Mystery Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

Kid. So I put the cork back in the bottle and brought the proceedings to an early conclusion. I kept smiling throughout, as one must, but inside I was seething.
    Later, with the shop empty and the shutters down, I sat drinking flat Coke and slowly began to mellow out. I decided to check my e-mail and was gratified to find that my proper customers, those who weren't just interested in playing the big man or making fun of a legitimate and relevant branch of literature, had responded in considerable numbers to my request for information. There were more than a dozen examples of what was surely the phantom graffiti artist's handiwork from all different parts of the city. A footpath on the Malone Road bore the legend Alan McEvoy beats dogs ; a gable wall on the Andersonstown Road had Seamus O'Hare plays away from home ; on Palestine Street the front door of a student flat had been daubed with the words Coke dealers live here and a parish house in Sydenham was decorated with Rev. Derek Coates does not believe in transubstantiation. They continued in this vein. Whether they were lies, slurs, slanders or half-truths was not my business; the only evidence I was interested in was that of their very existence, and it just galled me that their sheer volume was now of no relevance at all. Dessie Martin was dead. In fact, the effort of it all had probably advanced his demise, weakened as he was by asbestosis. But then, when I checked the very last e-mail, from a fan of Lord Peter Wimsey in the north of the city, I was suddenly brought up short – the words Michael Lyons wears a dress had appeared on a wall, the night after my request for information. For several moments I was stunned by this, but then it came to me and I cursed myself for being so retarded. The evidence had been there all along – Taylor had said it was Dessie Martin and Son. It wasn't the sins of the father, it was the misdemeanours of the son.

8
    I rapidly checked the Yellow Pages and found the phone number for Dessie Martin and Son. Although it was well after business hours it was probably a small enough concern to have been administered from home. My call went straight through to an answering machine and, somewhat poignantly, I thought, an elderly voice, rasped out through laboured breaths, said that they were closed for the evening, but in an emergency could be contacted on the following mobile number. I wasn't quite sure what kind of an emergency a painter and decorator could expect to have, apart from dripping and peeling, but nevertheless, suffused with adrenaline at the prospect of confronting my nemesis, I called the mobile number.
    He answered on the third ring. 'Jimmy.'
    'Jimmy Martin?'
    'Aye.'
    'Your dad was Dessie Martin?'
    'Aye – who's this?'
    'I am your nemesis.'
    'What's that, Polish or Romanian? I'm not takin' anyone on at the moment . . .'
    'No, you misunderstand. I represent a number of people you may be familiar with. Alan McEvoy, Seamus O'Hare . . .'
    'Oh shite!'
    'The Rev. Derek Coates . . . Albert McIntosh . . . need I go on?'
    'Listen, mate, I—'
    'You have slandered these men, you have sullied their reputations, they're going to sue you for millions, do you hear me?'
    He was panicked and frightened, and it felt good.
    'Please – you have to understand it wasn't me, it was my da.'
    'Not last night it wasn't!'
    'Shite!'
    'We know everything, Jimmy Martin, everything.'
    'Oh God . . . look, I'm sorry . . . it was my da . . . he made me promise I would finish his work, it was only the one, I swear to Christ.'
    'You better tell me all about it, son,' I said with calm but threatening authority, a tone I had perfected over twenty years dealing with publishers' reps. 'How did all this start?'
    There was a moment's hesitation; then, when he spoke, his voice was softer, and cracked several times with emotion. 'Look . . .' he said, 'I'm really sorry . . . My da wasn't well for a long time. He had as—'
    'Asbestosis,' I cut