马龙发现自己正对着一个空杯子哭泣。他又叫了一份杜松子酒，说道：“记住，乔天使，我要在十二点过五分的时候回家，即使是跨年夜我也要回家。” 他知道自己做不到。
Malone discovered he was crying into an empty glass. He called for another gin and said, “Remember, Joe, I want to go home at five minutes after twelve, even if it is New Year’s.” He known that he wouldn’t.
乔天使的市政厅酒吧很小，也远称不上华丽，但很方便。酒吧是一个长长的、狭窄的房间，吧台从一头延伸到另一头，多余的空间被26点游戏桌、几张小桌子和椅子以及一个电话亭占据着，这些就是它的全部。但它位于芝加哥环区的正中心，如果从它的门口扔块石头，向任何方向都能砸到一个可能罪有应得的政客。如果你想赌马、兑现支票、采访市长、结识里亚尔托合唱团里的那个丰满的红发女孩，或者只是想买一杯酒，乔天使都能帮你搞定。他是约翰?马龙最亲密的朋友之一，他很识趣，不断地供应杜松子酒，也从不多嘴。
Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar was small and far from ornate, but it was handy. One longish, narrow room, the bar running from end to end, the extra space occupied by the 26-Game table, a few small tables and chairs, and a telephone booth—that was all. But it was located in the very heart of Chicago’s Loop, and you couldn’t toss a stone in any direction from its doorway without hitting a politician who probably deserved it. If you wanted to bet on a horse, cash a check, get an interview with the mayor, meet the buxom, red-haired girl in the Rialto chorus, or just buy a drink, Joe the Angel could fix you up. He was one of John J. Malone’s closest friends, and he knew enough to keep the gin flowing and his mouth shut.
约翰·马龙右边的那群人不再唱《你妈妈是从爱尔兰来的吗》，正努力回忆起《基拉尼的湖泊和山谷》开头几个小节的旋律。这个小个子律师又叹了口气。抛开他所有的其他的麻烦不谈，现在最麻烦的就是他能准确地预见到今晚将如何结束，他会被拉进酒吧里一些人的对话中，人们会开始互相买酒，他会用他那镀银般的男高音唱起《天堂的一角》，还会被哄着背诵《罗伯特·埃米特挽歌》，他们，他和他新结识的朋友们，会去更多的其他的酒吧，最后来到西塞罗，他们会打一场架，他的衬衫领子会被一个来自罗克岛的完全陌生的人扯掉，他最终会醒过来，要么是因为行为不检被关进监狱，要么是在某个女人的公寓里，离芝加哥卢普区至少有四十五分钟的火车车程。
The group at John J. Malone’s right had stopped singing Did Your Mother Come from Ireland? and were trying to remember the opening bars of Killarney’s Lakes and Dells The little lawyer sighed again. On top of all his other troubles, he could foresee exactly how the night was going to end. He was going to be drawn into conversation with some of the men at the bar. People would start buying drinks for each other. He would lend his silver-plated tenor to There’s a Little Bit of Heaven, and be coaxed into reciting the “Elegy for Robert Emmet.” They—he and his new-found friends—would move to a number of other bars, ending up in Cicero. There would be a fight and he would get the collar torn off his shirt by some perfect stranger from Rock Island. He would wake up eventually, either jailed for disorderly conduct or in some woman’s apartment at least a forty-five-minute train ride from the Chicago Loop.
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