Free The Death of an Irish Tradition by Bartholomew Gill Page A

hair-do established, the sculptured upper lip but with a bent nose above. But, like father, like son, O’Shaughnessy thought, and he pitied the young man. He had a long, hard road ahead of him. “Four, a quarter to?”
    “Could be. I don’t know.”
    Nor I, thought O’Shaughnessy. Nor I. “And what did you do while you were waiting?”
    “Nuttin’.” Suddenly he had lost the Trinity polish and was just another young Dubliner, a jackeen, O’Shaughnessy concluded ruefully. Like his father.
    “I guess I read a magazine.”
    “Which one?”
    “Oh—I dunno. I can’t rightly remember. I just turned the pages and thought about something else.” He was still concentrating on the machine, staring right at the black metal case, one arm on the table, the other elbow on his knee.
    “What was it about?”
    A pause. His head and shoulders moved slightly and he reached up to touch the paisley ascot in the neck of his off-white shirt. He was wearing a cream-colored blazer. “Automobiles, cars—” then his eyes flickered up at O’Shaughnessy triumphantly, “—Mercedes.”
    “What about Mercedes?”
    His father twisted his body in the seat and the wood creaked. “Is all this really necessary, Liam? I mean, Christ, what has all this got to do with anything?” He checked his wristwatch. “And we’ve really got to rush. The Horse Show. Sean is managing the arrangements for me.”
    “Where did you sit? In the showroom or in the garage?”
    “The showroom, I guess.”
    “Where in the showroom?”
    The young man hunched his shoulders, his hair fluffing around the shoulders of the blazer. He crossed his legs away from O’Shaughnessy—a dark brown worsted material, the pants; yachting moccasins with buff soles, no socks. “The showroom.”
    “Where did you sit in the showroom? Are there chairs?”
    Now his forehead was beaded with sweat.
    The fly had gotten trapped between the panes and blatted angrily.
    “In a chair, I guess.”
    “And where was the chair located? Near the cars or near the window?”
    “The window.”
    “Which window. Street side or alley side?”
    Again the shoulders. “I didn’t notice.”
    “Many cars in the showroom?”
    “Some.”
    “Colors?”
    “I guess.”
    “Aren’t you interested in cars, son?”
    “A bit.”
    “And you didn’t notice the types and colors and styles.”
    “No.”
    “Not even a fleeting glance?”
    “No.”
    “Your father here has a Mercedes himself, does he not?”
    Young Murray glanced up at O’Shaughnessy. “Three of them.”
    Was it a challenge? It was. His father was monied and powerful, and he was making sure the lowly Garda detective, whose superintendency was by government appointment, appreciated the fact.
    O’Shaughnessy turned and looked at the father. Was it pride on his face? It was, and O’Shaughnessy could only pity the boy more. “Who called you to say your car was ready?”
    “The service manager.” His voice was definite.
    So—it was upon the service manager that the lie was to be hung.
    “How much did it cost?”
    Yet again the shoulders and his eyes on the machine. “A few pounds.”
    “Five?”
    “I guess.”
    “Or ten? Was it closer to five or ten?”
    “Really, Superintendent,” the father objected, placing both palms on the table, “is this quite necessary?”
    O’Shaughnessy ignored him. “You must have signed for it, since you can’t remember.”
    The son wanted to glance at his father, but he kept his eyes on the machine. “Yes—I signed.”
    The father’s eyes darted away, down to the side and at the floor.
    “You signed the service slip?” O’Shaughnessy moved toward the stenographer.
    “Yes.”
    “And the work was extensive?”
    “No, no—just an adjustment.” He was irked now. “That’s why I took it there and not to the garage I bought it at.”
    “Which is?”
    “Harold’s Cross Garage.”
    O’Shaughnessy held out his large hand, and the stenographer pulled the sheets of paper from the