head and stared at her through red-rimmed eyes. "Of course I'm not on duty. I'm piss-ant drunk. Can't you tell?"
"Yes, I can tell," Auntie Lil replied. "And it's a shame, because we wanted to ask you some questions."
"Ask away," the detective told them casually, waving a hand in the general direction of the bar. One of the bartenders scurried over and set a fresh drink in front of him. "Thank you, my good man," Santos told the bartender. "Would any of you lovely people care for a drink or two?"
"No, thanks," T.S. said. "I'll let you have my share."
"Most kind of you," Santos admitted with exaggerated politeness. He belched lightly and covered his mouth, then sighed. His shoulders slumped as if a plug had been pulled and all of his energy drained out at once. "What do you want to know?" he said glumly. "It's about the old lady, right?"
"Right," Auntie Lil answered crisply. "What have you found out?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." The detective shook his head and murmured into his drink. "Perhaps I should explain," he said.
"Perhaps you should," Auntie Lil pointed out.
He sighed and banged his glass back on the table, sloshing out a small wave of alcohol that