The Whisperers by John Connolly Page A

had just been squeezed hard, and, even in repose, Earle’s face already resembled the last walnut in the bowl a week after Thanksgiving. He doubled as one of the guys who occasionally doled out beatings to recalcitrants who crossed Jimmy and incurred his displeasure. He appeared to have been constructed from a series of balls of encrusted lipids, the topmost fringed with greasy black hair. Even his thighs were circular. I could almost hear the fats sluicing around in his body as he moved.
    Jimmy, meanwhile, wore a mortician’s black suit over an open-collared blue shirt. He was thin, and his hair was varying shades of gray held in place with a pomade that smelled faintly of cloves. He was six feet tall, but slightly stooped, so that he seemed to be struggling under some burden invisible to all, but deeply oppressive to himself. The right-hand side of his mouth was permanently raised, as if life were some amusing comedy and he was merely a spectator. Jimmy wasn’t a bad guy, as smugglers and drug dealers went. He’d knocked heads a couple of times with my grandfather, who was a state cop and knew Jimmy from way back, but they had respected each other. Jimmy had come to my grandfather’s funeral, and the grief he had expressed to me was genuine. Since then, I had enjoyed few dealings with him, but our paths had crossed on occasion, and once or twice he’d been good enough to point me in the right direction when I had a question that needed to be answered, as long as nobody got hurt by it and the law didn’t get involved.
    He looked up from his newspaper, and that semi-smile flickered, like a lightbulb that has suffered a momentary disturbance to its power supply.
    ‘Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask?’ he asked.
    ‘Why? You got anything worth stealing?’
    ‘No, but I thought all you avengers wore masks. That way people can say “Who was that masked avenger?” as you vanish into the night. Otherwise, you’re just a guy who dresses too young for his age, sticking his nose where he’s got no business sticking it, and looking surprised when it gets bloodied.’
    I took a stool across from him. He sighed and folded his newspaper.
    ‘You think I dress too young for my age?’ I said.
    ‘You ask me, everybody dresses too young these days, when they get dressed at all. I can still remember a time when there were hookers in these bars, and even they wouldn’t have dressed like some of the young girls I see passing by, summer and winter. I want to buy them all coats, make sure they wrap up warm. But what do I know from fashion? I think any suit that isn’t black looks like something Liberace would wear.’ He stretched out a hand, and we shook. ‘How you doing, kid?’
    ‘Pretty good.’
    ‘You still with that woman?’ he asked. He meant Rachel, the mother of my daughter, Sam. I didn’t feel any urge to express surprise. Nobody survived for as long as Jimmy Jewel without keeping tabs on whomever crossed his path.
    ‘No. We broke up. She’s in Vermont.’
    ‘She take the kid with her?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
    This wasn’t a topic of conversation I wanted to pursue. I sniffed warily at the air.
    ‘Your bar stinks,’ I said.
    ‘My bar smells fine,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s my clientele that stink, but to get rid of the stink I’d have to get rid of them, and then it would just be me and my ghosts. Oh, and Earle doesn’t smell so good either, but that may be genetic.’
    Earle didn’t reply, but just added a few more wrinkles to his expression and went back to rearranging the dirt.
    ‘You want a drink? It’s on the house.’
    ‘I don’t think so. I hear you water your booze down to add taste.’
    ‘You got balls, coming in here and insulting my place.’
    ‘It’s not a “place,” it’s a tax write-off. If it ever made any real money, your empire would collapse.’
    ‘I have an empire? I never knew. I did, I’d have dressed better, bought more expensive black suits.’
    ‘You