Diamonds in the Blood

Paul Kelly

Description

This fantastic new eBook from well-known author Paul Kelly will make an excellent addition to any fiction-lover's digital shelf. Featuring strong characters and plots which draws you into Kelly's worlds, reviewers have been recommending his titles for years. This latest addition to his catalogue of successes is sure to be another winner.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 12 mars 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781781661451
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

DIAMONDS IN THE BLOOD




By
Paul Kelly




Publisher Information

Diamonds In The Blood
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Paul Kelly

The right of Paul Kelly to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Chapter One

New York City ... Sometime In The Year 1961

The old tramp tottered where he stood at the saloon bar door, waiting for anyone to buy him that last drink ... after the Irish barman had demanded that he ‘ get the hell out of it’ several times in the course of that evening. He smiled at the customers with hope in his eyes ... as they left the bar, but there was no response.
“Could you please buy me a drink, Sir … Just one for the road please? ...
He smiled again with his toothless cheeky grin and with the surrounding silver stubble and the shock of grey hair, which seemed to fall away from his dirty cap. His dark, ebony eyes portrayed a certain youthful appearance, even if they were red around the rims. He emerged as a character who had hit rock bottom in his faded blue jacket and tattered trousers, under his ragged great coat that had obviously been cut for someone other than himself, but the strong jaw line and the high-bronzed almost wrinkle-free forehead seemed to suggest that at some time in the past, he had enjoyed a yesteryear of his own ... where he had known better days. He wiped his nose with a piece of old cloth that may have been a handkerchief from those better days also and folded it neatly, almost reverently, as a prize possession, before returning it to his pocket and rubbing a tear from his eye with the back of his hand.
It was then that he realised how the night was closing in and that his endeavours were proving impossible, as he staggered past the brightly lit windows, with their sand-blasted signs of ‘Murphy’s Wine Bar’ in elegant, dusky, clouded cut-out letters. His shoes squeaked in the rain and the brown paper inners were beginning to peep out from his toes. He shuddered as he breathed in, slowly ... holding his chest for the pain that he constantly endured there in breathing ... then he wandered down through 44th Street to the pitch where he had slept the night before, but alas! …too late someone had already occupied his cardboard box home of the previous evening. He shuffled on slowly, labouring his weary way past the accompanying groans and snores that emerged from that enviable night shelter ... and made his way back to his alternative accommodation ... in the alley at the back of the railway yard, where at least, you could have shelter from the wind and rain. He found a space, just wide enough for him to squeeze in beside a moving pile of newspapers ... and settled himself for the night, trying to read the headlines as he struggled to keep himself warm. He rubbed his hands; breathing into the palms and tried to pull his ex-U.S. army greatcoat around him without disturbing his neighbour in the act. He knew his dreams would be varied ... they always were, but he had to sleep in order to get any dream at all. He yawned and scratched his head under his cap before his weariness induced him away from the surrounding ‘opera’ of snores and other arias, not quite so pleasant, but that was life for a tramp and he accepted it. If only he could sleep ... for a long time ... A very, very long time indeed …
“Old Jack they call me,” he reflected, thinking aloud and muttering to himself as he often did. “I’m not old ... and my name’s not Jack, but then ... who the hell cares? As long as you have some sort of a tag or other, just so that you don’t get mixed up with somebody else ... that’s all people need, I guess. I could be a Count, couldn’t I? Or an Archbishop …” he giggled softly and hunched his shoulders, then he smiled with the warmth that was reaching him by this time as he rolled over and yawned ... before he fell into a deep sleep.

