to him and where he is now.”
The phone began to ring.
All three men began to stand.
O’Malley said, “I’ll get it,” and went out to the kitchen.
McGarr asked Quirk, “What was May’s occupation in New York?”
Quirk began rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. McGarr could tell the old man was getting tired. His windburned skin was beginning to look waxy, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Ah—she tried one thing and another for a couple of years. Then she became a journalist, first for the United Irishmen , a paper in the States for narrowbacks, don’t you know. She became one of their editors in no time. May always had a way with words. And there was no denying her anything she wanted. If she insisted, she could get it out of you. She then joined the New York Daily News . Here.” He stood and went to the sideboard. “May sent us a copy of every paper that carried one of her major pieces.” He opened the doors of the sideboard, which was crammed full of newspapers. “I don’t pretend to have read them all. It made me sick being reminded of how she’d probably never return.” He took one of the top papers and handed it to McGarr. He was crying now. He walked out of the room, into the hall.
The newspaper had a tabloid format. The front pagepictured a black young man sprawled on a sidewalk with a large white policeman standing over him. The officer carried a riot shotgun and was wearing a helmet with a clear face shield that made him look like a robot. The block capital letters read, “COPS IN BED. STUY. CAUSE RIOTS,” and the caption under the full-page picture read, “So Say Black Caucus Leaders. Story by May Quirk, page 2.”
McGarr skimmed the article, written in the short, punchy writing style that some American newspapers favored. The article wasn’t long, but the questions May Quirk had asked the black leaders revealed that they had little evidence to support their contention. One picture showed her interviewing a man on the steps of a brownstone. McGarr glanced at the date—June 22, 1969. May Quirk was about twenty-three then, and the editor had doubtless selected the picture not because the man being interviewed was important but because the people who read the paper liked to see pretty girls. She had her left hand on her hip, one foot on the ground, and the other on the first stair. The picture was shot from the side. It looked like she was taunting the big black man with the prospect of her upper body. He looked like a hairy, unkempt rabblerouser, she like a fine piece of work who was showing him up in every sense. But he was smiling at her too, a smile that seemed foolish.
O’Malley was standing in the door. “I’m wanted across the way. It’s Cleary. He’s having trouble.”
McGarr put the paper aside. “Of what sort?”
“They say he’s been raving around. He broke up all the furniture in the house last night and burned it and his old car out in the yard.”
McGarr himself had seen a smoldering fire whenthey had passed by. The shell of the car had looked like a Triumph Herald.
“His cousin found him sitting against the kitchen wall in a stupor. He hasn’t really been eating well, you know. Lives alone. Doesn’t do much of anything anymore. Rented out his good land to some wheat farmers from Wexford. They poured on chemicals and used it up. Now it’s going back to bush.”
McGarr pulled himself out of the chair. “I’ll go with you, if you think the Quirks will be all right.”
“Your inspector wants to talk to you first.”
It was Hughie Ward. He said, “Bernie got ahold of Scannell. You know, he’s the one Hanly says cashed his foreign currency. Well, it’s true, but not in big amounts. Five-and ten-dollar bills and never more than a couple hundred pounds’ worth at a time.
“Then I’ve been around to the bars to check on the bottle of C. C. I got a warm welcome in the one you stopped in to.”
“Tried to poison you, did they?” McGarr asked,
The phone began to ring.
All three men began to stand.
O’Malley said, “I’ll get it,” and went out to the kitchen.
McGarr asked Quirk, “What was May’s occupation in New York?”
Quirk began rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. McGarr could tell the old man was getting tired. His windburned skin was beginning to look waxy, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Ah—she tried one thing and another for a couple of years. Then she became a journalist, first for the United Irishmen , a paper in the States for narrowbacks, don’t you know. She became one of their editors in no time. May always had a way with words. And there was no denying her anything she wanted. If she insisted, she could get it out of you. She then joined the New York Daily News . Here.” He stood and went to the sideboard. “May sent us a copy of every paper that carried one of her major pieces.” He opened the doors of the sideboard, which was crammed full of newspapers. “I don’t pretend to have read them all. It made me sick being reminded of how she’d probably never return.” He took one of the top papers and handed it to McGarr. He was crying now. He walked out of the room, into the hall.
The newspaper had a tabloid format. The front pagepictured a black young man sprawled on a sidewalk with a large white policeman standing over him. The officer carried a riot shotgun and was wearing a helmet with a clear face shield that made him look like a robot. The block capital letters read, “COPS IN BED. STUY. CAUSE RIOTS,” and the caption under the full-page picture read, “So Say Black Caucus Leaders. Story by May Quirk, page 2.”
McGarr skimmed the article, written in the short, punchy writing style that some American newspapers favored. The article wasn’t long, but the questions May Quirk had asked the black leaders revealed that they had little evidence to support their contention. One picture showed her interviewing a man on the steps of a brownstone. McGarr glanced at the date—June 22, 1969. May Quirk was about twenty-three then, and the editor had doubtless selected the picture not because the man being interviewed was important but because the people who read the paper liked to see pretty girls. She had her left hand on her hip, one foot on the ground, and the other on the first stair. The picture was shot from the side. It looked like she was taunting the big black man with the prospect of her upper body. He looked like a hairy, unkempt rabblerouser, she like a fine piece of work who was showing him up in every sense. But he was smiling at her too, a smile that seemed foolish.
O’Malley was standing in the door. “I’m wanted across the way. It’s Cleary. He’s having trouble.”
McGarr put the paper aside. “Of what sort?”
“They say he’s been raving around. He broke up all the furniture in the house last night and burned it and his old car out in the yard.”
McGarr himself had seen a smoldering fire whenthey had passed by. The shell of the car had looked like a Triumph Herald.
“His cousin found him sitting against the kitchen wall in a stupor. He hasn’t really been eating well, you know. Lives alone. Doesn’t do much of anything anymore. Rented out his good land to some wheat farmers from Wexford. They poured on chemicals and used it up. Now it’s going back to bush.”
McGarr pulled himself out of the chair. “I’ll go with you, if you think the Quirks will be all right.”
“Your inspector wants to talk to you first.”
It was Hughie Ward. He said, “Bernie got ahold of Scannell. You know, he’s the one Hanly says cashed his foreign currency. Well, it’s true, but not in big amounts. Five-and ten-dollar bills and never more than a couple hundred pounds’ worth at a time.
“Then I’ve been around to the bars to check on the bottle of C. C. I got a warm welcome in the one you stopped in to.”
“Tried to poison you, did they?” McGarr asked,
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