legs.
“He’s gone most of the time now, my Tom.” She had paused and glanced at McGarr, who had bent to shake the child’s hand.
“About last night—” he began saying.
“Ah, say no more. The poor, unfortunate, lonely, old woman and that tart of a daughter, no sense to her, out with this one and—” The water had come to a boil.
“Are you a detective, a real detective?” the child had asked.
“He’s McGarr, McGarr himself,” she put in, “like your father told you. Now, that’s a strange name.” She directed hot water into the pot, emptied that, added tea, and filled it, dropping the lid into its groove. “From the North?”
“Originally, I should think.”
“Have you been married long?”
McGarr wore no rings on his fingers, but it was plain she had found out something about him. “Three and a half glorious years.” McGarr waited, handing his Garda Soichana badge, #4, to the little boy, wondering if she’d have the courage to ask him directly.
Finally, when the tea was poured, she put it to him straight, “Catholic?”
McGarr glanced over the edge of the cup and nodded, and he could almost hear her saying to herself, Three and a half years and no children!
“And your wife now,” she looked down at the jelly donut, her eyes darkening before she bit into it, “I understand she’s…younger than you.”
McGarr was not surprised. It was a small country and information was undoubtedly the woman’s stock-in-trade. “Twenty.”
“Twenty?” A hand went to her throat as she swallowed the bite of donut.
“Twenty years younger. Nearly. Eighteen is closer to the mark.” McGarr again glanced at the child, as though his smile was for him, while she worked on the figures of exactly how old both of them were, when they’d been married, and what had happened or gone wrong to find them now, so many years later, childless.
“Where’s your gun?”
“Down in me sock.”
When the child looked down, McGarr clapped a homburg—one of the hats he had in the boxes by the side of his chair—over the little boy’s head. “Now do you look like a detective, Tony, or haven’t you a clue, there in the dark?”
With both hands the child pulled the hat off his head and looked at it, then reached it up on top of McGarr’s head.
“Business woman?”
McGarr looked at her inquiringly. “How’s that?”
“I mean,” again the contemplation of the pastry, “it’s what I’ve heard. She has a shop in Dawson Street, does she not? Antiques, isn’t it?”
“Art.”
“Oh—art.” It was obvious the word meant little to her and was therefore suspect.
“Now, Tony—do I look like a detective or a gunman?”
“Foreign things, I take it. She must be abroad a good deal?”
McGarr canted his head to the side, concurring.
“You’re not a detective.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“And says I to you, says I—we’re always on the lookout for detectives down at the Castle, and I’m wondering if you can find me hat, the real one, in all these boxes.”
“And you’ve got your job, here at home.”
McGarr nodded.
“And you’re right up there with them—the commissioners and all.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
The child had hopped off McGarr’s knee and was now tugging open the boxes, pulling out the hats and casting them aside one by one.
“You needn’t be modest, Mister McGarr. My Tommy told me about you when he got home from work. No use complaining about him, says Tom—he runs the show. Only the commissioner is above him, and there’s no sense trying to track him down at this time of year. He’s probably in—”
“Cork,” said McGarr.
“Is that where he holidays?”
“Ballydehob.”
“Farrell, his name is, is it not?”
McGarr nodded.
The kitchen floor was now littered with hats, hat-boxes, and lids.
He glanced at the clock, a new digital contraption that gave the time in odd-shaped figures, the seconds flashing in an electronic blur, and he eased himself
“He’s gone most of the time now, my Tom.” She had paused and glanced at McGarr, who had bent to shake the child’s hand.
“About last night—” he began saying.
“Ah, say no more. The poor, unfortunate, lonely, old woman and that tart of a daughter, no sense to her, out with this one and—” The water had come to a boil.
“Are you a detective, a real detective?” the child had asked.
“He’s McGarr, McGarr himself,” she put in, “like your father told you. Now, that’s a strange name.” She directed hot water into the pot, emptied that, added tea, and filled it, dropping the lid into its groove. “From the North?”
“Originally, I should think.”
“Have you been married long?”
McGarr wore no rings on his fingers, but it was plain she had found out something about him. “Three and a half glorious years.” McGarr waited, handing his Garda Soichana badge, #4, to the little boy, wondering if she’d have the courage to ask him directly.
Finally, when the tea was poured, she put it to him straight, “Catholic?”
McGarr glanced over the edge of the cup and nodded, and he could almost hear her saying to herself, Three and a half years and no children!
“And your wife now,” she looked down at the jelly donut, her eyes darkening before she bit into it, “I understand she’s…younger than you.”
McGarr was not surprised. It was a small country and information was undoubtedly the woman’s stock-in-trade. “Twenty.”
“Twenty?” A hand went to her throat as she swallowed the bite of donut.
“Twenty years younger. Nearly. Eighteen is closer to the mark.” McGarr again glanced at the child, as though his smile was for him, while she worked on the figures of exactly how old both of them were, when they’d been married, and what had happened or gone wrong to find them now, so many years later, childless.
“Where’s your gun?”
“Down in me sock.”
When the child looked down, McGarr clapped a homburg—one of the hats he had in the boxes by the side of his chair—over the little boy’s head. “Now do you look like a detective, Tony, or haven’t you a clue, there in the dark?”
With both hands the child pulled the hat off his head and looked at it, then reached it up on top of McGarr’s head.
“Business woman?”
McGarr looked at her inquiringly. “How’s that?”
“I mean,” again the contemplation of the pastry, “it’s what I’ve heard. She has a shop in Dawson Street, does she not? Antiques, isn’t it?”
“Art.”
“Oh—art.” It was obvious the word meant little to her and was therefore suspect.
“Now, Tony—do I look like a detective or a gunman?”
“Foreign things, I take it. She must be abroad a good deal?”
McGarr canted his head to the side, concurring.
“You’re not a detective.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“And says I to you, says I—we’re always on the lookout for detectives down at the Castle, and I’m wondering if you can find me hat, the real one, in all these boxes.”
“And you’ve got your job, here at home.”
McGarr nodded.
“And you’re right up there with them—the commissioners and all.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
The child had hopped off McGarr’s knee and was now tugging open the boxes, pulling out the hats and casting them aside one by one.
“You needn’t be modest, Mister McGarr. My Tommy told me about you when he got home from work. No use complaining about him, says Tom—he runs the show. Only the commissioner is above him, and there’s no sense trying to track him down at this time of year. He’s probably in—”
“Cork,” said McGarr.
“Is that where he holidays?”
“Ballydehob.”
“Farrell, his name is, is it not?”
McGarr nodded.
The kitchen floor was now littered with hats, hat-boxes, and lids.
He glanced at the clock, a new digital contraption that gave the time in odd-shaped figures, the seconds flashing in an electronic blur, and he eased himself
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