City of Bohane: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

all, y’sketchin’? Hear tell of a certain man pass this way in the bleaky hour …’
    ‘This mornin’ gone?’
    ‘Same one. A man what hop an El for the downtown.’
    ‘Who are we talkin’ about, Eyes?’
    ‘That’s a man the Long Fella wanna watch ’n’ all.’
    ‘I said who’re we talkin’ about, Eyes?’
    ‘Long Fella know him well enough. His missus know him ’n’ all.’
    Ol’ Boy raised softly a palm in warning.
    ‘Plenty o’ folk have thought before Hartnett was weakening. Same folk feedin’ maggots down the boneyard now.’
    ‘Just get the word out for me, Mannion.’
    He nodded, and he let Cusack move along. He watched the old scut hoick a gobber and tug the trackies from the crack of his arse. Shook his head, Ol’ Boy – they had no fucking class up on the Northside Rises.
    A winter’s bother was brewing then. Blood would flow and soon. But there was the possibility, Ol’ Boy realised, that too long and persistent a Calm might be no good for the city.
    A place should never for too long go against its nature.

5
    The Mendicants at the Aliados
    Above De Valera Street the sun climbed and caught on each of the street’s high windows and each whited out and was blinded by the glare; each became a brilliant, unseeing eye. The light seemed to atomise the very air of the place. The air was rich, maritime, nutritious. It was as if you could reach up and grab a handful of the stuff. The evil-eyed gulls were antic on the air as they cawed and quarrelled and the street beneath them was thick with afternoon life.
    Yes and here they came, all the big-armed women and all the low-sized butty fellas. Here came the sullen Polacks and the Back Trace crones. Here came the natty Africans and the big lunks of bog-spawn polis. Here came the pikey blow-ins and the washed-up Madagascars. Here came the women of the Rises down the 98 Steps to buy tabs and tights and mackerel – of such combinations was life in the flatblock circles sustained. Here came the Endeavour Avenue suits for a sconce at ruder life. The Smoketown tushies were between trick-cycles and had crossed the footbridge to take joe and cake in their gossiping covens. The Fancy-boy wannabes swanned about in their finery and tip-tapped a rhythm with their clicker’d heels. De Valera Street was where all converged, was where all trails tangled and knotted, and yes, here came Logan Hartnett in the afternoon swell. He was …
    Gubernatorial.
    Like a searchlight he turned his cold smile as he walked. He picked out all the De Valera Street familiars. He spotted a haggard old dear from the Trace. With one arm she pushed a dog in a pram, with the other she cradled a cauliflower, and he leaned into her as he passed.
    ‘Howya, Maggie, you’re breaking hearts, you are?’
    Logan in the afternoon was almost sentimental – it was the taint that set him so. When he whispered to his old familiars, it was as if he hadn’t seen them for years.
    By Henderson the Apotechary:
    ‘How-we-now, Denis? Any news on the quare fella?’
    By Meehan’s Fish ’n’ Game:
    ‘Is that lung giving you any relief, Mrs Kelly?’
    By the Auld Triangle:
    ‘When do the bandages come off, Terence?’
    His smoke-grey suit, finely cut, set off nicely his deadhouse pallor. The walk of him, y’sketch? Regal, yes, quite so, and he made grand progress towards the Café Aliados.
    De Valera Street runs its snakebend roll from the base of the Northside Rises all the way down to the river. It separates the Back Trace from the New Town. Its leases are kept cheap and easy – buckshee enterprises appear overnight and fold as quick. There are soothsayers. There are purveyors of goat’s blood cures for marital difficulties. There are dark caverns of record stores specialising in ancient calypso 78s – oh we have an old wiggle to the hip in Bohane, if you get us going at all. There are palmists. There are knackers selling combination socket wrench sets. Discount threads are flogged from