Malachy Mc. Court's 'Death Need Not Be Fatal' reflects on life. Before he runs out of time, Irish bon vivant Malachy Mc. Court shares his views on death — sometimes hilarious and often poignant — and on what will or won’t happen after his last breath is drawn in “Death Need Not Be Fatal,” in bookstores May 1. In 1. 96. 3 I was involved in running a saloon called Himself on East Eighty- Eighth Street.

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In those long- ago days I rarely got to sleep before five o’clock in the morning. You never knew who would stroll in the door in the wee hours. Luckily, my commute was short; I lived in an apartment over the bar. After closing I would lean one shoulder into the wall and use the banister to pull myself up the stairs. There were mornings when the climb felt like ascending Kilimanjaro. With one eye closed I held the key in front of the lock until I was fairly sure the two were lined up, and then with a great thrust I pushed the key toward the meager opening, which, more times than not, seemed to shift locations. Once inside the apartment, I fell into bed as though I were falling off a cliff.

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In the soft confines of my nocturnal bunk, I would enter a land from which I’m surprised I ever returned. My drunken sleep was like a death in a way. There was nothing within, and whatever was happening without didn’t matter.

Except this one day. I was in that particular state of rest early one afternoon when my phone rang with such urgency that not only did it awaken me but I answered the damned thing just to keep the noise from bonging around my cranium. My lovely Diana was on the phone. The courtship then was fairly new. Have you heard the news?” the softest voice in the world inquired, which, of course, I had not.

The date was November 2. As 9/1. 1 would later be to New Yorkers, it was a time when we needed to be with someone we loved.

It was Diana who taught me about love, a word that up until then I’d reserved for descriptions of racehorses and pints of Guinness. We held each other when the judge swore in the man from Texas with the long, sad face as president, when the nightclub manager shot Lee Harvey Oswald on national TV, and when the team of white horses pulled Kennedy’s flag- draped hearse to Arlington National Cemetery. The drum- drumming of Kennedy’s funeral and the flickering images of John Jr. TV, but in Diana’s apartment there was the loving flow of life.

I knew I was home. And yet there was something in Kennedy’s death that made the eternal sleep viable for any of us. Even me, and even in those days and nights when I thought I was bulletproof, I began to ponder what death was like. Though East Eighty- Eighth Street was thought of as remote then, I had a steady stream of regulars and irregulars who popped into my new saloon, Himself. Waltz With Bashir Streaming more. So I wasn’t at all surprised when one night around closing time two lads I didn’t know strolled in. What did surprise me is that they urged a half dozen of us, the bar’s habitués, Jack Sanden the bartender, Bob and Ally the waiters, and myself, to step into the back room. We all politely accepted the invitation, primarily because the lads had produced two handguns and pointed them in our particular direction.

Compliant, we sat in a semicircle in front of a large mirror that hung on the back wall of the room. One of the armed gents rifled the cash register out front, whilst his companion sat facing us, handgun in hand. At one point the gunman took umbrage at the expression that was apparently affixed to Bob’s face. Stop looking at me that way,” said the gunman, adding “motherf- -- er” as an exclamation point. Which, of course, made Bob look in his direction, which further angered the gunman. Stop looking at me, motherf- -- er,” said the stickup man, with a bit more emphasis. Bob, disregarding all his good manners, forced his gaze from the man, but apparently not quick enough for the gent’s liking, for he lifted his gun and fired, the bullet whizzing just past Bob’s ear and smashing into the mirror, leaving a nice, clean hole with cracks all around.

Next to me sat Ryan, a regular at my saloon, who just minutes earlier had been as drunk as two lords and who was now scared as straight as a Mafia bookkeeper. Do you mind if I smoke?” Ryan asked. Go ’head,” the holdup man answered. As Ryan reached for the pack in his inside pocket, the sleeve of his jacket moved up a trifle, revealing a watch. Though he hadn’t asked us for any of our valuables or money, the gunman took offense at the fact that Ryan hadn’t offered. Give me that watch, motherf- -- er,” the gunman said. Ryan duly removed the watch and handed it over.

Motherf- -- er, this is a motherf- -- ing Mickey Mouse watch.”. Though astonished that the cartoon rodent had done such unspeakable things to his mother, I was not surprised at the style of Ryan’s watch.

A lighthearted man, Ryan believed the wristwatch suited his personality. The gunman, however, did not appreciate Ryan’s mirth and threw the watch back at him. Meanwhile, the literal partner in crime came back from the front room, his countenance clenched in a most disagreeable manner. There ain’t s- -t in the register,” he said. They warned me about going into the bar business,” said I. What did you do with the money?” said he.

Having already been married, and a partner in two previous saloons, I found the inquiry rather familiar. And so was my answer. There isn’t any.”. The thought of what happened next gives me the shivers still. You can imagine that when the lad with the gun told me to tell him where the money was or he was going to blow my head off my shoulders, I took him at his word.

There was no gray area, except maybe the stuff in my cranium that he promised to blow across the floor. Cough up the dough, or pow! I remember that everything stilled.

I imagined the process of what would occur. All he had to do was twitch his forefinger an inch toward himself, and a series of swift little events would happen: a piece of forged metal would whack the back of a bullet, causing a small gunpowder explosion, which in turn would send the bullet speeding down the gun barrel, to either end up lodged in my brain or exit clear through, carrying with it small particles of brain matter. Either way, in the end, I’d be dead. Over the course of my adult life, I’ve had the good fortune to survive flights on jet airplanes that had no business taxiing down runways, let alone being tens of thousands of feet in the air. On one of those flights, a nearby cabin door had sprung a leak and threatened to blow off, which would have sucked all of us in coach out into the atmosphere that was streaming by at five hundred miles per hour. After a drunken evening, I missed a flight that ended up in the Bay of Bombay.

But this was different. A gun held to your temple is entirely personal, and is something of an evil embrace, a tango of terror. Look,” I said, with as reasonable a tone as I could muster. Our lives are far more valuable than money, and if there were any here, I would hand the f- -- ing cash over to you.”. I think my use of the expletive impressed him. He herded us like a bunch of quivering cows through a doorway and down to the basement, where we promised to stay while he and his cohort made good their getaway, or however the expression goes. In the immediate aftermath we, in the basement, were like passengers on a great liner the moment after rescue from shipwreck, as it says in a book of which I’m fond.

Camaraderie, joyousness, and democracy pervaded the vessel from steerage to captain’s table. Upstairs again, we locked the door, opened bottles, and drank and laughed like the survivors we were. We had good reason to be grateful.

A few nights later the same duo shot and killed a bartender on the East Side. I would like to blame my ensuing behavior over the next decade or so of my life on my brush with death. I didn’t need a reason to drink as if it were Paris before the war, however.