There were no ball games on the television, old movies only made the clientele feel more ancient, and the jukebox was still broken from the afternoon of Red Cioffi’s daughter’s wedding. So it was time for Brendan Malachy McCone to take center stage. He motioned for a fresh beer, put his right foot on the brass rail, breathed in deeply, and started to sing. Oh, the Garden of Eden has vanished, they say,But I know the lie of it still,Just turn to the left at the bridge of Finaghy,And meet me halfway to Coote Hill … The song was very Irish, sly and funny, the choruses full of the names of long-forgotten places, and the regulars loved Brendan for the quick jaunty singing of it. They loved the roguish glitter in his eyes, his energy, his good-natured boasting. He was, after all, a man in his fifties now, and yet here he was, still singing the bold songs of his youth. And on this night, as on so many nights, they joined him in the verses. The boy is a man now,He’s toil-worn,he’s tough, He whispers, “Come over the sea”Come back, Patty Reilly, to Bally James Duff,Ah, come back, Patty Reilly, to me … Outside, rain had begun to fall, a cold Brooklyn rain, driven by the wind off the harbor, and it made the noises and the singing and the laughter seem even better.
What do You think about Brooklyn Noir 2: The Classics?
