An Absence of Light

“Shit” Last grinned broadly. That was all he ever did. He didn’t laugh. There were only small grins or large ones. No laugh.

Graver noticed that Last’s nose had suffered a severe break. It had not been flattened; it still had a strong narrow bridge, but it was seriously out of line. Graver guessed that as far as women were concerned, it hadn’t hurt his looks at all.

“Well, I’m glad to see you,” Last said.

And Graver believed him. Eight years earlier Last had been Graver’s key informant in Graver’s final and largest case as a CID investigator. They had worked closely together for nearly a year and had, indeed, become friends, though Graver thought that Last’s definition of the term was probably much more fluid than his own. Graver noticed that Last’s Masonic ring with its garnet stone, of which he was so proud, was missing from his ring finger.

“Can I buy you a beer?” Graver asked, motioning to the crooked waiter.

“Absolutely.” Last reached into his coat pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He looked at Graver. “You still don’t smoke?”

Graver shook his head.

Graver ordered himself another beer and one for Last, and Last watched the crooked waiter drift away toward the outside bar.

“Jesus,” Last said, and sucked hard on his newly lighted cigarette. He turned back to Graver. “El capitan, huh?” Another grin, a small one.

“Yeah, about four years ago,” Graver said. He was watching Last closely.

“I understand… I gather… you must’ve divorced.”

Last’s expression had changed to one of sympathy. Graver thought it odd that he would bring this up. Everyone was “gathering” that. The gossip columns had kept the masses appraised of Dore’s imminent remarriage.

“He’s ‘socially prominent,’ then? Must’ve been painful.”

“I didn’t much like it,” Graver said. What was Last trying to do?

“Well, I’m sorry,” Last said.

The crooked waiter brought the beers, and Last wiped the mouth of the bottle and held it up for a toast. Graver raised his bottle also, and they clinked them together.

“To the good old yesterdays,” Last said, “and better tomorrows.”

Last drank the cold beer like it was a glass of water, glubbing down throatfuls. When he lowered the bottle to the table it was more than half empty. He pursed his mouth, savoring the aftertaste, and looked around the dance floor.

“Place hasn’t completely gone to piss.” He dragged on the cigarette. He studied the women. “Whores used to be better ladies than these, though.”

“Nothing’s changed here, Victor. Maybe your taste is improving,” Graver said.

Last smiled at this and turned to Graver again and smoked his cigarette. Victor Last was an unusual informant In fact, he was an unusual man. He had a university background in the fine arts and when his criminal tendencies kicked in to gear they did so with a distinctly arty flair. His entire criminal history consisted of two years spent in a minimum security unit of the Texas Prison System for selling rare books and botanical prints and engravings that had been stolen from British libraries, museums, and private collections.

By the time Graver came across him, Last had served his sentence and had drifted back into the business, only now the danger of his game had gone up several notches. He had spent almost a decade as an “exporter” from Mexico with a sideline trade selling stolen pre-Columbian artifacts. And he was dabbling in forgeries of historical eighteenth-century colonial documents. Graver pegged him as raw material for a first-class informant, which he became. Graver looked the other way regarding some of Last’s rumored involvements, and within a year an appreciative Last had put Graver onto a network of illegal arms dealers which developed into one of the largest gun-running operations on which the CID had ever tracked information.

As it turned out, Last liked the nature of the game. He liked the matching of wits involved in being a “spy,” and he even liked the spurt of adrenaline that accompanied the edge of danger inherent in all high-dollar criminal schemes. Victor Last was indeed a gentleman adventurer, as at home in the jungles of Central America as in the mansions of Houston’s wealthiest residents who collected the artifacts that he “acquired.”

“Okay,” Graver said, setting down his bottle, “what happened to you?”

Last nodded and slowly swallowed his mouthful of beer. He smiled almost apologetically.