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

machine.
    “Would you sign this statement, Mister Murray?”
    The young man eyed the sheets, the four copies of which O’Shaughnessy began collating.
    “When it’s typed up, of course,” the father said, standing. “When it’s typed up and readable and we recollect it’s what was said, then well and good, we’ll sign. But not that stuff, Liam. No sir, not like that.”
    “Then would you mind waiting? We’ll have it typed up right now.”
    “Oh, no—you’ve kept us waiting long enough as it is. We have business, big business, Superintendent, and I can’t allow you to keep Sean from it.”
    “Then you won’t mind returning at a later day, say, Monday morning. By then we’ll have it just as it was spoken, neat and in English. And I’ll have additional questions to put, of that I’m sure.”
    The son looked away.
    “Monday morning? You must be joking.”
    O’Shaughnessy only stared at the father.
    The hand moved over the upper lip, the harried eyes flashed. “Please try to understand, Liam. We’re not…civil servants. We’re businessmen and the Horse Show—why, we’ve worked all year for it. It’s more than just important to us, it’s vital. The auctions, the prizes, the competitions.”
    Still O’Shaughnessy said nothing.
    “I’m afraid I’ll have to call Peter on this. And Commissioner Farrell. It’s…extraordinary. Harassment—that’s what it constitutes. Harassment.”
    O’Shaughnessy only moved to the door, which he opened.
    The square of buildings had caught the heat and the courtyard was an oven. The lines of the shiny black Mercedes were blurry and difficult to look at. The chauffeur was standing by an open rear door.
    O’Shaughnessy turned to Murray. “No hard feelings, sir. I’m only earning my keep.”
    Murray’s facial features were suddenly transformed. “Why, of course. Of course.” He pumped O’Shaughnessy’s arm, his son behind him. Sweat seemed to pop from his forehead and upper lip, and his skin was the texture of tallow wax. O’Shaughnessy wondered if he was ill and not just from booze alone. “And I mine—as a counsellor, you understand. Strictly as a counsellor. You can’t be too careful. I’ve learned that.” Murray held O’Shaughnessy’s gaze. He was long used to lying.
    O’Shaughnessy began walking him down to the car. “The Bechel-Gore thing. Do you know we’re investigating that again?” It was a question McGarr asked him to put to Murray, one of those on the slip of paper Greaves had handed him earlier.
    “A sorry situation,” said Murray.
    “Tragic. Such a vital man. Do you see much of him?”
    “Unfortunately, too much.” Murray began chuckling. “The tragedy has only made him more…aggressive, channeled his efforts. He’s a fierce competitor, Liam, make no mistake about that. Ruthless, utterly ruthless.
    “But you know,” he turned to O’Shaughnessy, “I don’t think my life would be as…bracing without him, if you know what I mean.”
    O’Shaughnessy only nodded and looked out over the shimmering cobblestones toward the lemon-yellow convertible. Ward was standing by it, talking to the girl. The echo of the door closing pinged around the brick and masonry of the courtyard.
    “And James Joseph Keegan. Do you see much of him?”
    “Who?”
    “Keegan. J. J. Jimmy-Joe. Leenane. He’s a man with a certain interest in horses.”
    “Keegan, Keegan.” Murray’s brow was suddenly furrowed, the bushy eyebrows knitted. And O’Shaughnessy could smell him now—the stale, fruity but astringent odor of an alcoholic.
    “Horses, you say?”
    “Probably, but more definitely donkeys. Small man—sallow, cloth cap. Sixty-five. Seventy.”
    “No—can’t say that I have. Should I keep an eye out for him?”
    “If you would, if you would, sir. Peter and I would appreciate it.”
    “Until Monday, then?”
    Murray bent to ease his heavy body into the back seat of the limousine and he either coughed or cried out in pain. “The old bones.