him from across the room.
The bar was entirely empty now, except for Toby, who was wiping the last of the glasses, and a large man who sat near the front window, his hat on his lap, a single glass still poised in his hand. For a time, Frank watched him silently, then suddenly the man turned directly toward him, his large black eyes staring straight into Frankâs.
âYou are leaving soon?â he asked.
Frank nodded.
âGood,â the man said. âI like to be the last.â
He had some sort of accent, faintly English, with its soft a âs. He had pronounced last âlahst,â but he did not look English. Even in the gray light, Frank could make out the darkness of his skin, the thick black eyebrows and full purplish lips. He sat very erect, his head held up so that his chin remained parallel to the surface of the table. He wore a large double-breasted suit which he had carefully buttoned over an even larger stomach. âThe last to leave this place,â he added, by way of explanation. Then he eased himself from his seat and walked ponderously over to Frankâs table, his immense frame shifting left and right like an old tanker.
âMy name is Farouk,â he said as he stopped beside the table. He smiled tentatively, but he did not put out his hand.
âFrank Clemons.â
âYou come here often,â Farouk said. It was a statement of fact, not a question, although there was something quizzical about it, a distant curiosity. It was as if he had been studying Frank for some time, as he no doubt studied other regulars at the bar. âI have seen you here,â he said. âIn such a place, it is good to be observant.â
âYeah,â Frank said. He nodded toward the empty chair at the opposite side of the table. âCare to sit down?â
Farouk nodded heavily, his great bald head like a smooth dark orb in the still shadowy light. âI have seen you here many times,â he said as he sat down, his speech still determinedly formal, as if learned from rules rather than from listening to the usage of the street. âYouâre often the last to leave.â
âI donât sleep very well,â Frank explained.
Faroukâs dark eyes studied his face solemnly for a moment, then a small, thin smile broke over his lips. âSleep is not worth much. It is dull.â
âYes, it is.â
âBetter to be out and on your feet,â Farouk said with a slight, dismissive shrug. âYou have a job?â
âYes.â
âAnd a bed?â
âThat, too.â
âWith a woman in it?â
âSometimes.â
âAnd children?â
Frank shook his head. âNo.â
Once again Farouk nodded silently. âWhat is your work?â
Frank hesitated instinctively. âYou ask a lot of questions,â he said.
âI am a curious person,â Farouk told him. âBut so, I think, are you.â
Frank stared at him silently.
âThat is my guess, that you are a curious person,â Farouk added. âShall I tell you why?â
âGo ahead.â
âIt is a matter of color,â Farouk said. âYou are often here. Which means not simply that you cannot sleep, but that you prefer the night.â
Frank nodded.
âThe night is dark, full of shadow,â Farouk went on. âThose who prefer it, they are in love with the mysteries of the world.â He smiled cunningly. âIt is the obvious which they cannot stand. They hate what is clear, what is too easily revealed.â He sat back, eyeing Frank proudly. âI am right, yes?â he asked as he folded his large arms over his chest.
âYeah,â Frank said. âYeah, youâre right.â
Farouk leaned forward slightly. âSo, now I ask again. What is your work?â
âIâm a private investigator,â Frank told him.
Farouk nodded, as if confirming something, but did not seem impressed. He took out a pack of