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But he needed something else to complete the image. What was it? A cigarette, like a prop, in his left hand. He would talk with it, swirling it around demonstratively. A . . Gauloise. Sure. Ward didn’t THE DEATH OF AN IRISH TRADITION 29 smoke, but he thought he’d give it a try. If nothing else, the girl was chic, and that Murray fellow she was keeping company with, well—. He took three large strides into the kitchen area of the loft and switched off the blender. He tossed the cover at the sink.
Flynn only looked down into his cup and shook his head. “Now you really do owe me one. ” McGarr only stared at him, his gray eyes clear and unblinking. ” “Something about wanting to correct his style in the saddle. ” Already McGarr was out in the hall of the modern building, moving quickly toward the door. ” “Wait, wait. Jesus! ” Moments later, McGarr was pushing through the glass doors that opened on the parking lot, Flynn right behind him. A gust of wind, hot and wet, struck them. On the eastern horizon a bank of clouds, a storm front, had passed in front of the sun and shone like hot, bur- THE DEATH OF AN IRISH TRADITION 39 nished silver.
Repeat that you’re a buyer. They won’t mind a bit. And who’s a good man to talk to? ” McGarr opened one eye to see if McKeon had caught it. He had. “Now—who we’re looking for is a certain older fellow, name J. J. Keegan. He’s the one on the video tape you’ll be seeing. Pounds to pence he won’t be using his real name. Small, dark, sallow skin. Cloth cap, dark suit, about sixty-ﬁve, maybe seventy. Galway. Leenane. Could be—” it occurred to McGarr, “—a native Irish speaker. ” McGarr knew what McKeon meant: Keegan ﬁt the description of thousands of older Irishmen and he wondered just how much the grainy picture on the R.