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bar.’
    That figured. ‘I’ll just go have a word,’ said Rebus.
    Eddie Ringan had nursed what was euphemistically called a drinking problem for several years, long before he’d opened the Heartbreak Cafe. For this reason, people reckoned the venture would fail, as other ventures of his had. But they reckoned wrong, for the sole reason that Eddie managed to find a manager, a manager who not only was some kind of financial guru but was also as straight and as strong as a construction girder. He didn’t rip Eddie off, and he kept Eddie where Eddie belonged during working hours – in the kitchen.
    Eddie still drank, but he could cook and drink; that wasn’t a problem. Especially when there were one or two apprentice chefs around to do the stuff which required focused eyes or rock steady hands. And so, according to Brian Holmes, the Heartbreak Cafe thrived. He still hadn’t managed to persuade Rebus to join him there for a meal of King Shrimp Creole or Love Me Tenderloin. Rebus wasn’t persuaded to walk through the front door … until tonight.
    The lights were still on. It was like walking into some teenager’s shrine to his idol. There were Elvis posters on the walls, Elvis record covers, a life-size cut-out figure of the performer, even an Elvis clock, with the King’s arms pointing to the time. The TV was on, an item on the late news. Some oversized charity cheque was being handed over in front of Gibson’s Brewery.
    There was no one in the place except Eddie Ringan slumped on a barstool, and another man behind the bar, pouring two shots of Jim Beam. Rebus introduced himself and was invited to take a seat. The bartender introduced himself as Pat Calder.
    ‘I’m Mr Ringan’s partner.’ The way he said it made Rebus wonder if the two young men were more than merely business partners. Holmes hadn’t mentioned Eddie was gay. He turned his attention to the chef.
    Eddie Ringan was probably in his late twenties, but looked ten years older. He had straight, thinning hair over a large oval-shaped head, all of which sat uneasily above the larger oval of his body. Rebus had seen fat chefs and fatter chefs, and Ringan surely was a living advertisement for some body’s cooking. His doughy face was showing signs of wear from the drink; not just this evening’s scoop, but the weeks and months of steady, heavy consumption. Rebus watched him drain the inch of amber fire in a single savouring swallow.
    ‘Gimme another.’
    But Pat Calder shook his head. ‘Not if you’re driving.’ Then, in clear and precise tones: ‘This man is a police officer, Eddie. He’s come to talk about Brian.’
    Eddie Ringan nodded. ‘He fell down, hit his head.’
    ‘Is that what you think?’ asked Rebus.
    ‘Not really.’ For the first time, Ringan looked up from the bartop and into Rebus’s eyes. ‘Maybe it was a mugger, or maybe it was a warning.’
    ‘What sort of a warning?’
    ‘Eddie’s had too many tonight, Inspector,’ said Pat Calder. ‘He starts imagining –’
    ‘I’m not bloody imagining.’ Ringan slapped his palm down on the bartop for emphasis. He was still looking at Rebus. ‘You know what it’s like. It’s either protection money – insurance, they like to call it – or it’s the other restaurants ganging up because they don’t like the business you’re doing and they’re not. You make a lot of enemies in this game.’
    Rebus was nodding. ‘So do you have anyone in mind, Eddie? Anyone in particular?’
    But Ringan shook his head in a slow swing. ‘Not really. No, not really.’
    ‘But you think maybe you were the intended victim?’
    Ringan signalled for another drink, and Calder poured. He drank before answering. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. They could be trying to scare off the customers. Times are hard.’
    Rebus turned to Calder, who was staring at Eddie Ringan with a fair amount of revulsion. ‘What about you, Mr Calder, any ideas?’
    ‘I think it was just a mugging.’
    ‘Doesn’t look like