Page 138 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Do you need a glass?” he asked.

“Are you using a glass?” I asked cagily.

“Of course. I’m not a barbarian.”

“Then I’ll take one.”

He handed me a milk tumbler, and I tilted it three degrees from the horizontal and poured in the Guinness.

There was only a moderate head, which seemed to mollify Brendan a little. I was a traitor copper from the north, but at least I could pour a pint of beer like a man.

“Huh,” he grunted.

We sat in silence for a minute.

“Nice finally to have a drink with one’s real enemy. Not Man City, but one’srealenemy,” he said.

I knew he was looking at me. The peat fire crackled. A cat rubbed itself against my legs. From upstairs there was a strange, muffled thumping that could be anything from the boiler playing up to an informer being beaten to death with a blackjack.

“You find you need a fire in July?” I asked.

“It’s freezing here all the time. House is too big. Can’t heat it.”

“Blame the builder.”

“I am the builder.”

“I know.”

“I heard you’re a bit of a music lover,” Brendan said.

“I can take it or leave it.”

He rummaged through the record stacks, found the album he was looking for, and took it out of its sleeve. He cleaned it with an antistatic brush and carefully moved the needle to the fifth track.

“What do you think of this?” he asked.

It was Ella Fitzgerald singing Rodgers and Hart’s “Blue Moon” over a full string orchestra. When the song was over, he carefully lifted the needle from the turntable and put the record back in the sleeve.

“That was very—” I began, but Brendan cut me off.

“Not yet!” he said.

He put on another record. It was “Blue Moon” again but a different version. Slightly slower, with only a guitar. The voice was unmistakably Julie London’s. One of my grandmother’s favorites. I hadn’t heard this particular track before, although I was familiar with London’s version of “Cry Me a River,” which my grandmother had played over and over.

When the song ended, Brendan put it back in its sleeve and sat down again.

“Which did you prefer?” he asked.

It was probably a trick question. You’d be a fool to go against the great Ella Fitzgerald, who had one of the sweetest voices of the twentieth century, but just this time I’d actually preferred the London version.

“The second one. Julie London.”

“Not the first one?” he asked.

“No. Ella’s got a beautiful tone, but somehow Julie London just nails this song.”

Brendan smiled with satisfaction. I had given him the correct answer.

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