The Pope of Greenwich Village by Vincent Patrick

Author:Vincent Patrick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: crime, mafia, little italy
Publisher: Vincent Patrick

Chapter 14

Barney got to Hanratty's an hour ahead of the lunchtime customers. He had worked since sunup on a chime problem and gotten nowhere — Charlie's call last night was on his mind. Three of the midmorning heavy hitters were spaced along the bar like sentries, staring up at the television.

"It's a bit early for you, Barney," Ginty said. He set a coaster in front of him.

"A bloody mary. Ice-cold."

Ginty mixed the drink leisurely. Barney took a long gulp, smacked his lips, then finished the drink in one long draught. He pushed the empty glass forward.

Ginty bent for the tomato juice. "Give me a bit of warning if you intend to maintain that pace, Barney. I'll be hard pressed to keep up. It will go easier on the two of us if I bring a little bucket out here and put together a proper-size batch."

Barney sipped the second drink. Ginty hoisted his foot up onto the edge of the sink and lit a cigarette. He looked down the bar. "Like a row of statues, these three. You would guess their necks would be stiff as concrete, looking up at the television for so many hours each day. Why the hell don't they swing their stools around and face the damn screen, Barney? I wonder about it often."

Barney looked. Each of the old men had his body set squarely facing the backbar, his head twisted around and up toward the TV. Barney shrugged.

"They figure they're only going to watch for a few minutes," Ginty said. "That's the conclusion I've come to."

Barney swallowed most of his drink and motioned toward the mixing glass. "You'd better get another one going, Ginty."

The bartender set his cigarette on the edge of the bar and reached for the juice. "All this tomato juice is no good for you, Barney. It's far too much acid. And the Tabasco and Worcestershire will eat holes through the walls of your stomach. Drink the vodka straight, Barney, you're better off. It's easier on the barman, too. All this shaking does my heart no good."

He strained the shakerful into Barney's glass.

"Something's on your mind, Barney."

"The future, Ginty."

Ginty drew on his cigarette. "That's always a depressing business, Barney, if you look far enough ahead."

"I don't need to look very far. I got maybe another five years on my eyes, Ginty. Then the lights go out."

"What will the boy do, Barney?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Is he that bad, Barney. Can he care for himself at all?"

Barney frowned. "Are you kidding, Ginty? Three years ago a young couple rented our upstairs apartment. They're still there. They weren't moved in a week when the girl complained to my wife that our puppy crying at night kept them awake. She said we ought to train him. We don't own a puppy, Ginty. It was Roger. He was seventeen years old. Can he care for himself, Ginty — when a stranger mistakes him for an untrained dog?"

Barney finished two more bloody marys, then switched to vodka on the rocks as the lunch crew gathered.

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