***

Officer Stephen O’Malley was one of the most conscientious and dutiful policemen in the whole of the State of New York ... or so it was often said. He loved his work and spent long hours at home, preparing for the very important duties of ‘street patrol’ and he prided himself that he knew every vagrant in town, by sight if not be name and he always wore his cap at just the right angle. His boots too, were polished to perfection, so that you could see your face in them ... if you looked down ... and he carried his truncheon under wraps, so as not to frighten any of his constituents ... for that is how he thought of them. He used his deep, powerful Irish voice with such expertise that he was never known to require a whistle and only Mrs. O’Malley ever heard him speak in a whisper.
“C’mon then … Let’s be ‘avin’ yeze. Move on you lot …wakey ... wakey,” he barked as he produced his wooden rod of authority from below his jacket, with a string attached to his wrist as he gave his command and one by one the vagrants moved under their bedclothes of coats, cardboard or newspapers ... usually the final edition; the one with the best and latest racing results.
“Hey you ... Padrik ... have ye been to the station with that matter yet. You know the one I mean, don’t ye?”
Officer O’Malley addressed the tramp with discretion, winking his eye and nodding his head, as he touched the side of his bulbous nose with his forefinger, an attribute that he felt justly proud and considered every man to have some measure of dignity.
“Not yet Officer, but I’m goin’ ... that’s for sure. I’ll get down there this very day ... you’ll see if I don’t.”
O’Malley waved his stick in circles.
“Make sure ye do then, or I’ll be after yez ... onderstand?”
Padrik shuffled away with all his worldly goods under his arm, whistling the Londonderry Air, nervously as he went and O’Malley strolled on through the sleeping row of snoring heaps. He prodded a piece of faded tartan that blew about faintly in the morning air and something stirred.
“C’mon now Mary alannah, you’ve ‘ad yer beauty sleep now. Up ye get.”
The snoring ceased and the tartan moved as a grey-haired middle-aged woman sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes before she proceeded to comb her hair into her lap.
“I’m goin’ Officer. I have to for sure ... ‘aven’t I got to be at Tiffany’s to ‘ave me ‘air set be ten o’clock?” she laughed wildly and threw her hair into the air. O’Malley grunted and stepped over her feet.
“Begorra, you’ll look a right pitture after that,” he chuckled and moved to the end of the sleeping line. Mary called after him in her own particular patronising way that she knew would please him.
“You are a tease, Stevie boy …Good on ya, lad.”
The Officer shook his head nervously and coughed, pretending that he had not been affected by her ‘well-meaning’ remark.
“Hello Jacko ... ‘aven’t seen you on this pitch for some time. Got yerself a job or somethin’?”
Old Jack rolled over and studied his intruder with bleary eyes.
“No ... not as yet Officer, but who knows ... tomorra my luck might turn.”
The policeman grinned ... “That’s the best way to look at it, boyo … now c’mon ...up ye get an’ away witt yuh.”
Some newspapers beside old Jack started to move slowly and Officer O’Malley lifted the surface sheets very gently with the tip of his truncheon.
“What ‘ave we ‘ere, then?” he enquired as he bent down to investigate. The papers moved faster and a woman’s head appeared above the New York Times June 22nd 1958. Some girl had just had her throat cut in the headlines. The woman wore a battered hat, which was held tightly to her head with a gaily coloured chiffon scarf and as she attempted to stand up, O’Malley could see that she sported a long, badly stained raincoat, buttoned carefully at the front and without the lower half of the coat at the back, where he could hardly avoid seeing her wrinkled lisle stockings, which reached only to her knees ... Well, that’s where her purple knickers clamped them to her thighs and a pair of men’s green socks and oversized brown boots completed the picture. O’Malley stared at her in surprise.
“Bizoon ...” he cried,” and who the ‘ell are you, then?”
He scrutinized the ‘lady’ with peering eyes, but she only scowled and drew away from him; her face twitching as she continued to gather her night attire , firstly into a soiled pillow case and thereafter into an old vanity bag, with delicate precision. Padrik shouted from a distance.
“That’s Madge, Officer ... she won’t answer ye none. She don’t speak, ye see, she’s a dummy.” Padrik pulled a face as he made his announcement and added ... “Daft too, if ye arsk me” ... but the woman stuck her forefinger in the air at him. O.Malley’s face softened as he looked on at the woman’s movements and he tapped his baton into the palm of his left hand.
“Be off with yez then Madgie girl an’ be good.”
Madge glared at the Officer again and then turned to old Jack. She appeared angry and her face was like thunder, as she shuffled off to follow her companions of the night. Officer O’Malley smiled at old Jack.
“Bet ye didn’t guess who ye was cuddlin’ up to in the night, Jackie Boy. It might