The Miracle Man (35 page)

The one at the front, who was the eldest and was obviously the leader, was wearing a skirt so short that in other circumstances it might have qualified as a broad belt. Her bleached hair was done in an extravagant bouffant style above a fat face heavy with powder, fly-swat eyelashes and cherry-red lips in a perfect Cupid’s bow. Beneath an apparently see-through crocheted jumper her huge breasts strained and shook as she teetered across the floor in shoes with vertiginous heels. She was followed by the three others, two of whom were plain in looks if no less garish in appearance than the first. The last woman was the youngest, no more than twenty-two or -three, and despite the heavy make-up was by far the prettiest of the four. As the ladies of pleasure lined up as if for inspection, the men did not know where to look first, whether at the lacy jumper of the big woman or at the pretty face and long slim legs of the youngest of them. Pig Cully had abruptly left Peggy May and was staring in open admiration at the four women. Young Moore’s mouth gaped open before he managed to whisper,

“God Almighty! D’y’ever see anythin’ like that in yer life?”

“Johnny McGhee,” the big woman said through a huge smile. She extended a fat hand festooned with jewellery. “Delighted to see you again, lover. Thank you so much for inviting us.” She shook his hand and then held it. “And aren’t you the big celebrity now? My girls and I have been following every word in the papers, so we have. Isn’t that right, girls? And what’s this we’ve been reading about you in the Northern Reporter?” Her smile grew even wider and her eyes narrowed to emulate it. “I think you’ve been holding out on us, Johnny.”

“Ah now,” Limpy said, “ye don’t want to believe all ye read
in the papers,” he said with a smile of delight. “They were exaggerating as usual. It was only two women a night – not three like they said.”

“Oh, you are a one, Johnny. I can see I’ll need to keep a tight grip on you,” Georgina said. “It’s not every day I get my hands on a man that’s both good-looking and rich!” She threw back her head and gave a deep, husky laugh, Dan Ahearn’s staring eyes moving in unison with the shaking of her great bosom.

“Jay-sus McGonagle!” he breathed and one of his legs began to tremble.

“Ye’re very welcome, girls!” Limpy cried, flourishing his free hand. “Just what we need to get these boys into the swing of things. Boys! These are friends of mine from Ballymane. Georgina,” he indicated the fat woman, “Dolores and Pamela,” he nodded towards the plain ones, “and Lucille.” Lucille gave a sly smile and cocked a leg which made more violent the shaking in Dan Ahearn’s corresponding limb. In the corner, Peggy May feigned disinterest in the brazen show by the four women.

“Cully! Throw on a record there and let her go, boy!” Limpy shouted, and wheeling the big woman round he backed her onto the space on the floor that had been cleared for dancing. With half an eye on the three spare women, Pig Cully hastily set a record in motion. As the first notes of the accordion band blared out, Limpy shouted,

“Take your pick, boys,” and was almost whirled off his feet in the arms of Georgina. Young Moore and Spade leapt forward like greyhounds out of traps, Moore to face Lucille and Kiernan in front of Pamela. Pig Cully and Dan Ahearn collided in their rush to Dolores and there was pushing and tugging of jackets before Dan Ahearn broke free and grabbed her hand to pull her onto the dancing area. The old couple had observed all of this with equanimity, while Mr Pointerly sat with his long nose in the air and wondered which one was Mr Tully’s cousin.
Consoling himself with another drink, Pig Cully trudged back to the sideboard to stand near Peggy May, who pointedly ignored him.

As the evening progressed, the living-room – large as it was – gradually filled with people, so that the area left for dancing became smaller and the dancers were more tightly packed. Any communication had to be shouted above the noise of laughter and whooping and the music from the radiogram which someone had turned up to full volume. Beside it, an old man sat swaying at the window, his elbow on the sill and his chin supported by his hand. Blearily he opened his eyes. Not six inches from him, on the other side of the window, he saw a sallow face with slant eyes looking back at him. He sprang back.

“God Almighty!”

His elbow slipped off the sill, which his chin hit with a thump and he fell to the floor.

“Ye’re drunk, ye old eejit,” the man next to him said, helping him to his feet. “It’s time ye were away home to yer bed.”

“Tommy, listen to me! There’s – a Chinaman out there. I swear to God. Yella face and slanty eyes.”

Tommy shook his head and said to his wife,

“I think he’s gone completely, Maggie. Ten minutes ago it was a ghost. Now it’s a bloody Chinaman.”

Two minutes later, at the door of the living-room appeared the three newspapermen, Dan the American, Lee from London and Mr Patel, whom the other two sometimes called Shriv.

