Part 24 (2/2)
”Noticed you've one as well, pal.”
”Yeah, slipped on a piece of carbon paper in the late seventies. Three knee operations. Then a few years later, someone took a baseball bat to the back of my legs.”
”Hurly,” he said as if that explained it all.
”Hurly?”
”A baseball bat done Irish, hardwood roughly in the shape of a human femur.”
”What's it used for besides leg-breaking?”
”Hurling. Combination of field hockey and murder.”
”Sounds like politics.”
”Life's more like it.”
We shook our heads in silent commiseration.
”Smoke?” he offered up a green pack of cigarettes the likes of which I'd never seen.
I waved him off. He put the pack close to his crooked lips and the unfiltered nail seemed almost to jump into his mouth. Next out of his pocket was a heavy, silver Zippo, the kind my dad used when I was a kid.
”Ya mind, fella?” he positioned me to block the wind.
Christ, the d.a.m.ned cigarette emitted more pungent fumes than a city bus. He slipped the lighter back into his suit pocket. It was a cheap blue suit, someone else's cheap blue suit, a quick pick off the discount rack at a retro store. Salvation Army, more likely. Still, ill-fitting as it was, it seemed right on him, even as it clashed with his highly polished and paradoxically expensive brown shoes.
”Well ...” he seemed impatient. About what, I wasn't sure. He got tired of me trying to figure it out. ”Were ya raised here?”
”Nah. Brooklyn. Coney Island. There was a bar here once, Pooty's. Friend of mine had a share in it. The grout in the tile was dirtier than my mechanics fingernails, but it had the best jukebox in New York City.”
He was skeptical. ”The h.e.l.l, you say. In the whole city?”
”Duke Ellington, the Dead Kennedys, John Lee Hooker, the Beatles, the Clash, Howlin Wolf, the Ramones ... Fell in love with my wife here. Took an actress here once when I was on the job.”
He smiled wryly. ”A copper?”
”Once. You?”
”In a manner of speaking, back home in Galway.”
I was curious, but there was something in his demeanor that warned me not to ask, that I wouldn't like the answer and he wouldn't like giving it.
”What is it you do now other than stand and stare longingly at buildings housed old pubs?”
I own wine stores with my big brother. ”Private investigator.”
”Jesus and His blessed mother.”
”You too?”
”In a manner of speaking. They don't have a name for it. Like most things in Ireland, there's shame attached to the profession.”
I took him at his word, glad he hadn't asked to see my license. I still kept it in my sock drawer.
”You investigating an author?” He pointed at the nearly forgotten paperback. ”Love books. Only thing's kept me above the dirt this long. Balances out the drink and these.” He waved the cigarette at me, then flicked it in the gutter. Lit another. ”The book,” he prodded.
”Some novel a friend recommended.” I held the cover up for him.
”What a load a s.h.i.+te. Author's an ejit.”
”You know him?”
”In a manner of speaking.” He was nothing if not consistent. ”Don't waste your time with that c.r.a.p. Read McBain. There's an author.”
”Can I buy you a drink?”
”Lovely offer, but I'm waiting on someone.”
I held my right hand out to him. ”Moe Prager.”
He took my hand, his grip was deceptively strong for such a bony b.a.s.t.a.r.d.
”A pleasure,” he said, letting go of my hand. ”Ah, here she comes now.”
I looked over my shoulder to see a very little girl sort of waddling her way toward us. I was never good with age, but she seemed far too young to be walking alone down even the safest of streets in the smallest of towns. There was something odd about her gait, a bouncy sort of looseness in her small strides. It was only when she got closer that I noticed she had Down's Syndrome. She looked right past me and raised her small hand up to the root man.
”There you are,” he said to her and softly cradled her hand in his. ”Mind yerself, Moe.”
I watched them disappear around the corner. Even after they disappeared, I could not get them out of my head. Maybe it was that the smell of his cigarettes lingered in my clothes or maybe it was my shock about the girl. But gone they were. Like things, when people are gone, they're gone.
I found a pub a few blocks away, put the paperback down on the bar, ordered a pint of Blue Point Toasted. I had hoped the barman would be an old-timer, someone I could shoot the breeze with about how the neighborhood had been back in the day. But the barman was a woman no older than my Sarah and her back in the day was like last week.
As I was about to leave, she asked, ”What you reading?”
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