Read Online All Our Yesterdays by Robert B. Parker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert B. Parker
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each other.”
“You shouldn’t generalize,” I said. “Anyway, he started out walking a beat in the West End with a guy named Knocko Kiernan. I’ve actually met Knocko. I was a little kid, and he was a fat old guy drinking beer in his undershirt, when my father took me to see him once. But he still had funny eyes—like Robert Benchley, you know? Eyes that know life’s secret, and it’s funny? Lot of Irishmen like him, about half of them, the other half thinks life’s secret is tragic. I’m not sure yet which kind I am.”
“Maybe a complete one,” Grace said. “Maybe you’re both.”
“So he’s walking a beat in the West End, which isn’t even there anymore. Nice high rise condos—if you lived here you’d be home now. And they bust some bootleggers, and roust some loan sharks, and one day they caught a guy trying to murder an old lady. It wasn’t great sleuthing, they just came across him in the act. But they saved the old lady and collared the guy and it made the papers. Martin Lomasney wrote a letter to the
Post
about it, and the mayor, James Michael Curley, had his picture taken with them, and in a while they were both detectives. And inanother while they were both, still partners, working homicide out of Headquarters. Is this a great country? Or what.”
“Land of opportunity,” Grace said.
1931
Conn
T hey went to Boylan’s, next to City Hall, which meant that Knocko Kiernan’s wife, Faith, who had arranged the blind date, considered it important. Conn had a pint of whiskey with him in his coat pocket and he and Knocko were already aglow with it when they met Faith and Mellen Murphy in the restaurant.
“Mellen’s a very pretty name,” Conn said.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s Mary Ellen, actually. I think my father invented the contraction when he was mad at me and couldn’t get ‘Mary Ellen’ out without sputtering.”
Her hair was the color of honey, and her eyes were very large and blue. She was slim, and wore a green dress with a lace collar. Her only makeup appeared to be lipstick, and she wore a small crucifix on a gold chain round her neck. Conn smiled to himself when he saw the crucifix.
We’ll see about that
.
“Hard to imagine getting mad at you,” Conn said.
The waiter came with menus.
“We’ll have some glasses and ice,” Knocko said. “And a siphon of seltzer.”
“It is not permitted to drink here,” the waiter said. He was a small dark man. “It’s the law. Prohibition.”
Knocko was bald, and jowly. He looked like thecaricatured Irish policeman who appeared occasionally in
The Evening Transcript
. His face reddened.
“Maybe you’d like to have the place shut fucking down for a couple weeks,” Knocko said.
“Francis,” his wife said. “Your language.”
“I’m sorry sir,” the waiter said. “Management—”
“Fuck management,” Knocko said.
“Francis!”
Conn stood up. He rested a hand on Knocko’s shoulder, for a moment, as if calming a restive horse. Then he said, “Excuse me,” to the table, put an arm over the waiter’s shoulder, and, smiling, steered him a few steps away. With his back turned so that only the waiter could see it, he took out his badge and showed it to him. He smiled broadly.
“Just bring us the setups, guinea-wop. And shut the fuck up,” Conn said in a pleasant voice. He nodded his head encouragingly. “You unnerstand?”
It wasn’t the badge, as much as it was what the waiter saw in Conn’s eyes.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Sorry.”
Conn gave him a little pat on the back. And came back to the table.
“See that, Francis?” Faith said. “That’s how a gentleman handles things. No need for rampaging round like a great sow.”
Knocko winked at Mary Ellen.
“A sow is a female pig, Faith, if you’ll be insulting me, for Crissake, at least get it right.”
The waiter returned with glasses and ice and seltzer. Conn took the bottle from his inside pocket and mixed them all a
“You shouldn’t generalize,” I said. “Anyway, he started out walking a beat in the West End with a guy named Knocko Kiernan. I’ve actually met Knocko. I was a little kid, and he was a fat old guy drinking beer in his undershirt, when my father took me to see him once. But he still had funny eyes—like Robert Benchley, you know? Eyes that know life’s secret, and it’s funny? Lot of Irishmen like him, about half of them, the other half thinks life’s secret is tragic. I’m not sure yet which kind I am.”
“Maybe a complete one,” Grace said. “Maybe you’re both.”
“So he’s walking a beat in the West End, which isn’t even there anymore. Nice high rise condos—if you lived here you’d be home now. And they bust some bootleggers, and roust some loan sharks, and one day they caught a guy trying to murder an old lady. It wasn’t great sleuthing, they just came across him in the act. But they saved the old lady and collared the guy and it made the papers. Martin Lomasney wrote a letter to the
Post
about it, and the mayor, James Michael Curley, had his picture taken with them, and in a while they were both detectives. And inanother while they were both, still partners, working homicide out of Headquarters. Is this a great country? Or what.”
“Land of opportunity,” Grace said.
1931
Conn
T hey went to Boylan’s, next to City Hall, which meant that Knocko Kiernan’s wife, Faith, who had arranged the blind date, considered it important. Conn had a pint of whiskey with him in his coat pocket and he and Knocko were already aglow with it when they met Faith and Mellen Murphy in the restaurant.
“Mellen’s a very pretty name,” Conn said.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s Mary Ellen, actually. I think my father invented the contraction when he was mad at me and couldn’t get ‘Mary Ellen’ out without sputtering.”
Her hair was the color of honey, and her eyes were very large and blue. She was slim, and wore a green dress with a lace collar. Her only makeup appeared to be lipstick, and she wore a small crucifix on a gold chain round her neck. Conn smiled to himself when he saw the crucifix.
We’ll see about that
.
“Hard to imagine getting mad at you,” Conn said.
The waiter came with menus.
“We’ll have some glasses and ice,” Knocko said. “And a siphon of seltzer.”
“It is not permitted to drink here,” the waiter said. He was a small dark man. “It’s the law. Prohibition.”
Knocko was bald, and jowly. He looked like thecaricatured Irish policeman who appeared occasionally in
The Evening Transcript
. His face reddened.
“Maybe you’d like to have the place shut fucking down for a couple weeks,” Knocko said.
“Francis,” his wife said. “Your language.”
“I’m sorry sir,” the waiter said. “Management—”
“Fuck management,” Knocko said.
“Francis!”
Conn stood up. He rested a hand on Knocko’s shoulder, for a moment, as if calming a restive horse. Then he said, “Excuse me,” to the table, put an arm over the waiter’s shoulder, and, smiling, steered him a few steps away. With his back turned so that only the waiter could see it, he took out his badge and showed it to him. He smiled broadly.
“Just bring us the setups, guinea-wop. And shut the fuck up,” Conn said in a pleasant voice. He nodded his head encouragingly. “You unnerstand?”
It wasn’t the badge, as much as it was what the waiter saw in Conn’s eyes.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Sorry.”
Conn gave him a little pat on the back. And came back to the table.
“See that, Francis?” Faith said. “That’s how a gentleman handles things. No need for rampaging round like a great sow.”
Knocko winked at Mary Ellen.
“A sow is a female pig, Faith, if you’ll be insulting me, for Crissake, at least get it right.”
The waiter returned with glasses and ice and seltzer. Conn took the bottle from his inside pocket and mixed them all a
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