“My God,” Dan Kowalksi said, as he stared at the mass of swaying and writhing bodies and the wall of heat hit them, “this looks like one helluva shindig! Let’s hope there’s some booze left.”

Led by the American, the three pushed their way round the
edge of the room, Mr Patel nodding an apology to everyone he pushed past and Lee writing in his notebook as he went. Having helped themselves to drinks at the table, they squeezed themselves into a space at the corner of the room and began to take stock of the female guests. Immediately, Lee’s interest was aroused by Lucille, his eyes following her every move until she had come off the dance floor, when he stepped quickly forward and asked her to dance with him. When he had surveyed the field and made a choice, Mr Patel decided to have another drink before asking her to dance. It was pretty obvious what she was from her appearance – cerise taffeta dress, dayglo lipstick and orange eyeshadow – but he could put it on expenses, and at least he would be sure of a good time with a professional. However, his intentions were temporarily frustrated when Johnny Spade went over to Peggy May who was standing forlornly in the corner. With a great tug which almost lifted his feet from the floor, he hitched up his trousers, narrowed his eyes to a killer gaze and said to her,

“C’mon Babe, wind up yer dancing gear and let’s cruise.”

“Oh, I’m not very good at dancing, Mr Kiernan. Mammy says I’ve got two left feet and a backside like the hind end of a horse.”

“Ah there’s nothing to it,” he said and executed a series of drunken hops. “That there’s the foxtrot and the waltz is the same thing but a bit slower. Ye’ll pick her up as ye go along.” He grabbed her hand and began pushing his way towards the dancing area. Pig Cully, who had been fetching a drink for Peggy May, was just in time to see her go off with Johnny Spade. Pig Cully shoved the drink onto the sideboard, intent on saving Peggy May’s honour at all costs, but as he turned to follow them he found Pamela standing before him, her low-cut dress revealing her full and heaving chest. Her hand ran up his arm and squeezed it.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she purred. Her
other hand slipped to his waist and began to massage it. Pig Cully gave a little whine. Taking this as assent, Pamela pulled him towards the middle of the floor, where Johnny Spade was dancing with Peggy May, his elbows flapping like he was trying to take flight. Mr Patel shook his head, threw back his drink and said something to himself in Gujurati.

Dan Ahearn stood grasping the edge of the table as he swayed back and forth, a whirlygig of bottle shapes racing before his eyes. Beside him was Limpy, bathed in sweat and with his shirt open to the waist.

“By God,” he took a great draught of stout from his glass and some of it ran down his chin, “this is one hoor of a party, Ahearn – and the pubs is not out yet. They’ll be dancing on the roof before the night’s out!”

“Did ye see that – “ Dan Ahearn started, then ground to a halt. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Have ye seen that woman, that – ye know, the one with the dress.” He took his hands off the table long enough to describe a vee at his chest but replaced them quickly to avoid falling on his face. “Jeez-o. Y’ever see anythin’ like that, McGhee?” One hand was raised to slap the other, which couldn’t be raised to meet it. “Where’n hell did ye get her from? She’s some woman. D’you think – would she take a walk out wi’ me?”

“I’m sure she would, Dan – if ye’ve got the money.”

“Money for what? We’d only be going for a walk.” He shook his head gravely, still barely able to believe that this goddess of love was so amply proportioned and generously displayed. “She’s one helluva woman.”

Blear-eyed he scanned the floor for Lucille who had just picked up Dippy Burns from where he had been wedged in a corner, observing the proceedings and wondering about the dangers of contagious diseases in such a hot and crowded environment. Lucille had had no success with any of her dance partners, who at the mention of money had decided that
they were urgently required elsewhere. This time it was Lucille’s turn to dump her partner when he gave her a gawky smile as they took to the floor and without benefit of introduction said straight off,

“I don’t suppose ye’d know anything about tertiary syphilis, but ye’d never believe what happened to me.”

In the corner near the radiogram, Limpy was sitting on the vast lap of Georgina, whose face was red from the exertions of dancing. In between sips from a concoction of various liquors, she nibbled at the ear of the Miracle Man and kept his ardour warm by gently massaging his inner thigh. Later she might work up to his wallet.

“Mr McGhee,” the voice shouted above the din. Someone in the middle of the room was doing a Highland Fling, urged on by a circle of clapping and whooping spectators.

“Well, damn me, if it isn’t young Fergus Keane.” Limpy grabbed the young reporter’s hand and pumped it. “How’re ye, boy? Have ye had a drink? There’s enough here to float a friggin’ battleship. Georgina, this here’s the reporter that made me famous,” he said. “He got the scoop.”

