Front-Page McGuffin & The Greatest Story Never Told Read Online Free

a little bit like the busted air conditioning in Edgar’s apartment, and a little bit like the whine of the loose fanbelt on Jim Leafman’s aged Plymouth. And with every new expulsion, Front-Page’s back arches like a mad cat.
    Bills reachesacross and takes hold of Front-Page’s hand, raises his eyebrows. Then he shifts his hold to the wrist.
    “He’s cold isn’t he?” says McCoy. “He’s one sick man.”
    “He’s worse than that,” says Bills.
    Edgar frowns. “What’s worse than being sick?” he asks.
    Front-Page lifts his head and that eyelid has stuck down again. He lifts his hand and adjusts it, this time a little easier. “I do … I do remember you guys,” he says, the words sticking here and there, coming out croaked, and then raps the table with his knuckles.
    “You eating, Front-Page? You gotta eat you know,” says Edgar, sounding like he’s talking to a child. “Keeps your strength up.”
    “Not hungry,” says Front-Page, rapping his knuckles on the table again.
    “Ask him when he last ate something?” Jim whispers to Edgar.
    “Two weeks, maybe three,” says Front-Page without waiting for Edgar to pass on the question. He raps his knuckles again. “Don’t remember. Just remember the pain.”
    Edgar says, “Pain?”
    Front-Page slaps a hand heavily against his chest. “Pain,” he says, “right here. Fell over in the street … down near Battery Park. Late night. Nobody around.” He pauses and makes a wheezing sound. When he speaks again, the lips barely come apart, cracked and discoloured. “Just lay there for a time. Thinking of Betty.”
    “Oh God,” Edgar says, hanging his head.
    “Then what happened?” asks Bills.
    “Pain went away. Got up … went somewhere.”
    “Where’d you go, Front-Page? Did you go home?”
    Front-Page looks at Jim and tries to shrug.“Doanmumber.”
    “He doesn’t remember,” Bills translates for the frowning Edgar. He hands his glass of beer to Front-Page and watches him take a long slug.
    Jack Fedogan strolls across and places the pitcher of frothy beer on the table, puts a glass in front of each person. “How’s he doing?”
    “Not good,” says Edgar.
    “He’s worse than not good,” says Bills.“He’s dead.”
    Nobody speaks.
    Front-Page looks from one wide-eyed face to another while in the background, from Jack Fedogan’s bar speakers, Ellis and Branford Marsalis play a haunting version of ‘Maria’.
    “I think,” says Front-Page, “he’s right.” The words come out straighter and coherent and he looks as surprised at that as everyone else looks as a result of Bills Williams’s revelation. “It happens sometimes,” Front-page says. He gives the table a single knock with his knuckles.
    “It happens sometimes that people die and walk into a bar to see their old friends?” Edgar says, his voice getting higher with each word.
    Front-Page shakes his head. “My voice,” he says. “Sometimes it sounds almost normal. The beer helps.”
    “But, yes, Edgar, it does happen sometimes that people walk around after they’ve … passed on ,” Bills says. “I seen it once before, down in New Orleans.” He reaches across to Front-Page’s open shirt-neck, pulls a silver chain there until he exposes a circular medallion depicting an old man carrying someone on his shoulders. “Saint Christopher,” Bills says.
    “Who’s he?” asks Jim Leafman.
    “Patron Saint of travellers,” Front-Page says. “Protects anyone on the road … looks after them.”
    “Why did you not shake McCoy’s hand?” Bills asks. “When you came over to the table.”
    “Bad luck to shake hands across a table,” Front-Page answers. “Everyone knows that.” He looks around at the blank faces. “Don’t they?”
    “Why’d you keep rapping the table, Edgar asks, making it sound like he already knows the answer.
    “Knocking wood,” Front-Page says. “Keeps from tempting fate.”
    McCoy Brewer says, “Keeps from tempting fate to do