Paul followed the sound of tuned up engines in his search for a drug dealer. The Point’s town centre was small and he’d seen most of it in a 20-minute stroll. Shops, chippies and pubs lined both sides of a wide main street. From both ends of the street a smaller road led to the shore front. Hosting a number of pubs and restaurants, this seemed to be The Point’s golden mile. A strong coastal wind shunted him along and he went with it.
A town square mostly served as parking space for the summertime tourists at one end of the town and, on the coastal end, there was an outdoor swimming pool, built on the pebble beach. Paul once heard that the town imported sand from other beaches to take the rough look off the place, but it usually washed away into the sea within weeks. Cider cans and Buckfast bottles added a little class to the attractive seaside scene.
Back on the main street, outside an amusement arcade, a crowd of young men in baseball caps appraised each other’s modified coupes and hatchbacks, and revved engines in a show of mechanical strength. Paul could almost smell cannabis burning amongst the exhaust fumes. He’d hit the jackpot.
The lowly drug dealer was usually the quickest backdoor into any gang. A loquacious breed, they liked to impress customers by telling them how well connected they were to the local gangsters. Paul just wanted someone to point out a couple of major players, if a town this small even had more than one, and he would do the rest himself.
A dealer proved easy to find. Paul drifted over to the car with the most teenagers flocked around it and jumped into the back.
“What the fuck are you at?” the skinny man in the driver seat asked. He turned with a jittery energy, probably unsure if he was being attacked or set up for a prank. He looked a bit younger than Paul and ugly as sin. His adolescent acne had not completely given up the war on his pockmarked face.
“Well, spotty, I want to buy some drugs.” Paul gave the dealer his best cheesy grin.
The dealer laughed and looked out the rolled down window at his next customer.
“Come back in five minutes, boy,” he said to his chubby, young customer. “I need to have a chat with this old mate of mine.”
He rolled up the window of his tricked-out car and turned again to face Paul.
“Way to save face,” Paul said. “Pretend you know me. I’m impressed.”
“Fuck off,” the skinny dealer said.
“Hey now, there’s no need to be like that. I just wanted to introduce myself.”
“Well hurry up and introduce yourself. Then fuck off. I have customers waiting here.”
“What’s your name, mate?”
He puffed his pigeon chest. “John O’Hare. Do you want to know what my favourite colour is too?”
“Don’t get stressed, John. I’m new in town and just wanted to make a new contact. My name’s Paul, by the way. Now, sell us a bit of dope, will you? Being the new kid is very stressful.”
When John handed Paul the little brown block he nodded at the back passenger side door. “There’s the exit, Paul.”
“Look, you seem to be a sound guy. How about I skin up here and we share a spliff? Call it a goodwill gesture.”
Of course, no self-respecting drug dealer ever turned down a free toke. Paul and John were soon nattering away like a pair of long lost sisters.
Impressions
“Top of the morning to you, Mr Morgan!” Rachel jolted in Brian’s arms as Paul’s voice boomed from the letterbox. Brian gave her a squeeze of reassurance. He sighed at the interruption. For a few hours their whole world was the sofa and the television. The yelled salutation had been a rude awakening.
“It’s only Paul.”
“Loud bastard, isn’t he?”
“I guess.”
Brian leant in for a kiss. She pushed him away and he got up to answer the front door.
“You live here, Paul,” Brian said as he opened the door. “You could just use your key.”
“I forgot it.”
“How do you forget your key?”
“I’ve never needed one before now. It’s not something I naturally reach for when I’m leaving a house.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t try and lift the TV as you left either. I guess that’s half the battle. Well done.”
“Nobody likes a smartarse.” Paul noticed Rachel. “Oh, you’re still here.”
“Charming,” Rachel said.
Paul giggled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised this loser hasn’t scared you off yet.”
Brian sat on the sofa, beside Rachel, and Paul flopped onto one of the two armchairs. The glow from the television screen lit up his red-rimmed, half-lidded eyes. Brian took note of his dopey grin.
