Part 25 (1/2)
”Nothing,” I said, sliding the paperback her way, tucking a five spot in as a bookmark.
”The Guards,” she said. ”I've heard it's great.”
”Yeah, well if you see a guy in the neighborhood in a cheap blue suit, keep that opinion to yourself.”
The walk back to Montague Street seemed much easier without the weight of the book.
REQUIEM FOR MOE.
A Moe Prager / Jack Taylor Variation
Originally published in d.a.m.n Near Dead: An Anthology of Geezer Noir (Busted Flush Press, 2006). Copyright Reed Farrel Coleman.
HE APPEARED AT the Brooklyn store one day, stepping out of a cloud of his own cigarette smoke; a tattered old genie coming out of the lamp. A genie, mind you, in a cheap blue suit and expensive brown shoes.
”Can't smoke in here,” I said, not recognizing him at first.
”Moe, isn't it?”
”Do I know-”
I stopped myself and squinted through my gla.s.ses. While I didn't quite know him, we'd met once, maybe fifteen years before on the streets of Tribeca in front of the building where Pooty's had stood. Pooty's was a scruffy watering hole that had once been home to the best jukebox in the city, the place where I first fell deeply in love with my wife to be. Now Pooty's was gone and my wife to be is my wife that was. The genie was an Irishman, from Galway, as I recalled, an ex cop like myself and like myself a man who, in younger days, took on the odd private case.
”How are you?” I held my hand out to him.
Ignored it. Too busy crus.h.i.+ng his cigarette out on the hundred and fifty year old broad plank flooring we'd just had restored and resurfaced. His role as fireman complete, he took my hand.
”Ah, it's good to see you, pal.”
”I never did get your name all those years ago.”
”Jack,” he said as if the single syllable explained the history of the world and then some.
”Just Jack?”
”Why, will it not do?”
Said ”It will have to.”
”Practical man, Moe. We've no use for practical men in Ireland. A country full of priests and poets. p.i.s.s on the streets of Galway and you'll catch the next five Yeats with the spray.”
”I'll take your word for it.”
”You'd be the first.”
”So, what can I do for you, Jack? A bottle of Jameson?”
Said ”For f.u.c.k's sake, is there like a neon sign on me forehead?”
”No, just guessing.”
”I've given up the drink, Moe.”
”Jack, not to bust your b.a.l.l.s, but this is a liquor store.”
”I'm here for you, not for the drink. It's hard for me to confess, but I need your help.”
”Help? How can I help you, Jack?”
”I'm looking for a cat.”
”A cat?”
”Jesus, is there like an echo in here? Don't you still work cases?”
”I'm an old man.”
”Bollix! It's in your blood.”
”At my age the only thing in my blood is blood and thanks to the drug companies, it's not even that. Besides, lost pets was never my beat.”
Said ”Not that kind of cat, Moe.”
”What, it escaped from the zoo? Somehow I don't picture a gimpy old Jew and crooked old Irishman chasing tigers through the streets of Brooklyn Heights.”
”Not that kind of cat either.”
”Maybe I didn't pay close enough attention in school. Am I missing something here or is there another kind of cat?”
Ignored the question ”When does your s.h.i.+ft end?”
I checked my watch. ”Two hours.”
”We'll talk then.”
The genie was gone. His crushed cigarette the only evidence he'd been there at all.
OLD MEN DON'T cotton to cemeteries, particularly at night. Too much like visiting the house that's being built for them. A house warming and I didn't even bring cake! But a cemetery is where Jack brought me or, more specifically, where he had me drive us. And he could pick 'em, let me tell you. This was one of the big, old cemeteries in Cyprus Hills, the one where Houdini had yet to escape from and one that played a sad role in my very first private case.