New, Improved Murder by Ed Gorman

Author:Ed Gorman [Gorman, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery & Crime
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2014-05-13T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Malley’s is the only bar I know with a crucifix in plain sight of the drinkers. Bob Malley, a paunchy, bearded guy I made my first communion with, keeps it near the cash register in case a fight breaks out. Over the years he’s gotten his nose and jaw and left arm broken. This, in his own bar. Now when he jumps between two brawlers he takes his crucifix with him, sort of like Darren McGavin fighting off vampires on “The Night Stalker.” The weird thing is, it works, mostly because Malley’s customers consist of innumerable mumbling Irish Catholics in various stages of psychosis. It’s like having a nun appear out of a booze fog and threaten to work you over with her steel-tipped ruler.

Malley also doubles as a highly opinionated shrink. I tell him my troubles mainly to hear him tell me what a messed-up jerkoff I am. I told him all about Donna and her husband. Malley just snorted at me pityingly and walked away. He was going to formulate a plan for me. I started drinking beer.

Barbara Mandrell came on the jukebox and then B. J. Thomas and then George Jones. None of them made me feel any better. Malley has this thing for country music now. We used to listen to Dion and the Belmonts.

I knew there was only one hope for salvation. I needed to be working again. I took out the piece of phone book I had ripped off at Elliot’s place. The one with the name “Eve” on it.

Eve seemed to have some central connection with the death of Stephen Elliot and Jackie the hooker. Not to mention Larry.

I went back to the pay phone, slugged in some coins, and got a surprising response.

The line was busy.

I’d been expecting the number to be no longer in service. The busy signal buoyed me. I felt some forward progress.

Kenny Rogers and then Willie Nelson stirred the beery air. Malley used to be a stone rock ‘n’ roll freak. I couldn’t believe what he’d done to his jukebox. Country music was not my favorite type of music.

Throughout this mini concert I kept trying the number again. Busy. I went over to the bar and got four quarters for a dollar. I’m at least as superstitious as your average Druid. I figured maybe new coins would unbusy the line. Right.

“You know what you need, Dwyer? A girl from St. Michael’s,” Malley said. “Find somebody from our old class—shit, man, they’re all divorced now—find one of those babes and start plugging her and get married. Find somebody who cooks good and likes to give head. You make things too complicated.”

He shook his head at me as I walked away. As if I were the numero uno dumb shit. Crude as he was, and God, was he—to the point of embarrassment most of the time—maybe he had a point after all. Maybe I should find a woman from my own background.

Maybe that was my trouble. But I kept remembering the last such date I’d had.

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