 I just wanted to read one, a scene, you know, as I explained before, reading from novels I find difficult because this is a trilogy and I could spend an hour setting up the scene and, you know, buoy at its ears with just the background. But it involves two people who, one is Finn Dunn who's in all three books, he's the protagonist. He can get out of grammar school, he became a cop after World War I and then he was in the OSS in World War II. And he was on a mission in Slovakia with a Harvard graduate who was everything that Dunn wasn't and they had nothing in common except that they had to save each other's lives and they became very good friends. Dunn went back to his regular life at the end of the war as a detective and Van Hall stayed in the intelligence service. And along with the Red Scare in the 50s was the Lavender Scare where they hunted out gays to get them out of the intelligence services. And Van Hall, as it turns out, is gay and he's still, you know, Dunn isn't but they're good friends and this is, Van Hall has developed a drinking problem. It's in New York in 1958, 13 years after this mission to Slovakia. And there's a portrait on the wall above Van Hall's bed and it's of his lover Michael Hahn who was a lieutenant and died in the war. So those are the characters that are going to be mentioned in here. There's another mention of Victor which is all the OSS agents carried the lethal pill, LP, that they'd buy if they were captured by the Germans. So when you hear Victor mention that's who it is. And the other thing is that there's a German Bible involved in this which I won't tell you what it involves because then you won't buy the book and you'll know the secret to dry bones. So I'll just take, you know, let's go to New York, 1958, the Upper East Side and Dunn is taking Van Hall home. Van Hall's apartment was on the fourth floor of a five-story walkup. The marble steps were worn and veined with cracks. Dunn fished the key out of Van Hall's pants pocket, turned on the lock and flicked on the light switch. Above the single room atop a thin one rug was a leather easy chair, a stack of books beside it, standing lamp behind. Two walls were lined with shelves sagging from the weight of the books crammed in them. In the right far corner was a sink, small refrigerator, cabinet and two burners stove. Next to the single window, bed, unmade and small desk. Above was a framed oil painting of a handsome, youthful, blond, wavy-haired man. There was lieutenant bars on the lapels of his uniform. Shuffling his feet as he worked to keep his balance, Van Hall saluted the painting. There was only one lieutenant, Michael Jan, in the whole world. Only one. That's the problem. He staggered toward the cabinet. How about a nightcap? Dunn caught him before he fell. He guided him to the easy chair. The nights already capped. That's why I quit and went home thin because of Michael. I don't care about my reputation unless about my old man's. When he heard that I might be accused of, he sent a letter advising me to do the honorable thing and shoot myself. Nothing like a father's love is there. What I cared about was Michael. I couldn't let them sink his name in the slime and Maya, so I resigned. How about you get into bed? You know what George Elwell said about drugs like me? What? We drink because we failed and we fail all the more because we drink. But you didn't fail. You're kind, Finn, but look around. Your kindness is contradicted by these surroundings. I can't imagine what my father would say about them and what they say about me. Come on, Dick, bedtime. This is fine. Van Hall wiggled out of his jacket and unknoted his tie, leaned over and plucked at his shoelaces. But at least I didn't deny my failure or pretend that my failure is success. Sit up, Dunn said. Raise your legs. He quickly undid the laces and pulled off the shoes. The rising banshee shriek of a siren flooded the room. It peaked and receded as a fire engine surged the street below. That's the difference between Bartlett and his ilk and drunks like me. At bottom, the Bartlett's of this world are nothing more than word who was. They take fine phrases like free world and liberty loving and prostitute them into excuses for self-promotion. Whatever they touch, they corrupt because truth to them is fungible. It's interchangeable with untruth, so long as it serves their purposes. And Van Hall burped. You need to go to sleep. I need Pepto-Bismol. The bottle is in the medicine cabinet of the bathroom, if you don't mind fetching it. Sure, Dunn said, and then lights out. Dunn switched on the light in the closet-sized bathroom. A roach scamped into a crack above the tub. He opened the cabinet and removed the pink Pepto-Bismol bottle. A metal vial was tucked into the corner. He unscrewed it. Inside was a plastic-coated lozenger, etché victor. He dropped it into his pocket. He went to the kitchen sink, rinsed out a glass, and half-filled it with water. He delivered it along with the bottle and a tablespoon to Van Hall. No need for the spoon, Fintan. I take my Pepto straight. Van Hall held up the bottle as if to toast the portrait in the corner. I wouldn't have that portrait if it wasn't for you. He swigged from the bottle, then took a drink of water. You saved the photo I had it painted from. Do you remember? Sure. Dunn put the glass in the sink. And the inscription. Yates, right? Yeah, your favorite poet. Van Hall laughed and wiped the pink traces of the Pepto-Bismol from his lips. He picked up the top book on the pile beside the chair, the collected poems of William Butler Yates. Here, they're yours. That's all right. I'm still working my way on the Oxford Book of Modern Verse, Dunn said. Please take it. Van Hall handed him the book. Do you know how it ends? The book? No, the poem. When you were old and gray. No, I don't. Like this. Van Hall closed his eyes. And bending down beside the glowing bars, Merma, a little saff, softly, how love fled and paced along the mountains overhead and hid his face amid a crowd of stars. A lovely poem. Dunn took the sheet off the bed and draped it over Van Hall's stomach and legs. Now get some sleep. And, Polly, he was a good man too. Opening his eyes halfway, Van Hall lifted up another book. He sent me this. When it arrived the day after he died, let me see. It's a Luther Bible in German, a 1932 edition, the year before Hitler came to power. He handed the Bible to Dunn. An odd choice is the thought that counts, I suppose, but Polly was an odd man. Eccentric, I mean, odd in a good way. That was the problem with the OSS and followed. The eccentrics were placed by fanatics. Dunn leafed through and stopped where a paper match bookmarked a page. There were pencil marks amid the lines. Can I borrow this? Be my guest. I haven't had much interest in the Bible, particularly when it's in German. Van Hall's eyelids rolled down. He mumbled, some world we live in. Hunt queers, hide Nazis, persecute lovers, protect murderers. It's a shit world, Finn, if you ask me. And his mouth fell open and he began to snore. Dunn's eyes swept the room a final time. Lieutenant Michael Hahn stared out from his portrait. Lips parted, as in the photo, as if about to speak or to sing or to ask a question. What do you see, Finn? I see a tired man who's had too much to drink. It's become a habit, don't you think? A bad habit, but bad habits happen to good people all the time. Do you think he's sick? He's sick in his soul from missing you, Michael. He's queer for sure. I know that. And I know something else for sure. What's that? The queer heart beats the same as any other heart. The queer heart loves the same, and the queer heart breaks the same. And Dunn turned off the light. He slipped the volume of Yeats's collected poems in the German Bible, the Bible beneath his arm, and pulled the door shut. Thank you.