Free Flesh and Blood by Thomas H. Cook

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 Frank’s.
    â€œYou are leaving soon?” he asked.
    Frank nodded.
    â€œGood,” the man said. “I like to be the last.”
    He had some sort of accent, faintly English, with its soft a ’s. He had pronounced last “lahst,” 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. “The last to leave this place,” he added, by way of explanation. Then he eased himself from his seat and walked ponderously over to Frank’s table, his immense frame shifting left and right like an old tanker.
    â€œMy name is Farouk,” he said as he stopped beside the table. He smiled tentatively, but he did not put out his hand.
    â€œFrank Clemons.”
    â€œYou come here often,” 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. “I have seen you here,” he said. “In such a place, it is good to be observant.”
    â€œYeah,” Frank said. He nodded toward the empty chair at the opposite side of the table. “Care to sit down?”
    Farouk nodded heavily, his great bald head like a smooth dark orb in the still shadowy light. “I have seen you here many times,” 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. “You’re often the last to leave.”
    â€œI don’t sleep very well,” Frank explained.
    Farouk’s dark eyes studied his face solemnly for a moment, then a small, thin smile broke over his lips. “Sleep is not worth much. It is dull.”
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œBetter to be out and on your feet,” Farouk said with a slight, dismissive shrug. “You have a job?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd a bed?”
    â€œThat, too.”
    â€œWith a woman in it?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œAnd children?”
    Frank shook his head. “No.”
    Once again Farouk nodded silently. “What is your work?”
    Frank hesitated instinctively. “You ask a lot of questions,” he said.
    â€œI am a curious person,” Farouk told him. “But so, I think, are you.”
    Frank stared at him silently.
    â€œThat is my guess, that you are a curious person,” Farouk added. “Shall I tell you why?”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    â€œIt is a matter of color,” Farouk said. “You are often here. Which means not simply that you cannot sleep, but that you prefer the night.”
    Frank nodded.
    â€œThe night is dark, full of shadow,” Farouk went on. “Those who prefer it, they are in love with the mysteries of the world.” He smiled cunningly. “It is the obvious which they cannot stand. They hate what is clear, what is too easily revealed.” He sat back, eyeing Frank proudly. “I am right, yes?” he asked as he folded his large arms over his chest.
    â€œYeah,” Frank said. “Yeah, you’re right.”
    Farouk leaned forward slightly. “So, now I ask again. What is your work?”
    â€œI’m a private investigator,” Frank told him.
    Farouk nodded, as if confirming something, but did not seem impressed. He took out a pack of