Fergus Keane was having a little difficulty staying upright and he put an arm on Limpy’s shoulder.

“Mr McGhee.” Fergus crooked a finger. “C’mere. Did I do it for you – or what? Eh? A friend in need is – indeed – a friend in – need, eh?” Fergus gave a drunken laugh. “No half measures, Mr McGhee. Three a night. No more talk now about you being a horse’s hoof, eh?”

“Well, there’s been no more talk from my woman, full stop. I’m thinking maybe ye overdid it a bit there, young Fergus. But yer heart was in the right place. I daresay she’ll come round soon enough.” He laughed. “All the rest of the women have.”

Fergus grabbed Limpy’s wrist and held his arm aloft in a victory salute.

“Three-times-a-night McGhee!” he shouted. “The Miracle Man!” And then his eyelids flickered and closed, his legs gently buckled and with one graceful if involuntary movement he flopped into the armchair beside Limpy, who looked down at him for a moment and said,

“By Jeez, it’s hard work writing lies, eh?” Then he and Georgina laughed and the big woman reached over to pat the unconscious Fergus gently on the cheek.

“Lovely young man.”

“Mr McGhee.” A big hand shot out, grasped one of Limpy’s and shook it vigorously. “Dan Kowalski. Boston Globe-Tribune. Very pleased to make your acquaintance at last, sir. You’re a hard man to track down. Now, Mr McGhee, I’d very much like to do a personal and exclusive story on you and your miraculous experience. There’s a helluva lot of interest in this back home, especially in Boston. Big Irish population, you know? A story like this from the old country? Goldust, Mr McGhee, goldust.”

“Well, very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Gomulski, but I’m afraid I can’t do any interviews.” Limpy pulled himself up to his full height and adjusted the lapels of his suit, which was now giving off a strong odour similar to that of a very old and incontinent dog. “I’ve already sold the exclusive rights to an English publication – for a very considerable sum. I’m sorry, Mr Gromoski.”

Dan Kowalski gave a broad smile.

“I think you got the wrong end of the stick, Mr McGhee. Let me explain. What I want to do is publish your story in North America. Wouldn’t affect your English deal at all.”

“It – wouldn’t?”

“No sir. Look, let me lay a scenario on you. This is how I see it. I carry out an in-depth interview – you know, childhood, career, religious background, neighbourhood, how the miracle happened – that sort of thing? Take two, three days, I guess. I’d
write it up then we’d run it in the Globe-Tribune and syndicate it – all over the States and Canada – South America too, I guess. Maybe one day a week for a four- or five-week series. And your face, Mr McGhee, would be on the front page of every newspaper from Saskatoon to San Antonio.”

Limpy McGhee looked suitably impressed.

“Well now, that would be something, wouldn’t it? And – what kind of remuneration would we be talking about here, Mr Graminski, for my story, like?”

“For that kind of thing? Oh, I guess we got to be talking about – fifty. Dollars, that is. We can work out the details later. You won’t find the Globe-Tribune backward when it comes to paying out for a big story, Mr McGhee.”

“Fifty? Jasus, I got a lot more than that from the English fella.”

“You got more than fifty thousand dollars from an English newspaper?”

Limpy staggered back two steps and sat down heavily in Georgina’s lap. They said in unison,

“Fifty – thousand – dollars?”

“Well, it could be a little more. Depends how things turn out. We’ll start at fifty anyway. What d’you say, Mr McGhee? Exclusive American, Canadian and South American rights. Do we have a deal?”

Limpy’s body seemed to sag under his jacket, which now appeared to have the ability to stand up on its own. In a small voice he said,

“Where do I sign, Mr Kramuski?”

About three hundred yards from Pig Cully’s house, halfway up a hill that was partly covered in trees and bushes, three men, late of the Glens Hotel bar, had another drink from a whiskey bottle before starting their work. The smallest of them stepped forward. He was Seumas Kernohan, whose widowed mother
had lain stricken for six years with nervous debilitation and whose only relief came from the weekly laying on of hands in private by the butcher, who was reputed to be very effective at that sort of thing. At any rate, it had always left Mrs Kernohan with a smile on her face. To one of Seumas’s legs a torch was tied with the lens pointing upwards. Then he was helped up into a small tree, where a rope was passed around his thighs and the tree trunk before being tied at the back. A white garment was produced from a carrier bag and placed over the young man by John Breen. With the robe in place, a hood falling forward nicely to cover much of the face and the bottom hem reaching past Seumas’s feet, the other two drew back to judge the effect.