Fishing the Sloe-Black River by Colum McCann Page B

away in furrows, though he has his little flat cap on to cover up the bald spots. But onward to the washing machines. Hup, two, three. Enough of years gone by. Put it behind you, make it anew, put it behind you, and things’ll come true. There was a comeback after Caffola, and he was swearing to reporters that if he got the chance, he would take on Buddy Baer and the Brown Bomber in the same ring. But he had fallen easily to a no-hoper from the bowels of Brooklyn. A Chusla Mo Chroí. Love of my heart and, sweet Jesus, would you ever get a move on? Step we gaily, on we go. The sun’ll be down before I get home to Juanita.
    She brought him to Hollywood where she was making some movies. But there wasn’t enough call for a Mexican girl. Beautiful as she was, and a voice so gorgeous she sounded like she had a wren in her throat, they terminated her contract. The couple stood on the deck of another boat, combing the waves in an easterly way. They sang together in the smoky cabarets of Ireland and Britain where men in zoot suits wet the tip ends of cigars with lascivious tongues and stared. But the cabarets closed, eyelids on an era. Then it was back to America, where their bodies gave way, but the social welfare checks dropped regularly enough to keep them happy. And a million years lived in between all that. Things he’s forgotten. In the meantime, in between time, ain’t we got fun? Put it behind you. Make it anew. But how the hell can you put it behind you, how in God’s name can you make it anew? Christ but the heat is doing strange things to my head. Onward. Away.
    â€œSomething chasing you, Mr. Flaherty?” It’s Clarence LeBlanc, that sly-eyed bastard in trousers too tight even for his thin legs, thirty years old maybe, who works as the rent collector in the complex. He’s coming out of the 7-Eleven with a packet of cigarettes in his long thin black hands. LeBlanc is often seen scrubbing the graffiti from the walls. A Philistine if ever there was one. And always that nasty upturned lip when he knocks on the door to collect the rent.
    â€œChasing me?” said Flaherty.
    â€œSeems like you in a hurry.”
    â€œOff to the laundromat.”
    â€œDoing you some washing?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œFunny, I don’t see no clothes.” LeBlanc has that glint in his eye.
    â€œI left them yonder this morning.”
    â€œYou best watch out.”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œSomebody been stealing clothes down there. Believe it must be one of the young guys from our complex.”
    â€œIt’s a terrible thing these days, the thievery,” says Flaherty. “Are ya going to watch the fight on TV tonight?”
    â€œHanging them on doorknobs,” says LeBlanc.
    â€œYoung whippersnappers. Can’t trust a soul these days.” He shuffles his feet and balls up his fists. “Tyrone is fighting in the Garden.” A slow roundhouse comes from the shoulders, hitting air, and he smiles.
    â€œI don’t follow boxing, Mr. Flaherty,” says LeBlanc, lighting up a cigarette. “You see anything strange, you let me know.”
    â€œIndeed I will.”
    He curses softly to himself as LeBlanc moves away. The cat’s out of the bag and meowing at the man in the moon. He hunkers into his coat, feeling the sweat roll down his armpits. The traffic thunders on in his ears as he negotiates a couple of potholes. He squints and feels almost dizzy. For a moment he sees his mother bent over the sink, scrubbing some blood from the collar of a white shirt. His father outside, hanging a sandbag from a chestnut tree, shouting at him to get ready for practice. Juanita leaning into the microphone, hair thrown back, eyes brown and deep. Tyrone dancing in the middle of a ring.
    He skirts in past a couple of cars, negotiates the curb, tongues a bead of sweat off his lip, stands for a moment and watches the clouds scud along over the city, then opens the