everyone were congratulating each other on being Irish or on being sober enough to find his hand.
Burke approached P. J. Clarke's at Fifty-fifth Street, an old nineteenth-century brick relic, spared by the wrecker's ball but left encapsulated in the towering hulk around itthe Marine Midland Bank Building, which resembled a black Sony calculator with too many buttons.
Burke walked in through the frosted glass doors, made his way to the crowded bar, and ordered a beer. He looked around for familiar faces, an informant, an old friend, someone who owed him, but there was no one. Too many familiar faces missing this afternoon.
He made his way back into the street and breathed the cold north wind until his head cleared. He continued to walk, stopping at a half-remembered bar, an Irish-owned shop, or wherever a group of people huddled and spoke on the sidewalk. His thoughts raced rapidly and, unconsciously, he picked up his pace to keep abreast of the moving streams of people.
99
NELSON DE MILLE
This day had begun strangely, and every incident, every conversation, added to his sense of unreality. He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and headed south again.
Burke stared up at the gilt lettering on the window of J. P. Donleavy's, a small, inconspicuous pub on Forty-seventh Street. Donleavy's was another haunt of the quasi-IRA men and barroom patriots. Occasionally there would be a real IRA man there from the other side, and you could teU who he was because he rarely stood at the bar but usually sat alone in a booth. They were always pale, the result of Ireland's perpetual mist or as a result of some time in internment. New York and Boston were their sanctuaries, places of Irish culture, Irish pubs, Irish people without gelignite.
Burke walked in and pushed his way between two men who were talking to each other at the bar. He slipped into his light brogue for the occasion.
"Buy you a drink, gentlemen. A round here, barkeeper!" He turned to the man on his left, a young laborer. The man looked annoyed. Burke smiled.
"I'm to meet some friends in P.J.'s, but I can't remember if they said P. J. Clarke's, P. J. O'Hara's, P. J. Moriarty's, P. J. O'Rourke's or here. Bloody stupid of me--or of them." The beer came and Burke paid for it. "Would you know Kevin Michaels or Jim Malloy or Liam Connelly? Have you seen them today?"
The man to Burke's right spoke. "That's an interesting list of names. If you're looking for them, you can be sure they'll find you."
Burke looked into the man's eyes. "That's what I'm counting on."
The man stared back but said nothing.
Burke smelled the sour beer on the man's breath, on his clothes. "I'm looking, too, for John Hickey."
Neither man spoke.
Burke took a long drink and put his glass down. "Thank you, gentlemen.
I'm off to the Green Derby. Good day." He turned and walked down the length of the bar. An an-100
CATHEDRAL
gled mirror reflected the two men huddled with the bartender, looking at him as he left.
He repeated his story, or one like it, in every bar that he thought might be promising. He switched from whiskey to stout to hot coffee and had a sandwich at a pub, which made him feel better. He crossed and recrossed Third Avenue, making his way southward. In every bar he left a forwarding address, and at every street comer he stopped and waited for the sound of shoes against the cold concrete to hesitate, to stop behind him. He was trolling, using himself as bait, but no one was rising to it today.
Burke picked up his pace. Time was running out. He looked at his watch; it was past four, and he had to be at the zoo at four-thirty. He stopped at a phone booth. "Langley? I need five hundred for Ferguson."
"Later. You didn't call for that."
Burke lit a cigarette. "What do you know about a Major Bartholomew Martin?"
There was a long silence on the phone, then Langley said, "Oh, you mean the British Intelligence guy. Don't worry about him."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Burke approached P. J. Clarke's at Fifty-fifth Street, an old nineteenth-century brick relic, spared by the wrecker's ball but left encapsulated in the towering hulk around itthe Marine Midland Bank Building, which resembled a black Sony calculator with too many buttons.
Burke walked in through the frosted glass doors, made his way to the crowded bar, and ordered a beer. He looked around for familiar faces, an informant, an old friend, someone who owed him, but there was no one. Too many familiar faces missing this afternoon.
He made his way back into the street and breathed the cold north wind until his head cleared. He continued to walk, stopping at a half-remembered bar, an Irish-owned shop, or wherever a group of people huddled and spoke on the sidewalk. His thoughts raced rapidly and, unconsciously, he picked up his pace to keep abreast of the moving streams of people.
99
NELSON DE MILLE
This day had begun strangely, and every incident, every conversation, added to his sense of unreality. He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and headed south again.
Burke stared up at the gilt lettering on the window of J. P. Donleavy's, a small, inconspicuous pub on Forty-seventh Street. Donleavy's was another haunt of the quasi-IRA men and barroom patriots. Occasionally there would be a real IRA man there from the other side, and you could teU who he was because he rarely stood at the bar but usually sat alone in a booth. They were always pale, the result of Ireland's perpetual mist or as a result of some time in internment. New York and Boston were their sanctuaries, places of Irish culture, Irish pubs, Irish people without gelignite.
Burke walked in and pushed his way between two men who were talking to each other at the bar. He slipped into his light brogue for the occasion.
"Buy you a drink, gentlemen. A round here, barkeeper!" He turned to the man on his left, a young laborer. The man looked annoyed. Burke smiled.
"I'm to meet some friends in P.J.'s, but I can't remember if they said P. J. Clarke's, P. J. O'Hara's, P. J. Moriarty's, P. J. O'Rourke's or here. Bloody stupid of me--or of them." The beer came and Burke paid for it. "Would you know Kevin Michaels or Jim Malloy or Liam Connelly? Have you seen them today?"
The man to Burke's right spoke. "That's an interesting list of names. If you're looking for them, you can be sure they'll find you."
Burke looked into the man's eyes. "That's what I'm counting on."
The man stared back but said nothing.
Burke smelled the sour beer on the man's breath, on his clothes. "I'm looking, too, for John Hickey."
Neither man spoke.
Burke took a long drink and put his glass down. "Thank you, gentlemen.
I'm off to the Green Derby. Good day." He turned and walked down the length of the bar. An an-100
CATHEDRAL
gled mirror reflected the two men huddled with the bartender, looking at him as he left.
He repeated his story, or one like it, in every bar that he thought might be promising. He switched from whiskey to stout to hot coffee and had a sandwich at a pub, which made him feel better. He crossed and recrossed Third Avenue, making his way southward. In every bar he left a forwarding address, and at every street comer he stopped and waited for the sound of shoes against the cold concrete to hesitate, to stop behind him. He was trolling, using himself as bait, but no one was rising to it today.
Burke picked up his pace. Time was running out. He looked at his watch; it was past four, and he had to be at the zoo at four-thirty. He stopped at a phone booth. "Langley? I need five hundred for Ferguson."
"Later. You didn't call for that."
Burke lit a cigarette. "What do you know about a Major Bartholomew Martin?"
There was a long silence on the phone, then Langley said, "Oh, you mean the British Intelligence guy. Don't worry about him."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
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