The Death of an Irish Lover by Bartholomew Gill Read Free Book Online

the night of the murder—McGarr saw at a glance—seven of the eight rooms had been occupied, six by foreigners: two Dutch couples from the same city who were probably traveling together, two German, a Frenchman, and an American.
    “‘It’s magic,’ said the duffer. ‘Every time I put me hand in me pocket, I pull out a hundred-quid note. I’ve been able to help many a poor person with that, I’ll tell you. It’s done a great deal of good.’
    “‘That’s you. That’s you, all right,’ the pukkacheered. ‘Don’t I know you’re a good man. The kindest and most generous.’”
    McGarr thumbed back through the register, aware that Carson’s eyes were now on him, in spite of the continuing joke.
    “‘And what about the other bit. The sex. How’s that going?’
    “‘Glorious. Fantastic. Couldn’t be better,’ said the young fella. There was a bit of a pause, since the pukka, like all wee folk”—Carson raised his free hand to the top of his head to indicate that he considered himself diminutive as well—“are a manky lot, forever panting and always on the nob. I mean, job.”
    Yet more laughter greeted that.
    McGarr found Pascal Burke’s signature of the day before. And he noticed, turning back farther still, that a stay of a fortnight’s duration had been usual for the dead eel policeman.
    “‘Details, man,’ the pukka insisted. ‘Details!’
    “‘Oh,’ said your man, tallying up his scores in his head. ‘At least once or twice a month.’
    “‘What? You’re jokin’ me,’ said the pukka, incredulous and hoping his powers weren’t waning. ‘Surely you must mean once or twice a week? ’
    “‘No, a month,’ replied your man. ‘Which isn’t half-bad for’”—Carson paused to sip from the glass, his eyes twinkling as he surveyed the largely silent bar crowd—“‘a priest with a small parish.’”
    The joke was an old chestnut that McGarr had heard countless times before. But the crowd was in a roaring mood, and Carson’s delivery was practiced and skilled.
    When they quieted, Carson turned to McGarr. “What about you, sir? Will you put up with this racket? Or do you prefer quieter accommodations? I can recommend the inn on the other side of this building where you can hear a pin drop and Tim Tallon will provide you with everything you want.”
    “And more,” said one of the crowd.
    “Like his company,” said another.
    “And a tab for two hundred quid,” yet another added, which brought nods of the head and more laughter.
    But most eyes were on McGarr. “I’ll see a room first. Here.”
    Histrionically, Carson placed his glass on the bar and wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. “You’ll… what? ”
    “A room, I’ll see it,” which by law a prospective guest could view before agreeing to stay over. But McGarr understood he had become a part of Carson’s continuing shtick.
    “What’s there to see, man? There’s a door, some carpet, a light, two windows, a toilet, and, of course, a bed. That’s it. End of story.”
    Which was humorous only in the way Carson said it and yielded more laughs.
    “Benny’s on today,” somebody said.
    “You’d be better off to drink your drink and go over to the other side, mister,” another said to McGarr behind a hand. “Before you’re roasted and served on a plate.”
    But McGarr only waited until the others had quieted and all eyes were on him, anticipating some angry response. He then raised a hand, pointed his fingers at Carson, and snapped them brusquely into his palm.
    It was a universal cop gesture, and one which, like Carson’s antics, had to be practiced; it said no more dallying, come with me. Or else.
    Carson glanced at the crowd, who were now watching him, and shrugged. “Sure, he must be from Dublin. That’s how they say hello.”
    Which was an acceptable exit line and brought further approval from the crowd.
    Carson turned and reached for a key in one of eight pigeonholes that had been built into the back bar.