One Last Night at Grogan's (A Matthew Scudder Story Book 11) Page 2
Are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.
“I wonder,” Mick said. “Is it just the Irish? Or are we all of us like that, deep in our hearts?” He got to his feet, picked up his bottle and glass. “That’s enough whiskey. Is it iced tea you’re all drinking? I’ll fetch us another pitcher.” And to Kristin: “No, don’t get up. ’Tis my establishment still. I’ll provide the service.”
He said, “Will I miss it? The short answer is it’s a bar like any other, and I’ve lost my taste for them, even my own.”
“And the long answer?”
He gave it some thought. “I expect I will,” he said. “The years pile up, you know. The sheer weight of them has an effect. I wasn’t always on the premises, but the place was always here for me.” He filled his glass with iced tea, sipped it as if it were whiskey. “The room is full of ghosts tonight. Can you feel it?”
We all nodded.
“And not just the shades of those who died that one bad night. Others as well, whose deaths were somewhere else altogether. Just now I looked over at the bar and saw a little old man in a cloth cap, perched on a stool and nursing a beer. I pointed him out to you once, but you wouldn’t remember.”
But I did. “Ex-IRA,” I said. “If it’s the fellow I’m thinking of.”
“It is. One of Tom Barry’s lads in West Cork he was, and that lot shed enough blood to redden Bantry Bay. When his regular local closed he brought his custom here, and drank a beer or two seven nights a week. And then one night he wasn’t here, and then the word came that he was gone. No man lives forever, not even a wee cutthroat from Kenmare.”
He pronounced it Ken-mahr. There’s a Kenmare Street a few blocks long in NoLita, which is the tag realtors have fastened on a few square blocks north of Little Italy. A Tammany hack called Big Tim Sullivan managed to name it for his mother’s home town in County Kerry, but he couldn’t make people pronounce it in the Irish fashion. Ken-mair’s what they say, if indeed they say the name at all; the residents nowadays are mostly Chinese.
“Andy Buckley,” he said. “You remember Andy.”
That didn’t require an answer. I could hardly have forgotten Andy Buckley.
“He was here on that bad night. Got us into the car and away, the two of us.”
“I remember.”
“As good behind the wheel of a car as any man I’ve ever known. And as good with darts. He’d scarcely seem to be paying attention, and with a flick of his wrist he’d put the little feathered creature just where he wanted it.”
“He made it look effortless.”
“He did. You know, when I had them put this place back together again, I bought a new dartboard and had it installed in the usual place on the back wall. And I found I didn’t like seeing it there, and I took it down.” He took a deep breath, held it, let it out. “I had no choice,” he said.
Andy Buckley had betrayed Mick, his employer and friend. Sold him out, set him up. And I’d been there on a lonely road upstate when Mick took Andy’s head in his own big hands and broke his neck.
You remember Andy, he’d said.
“No fucking choice,” he said, “and yet it never sat easy with me. Or why would I have had them replace the dartboard? And why would I have taken it down?”
“If they hadn’t come round with their offer,” he said, “I’d never have closed Grogan’s. It never would have occurred to me. But the time’s right, you know.”
Kristin nodded, and I sensed they’d discussed this point before. Elaine asked what was so right about the timing.
“My life’s changed,” he said. “In many ways, beyond the miracle that an angel came down from heaven to be my bride.”
“How he does go on,” Kristin said.
“My business interests,” he said, “are all legitimate. The few wide boys I had working for me have moved on, and if they’re still doing criminal deeds they’re doing them at someone else’s behest. I’m a silent partner in several enterprises, and I may have come by my interest by canceling a debt or doing someone an illegal favor, but the businesses themselves are lawful and so is my participation.”
“And Grogan’s is an anomaly?” Elaine frowned. “I don’t see how, exactly. It’s evolved like the rest of your life, and it’s more a yuppie watering hole than a hangout for hoodlums.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s not the point. In the bar business there’s no end of men looking to cheat you. Suppliers billing you for undelivered goods, bartenders making themselves your silent partners, hard men practicing extortion and calling it advertising or charity. But I always had a pass, you know, because they knew to be afraid of me. Who’d try to get over on a man with my reputation? Who’d dare to steal from me, or cheat me, or put pressure on me?”
“Whoever did would be taking his life in his hands.”
“Once,” he said. “Once that was true. Now the lion’s old and toothless and wants only to lie by the fire. And sooner or later some lad would make his move, and I’d have to do something about it, something I’d not care to do, something I’m past doing. No, I’m well out of the game.” He sighed. “Will I miss it? There’s parts of the old life I miss, and it’s no shame to admit it. I wouldn’t care to have it back, but there’s times when I miss it.” His eyes found mine. “And you? Is it not the same for you?”
“I wouldn’t want it back.”
“Not for anything. But do you miss it? The drink, and all that went with it?”
“Yes,” I said. “There are times I do.”
It was late when we left. Mick turned off the one light, locked up, proclaiming the latter a waste of time. “If anyone wants to come in and take something, what does it matter? None of it’s mine anymore.”
He had his car, the big silver Cadillac, and dropped us off. Nobody had much to say beyond a few pleasantries as we got out of the car, and the silence held while Elaine and I crossed the Parc Vendome’s lobby and ascended in the elevator. She had her key out and let us in, and we checked Voice Mail and email, and she found a coffee cup I’d left beside the computer and returned it to the kitchen.
We tried the Conor Pass engraving in a few spots—in a hallway, in the front room—and decided to defer the decision of where to hang it. Elaine felt it wanted to be seen at close range, so we left it for now, propped against the base of a lamp on the drum-top table.
The little tasks one does, all of them performed in a companionable silence.
And then she said “It wasn’t so bad.”
“No. It was a good evening, actually.”
“I love the two of them so much. Individually and together.”
“I know.”
“And he’s much better off without the place. He’ll be fine, don’t you think?”
“I think so.”
“But it really is, isn’t it? The end of an era.”
“Like Seinfeld?”
She shook her head. “Not quite,” she said. “There won’t be any reruns.”
About the Author
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Lawrence Block published his first novel in 1958. He has been designated a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, and has received Lifetime Achievement awards from the Crime Writers’ Association (UK), the Private Eye Writers of America, and the Short Mystery Fiction Society. He has won the Nero, Philip Marlowe, Societe 813, and Anthony awards, and is a multiple recipient of the Edgar, the Shamus, and the Japanese Maltese Falcon awards. He and his wife, Lynne, are devout New Yorkers and relentless world travelers.
Email: lawbloc@gmail.com
Twitter: @LawrenceBlock
Blog: LB’s Blog
Facebook: lawrence.block
Website: lawrenceblock.com
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The Matthew Scudder Stories
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For a list of all my available fiction, with my series novels listed in chronological order, go to About LB’s Fiction.<
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Lawrence Block
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