(Somebody in my Chesterton reading group suggested Platonic Noir. They shouldn’t have. They *really* shouldn’t have.)
The dank streets of Athens stank of sweat and shattered dreams. Or maybe that was just me, an old stonecutter with attitude, questions and an inexplicable following of handsome young men. Yea, I had some questions, questions that needed answers.
Uptown was lousy with Spartans, so I’d headed down to Piraeus. I needed to deliver something to ‘the Goddess’, and thought I might as well check in on some old friends. Besides, I have a soft spot for the horses, and I had it on good authority they’d be running that night.
A page boy saw me and delivered a message. Polemarchus wanted to see me, which was good by me, as a few of the questions I had were for him.
“Socrates, you old goat!”
“Good to see you, too, Marc.”
“For crying out loud!” Polemarchus drew up short. “Did Xanthippe hit you with a chamber pot again? The gods are OK with bathing, you know.”
“That is not why I am here,” I cut to the chase, “I’m looking for justice.”
“Aren’t we all.”
“Word on the street is that you have some ideas how a fellah might find some.”
A crowd of the usual suspects had begun to gather. This might take some time, time I might not have. And I had my doubts. In this hellhole of vice and luxury, I’d be lucky to find a decent condiment-free wheat cake, let alone justice.