He was a skimpy little fellow with a thin face and a crooked little pointed nose. A comma of slick black hair was stuck to his forehead, like an unruly curl still there from years before when his mother had plastered it down with a spat-on finger before sending him out into the world. He had a peculiar, corkscrew walk, sort of hugging himself as he went along and setting one foot directly in front of the other, like a ballet dancer. He was wearing one of the limp, greyish-white linen suits that he had tailored for him in some sweatshop out East. They were a bad fit, and he never stopped wriggling around inside them, as if they were infested with ants. He carried his head at a permanent tilt, his right jaw tucked in against his shoulder. This was due to a congenital defect – the pub wits said that when he was being born the doctor took one look at him and tried to push him back in again. Also, he had a permanent twitch at the side of his mouth. He was called by various nicknames, the Jew boy, or the Suit, but most people just knew him as Little Lenny. He had started out as a deep-sea sailor, and claimed to be able to speak half a dozen languages, which must be useful in the hardware trade.

‘Neddy, my boy!’ he said, punching the big man lightly on the upper arm with the point of a miniature fist. ‘Have this one on me. What? Sure? All right, then.’ He spoke to the barman. ‘I’ll take a gin and water, Mikey.’

He turned about and leaned his elbows on the bar and surveyed the dim, shabby room with his thin-lipped, twitchy smile. He lit a cigarette.

‘How’s it going, Lenny?’ Ned Gallagher said, regarding him sideways with a look of distaste.

‘Never better,’ Lenny replied jauntily, ‘never better.’ He brought out a coin from his trouser pocket and rolled it along his knuckles with flicks of his thumb. It was one of his tricks, and he was proud of it. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while,’ he said. ‘What are you after?’ He grinned. ‘The usual, I suppose?’ He glanced about the bar again. ‘No likely lads in tonight, though, or not yet, anyway.’

‘Come on,’ Gallagher said, taking up his drink and turning aside, ‘we’ll sit down over there.’

He led the way to a low circular table in a corner. Lenny, still showing off his skill with the glittering shilling, detached himself from the bar and ambled after him.

They sat on rickety spindle-backed chairs. The barman brought Lenny’s gin.

‘Here’s spit in your eye,’ Lenny said, lifting his glass.

For a time they sat in silence, Gallagher hunched over the table with his shoulders lifted, while Lenny turned and again considered the room. ‘Right fucking kip, isn’t it,’ he said fondly.