“Where’d you get the hash, Paul?”
“Who says I have hash?”
“I know what you look like when you’re stoned.”
Paul raised his hands. “Okay, you got me.” He spoke in a woeful gangster accent. “I found a dealer down at the arcade opposite the supermarket.”
“Slots-o-Fun?” Brian asked.
“That’s the one. Skinny, spotty guy in a done up Citroen Saxo. Sound as a pound he was.”
“Was his name John, by any chance?” Rachel asked.
“Aye, how’d you know that? Is he your dealer too?”
“No, he’s my brother, and the wee shite told me he had no gear last night. I’ll kick his hole when I see him.”
“Oops, guess he lied to you. What a coincidence, though.”
“That is weird, isn’t it?” Brian said.
“No,” Rachel said. “It’s just a small town.”
“Aye, it is,” Paul said. “Here, he invited me to a party at his place. You two want to come with me?”
“To my own brother’s house? As much as I appreciate the invitation, I’m happy enough here.”
Paul turned to Brian. A sardonic smile played on his lips. “She’s calling the shots a bit soon, isn’t she?”
“Play nice, Paul.”
“I’m just messing. Are you sure you don’t want to come? Wee John was raving about this coke he got a hold of from some Newry crew.”
“You know I’m not a chemical head. But you go enjoy yourself, right?”
Paul jumped out of the armchair and threw his arms in the air. “PARTY!”
When he left, Rachel said: “I’m sorry, but your brother’s a prick.”
“Ach, he’s just stoned.”
“Whatever.” She shook her head as if to dismiss Paul from her mind. “So what’s the deal, anyway? You two sticking around The Point for a while?”
“Aye, it’s nice here. I can’t see us flying off any time soon.”
“You could probably use a job, then.”
Brian shrugged. “Could I?”
“Well, I don’t shag dole moles.”
“Guess I should get a job, then. What kind of work is there around here?”
“It just so happens, I know a man who could help you with that.”
“Who?”
“My daddy.”
Working Man
Brian stood at the bottom of a staircase leading from the shop floor to the offices of Malone Industries. His first interview in years was due to commence. He’d been instructed by the floor supervisor to stand there and wait a while until the bossman, Barry Malone, was ready for him.
After a sweaty-palmed five minute wait, Malone tramped slowly down the steel industrial stairs. Brian swallowed hard as he placed him as the man Paul had fucked with at the pub on their first day in town. Brian backed off a little as Malone practically stood on his toes and glared at him.
“Uh, hi. I’m Brian.” It was the best he could come up with.
“I know. I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
“Um...”
Malone clicked his fingers. “Yeah, I remember you.” He jabbed Brian’s chest with a thick, callused finger. “Lucky you didn’t give me any cheek that day, or you’d be picking a lump of timber out of your hole.”
“Right. Look, I’m
...”
Malone held his hand up to silence Brian. “You got a bad back?”
“No.”
“You know how to count?”
“Yes.”
“Does your alarm clock work?”
“Yes.”
“Start tomorrow.”
Malone held his hand out and Brian shook it.
“Your hands are too soft, son. But we’ll sort that out soon enough.”
That following night, Brian sat at the kitchen table, picking splinters out of his fingers. He cursed each one as he sucked, bit and pinched at them. Paul stood at the kitchen sink and watched him, then pulled a quarter bottle of gut-rot whiskey from a kitchen cupboard. He handed it to Brian.
“Be a man. Suffer in drunkenness.”
Brian smiled in gratitude and took a slug from the bottle.
“They’re looking for more labourers at the mill. Do you want me to put a word in for you?”
Paul looked at Brian like he’d pissed on his shoes.
“You’re not exactly an appealing advertisement for the place. I’m all right for now, wee bro.”
“But you are going to look for a job, aren’t you?”
“We’ll see. Jesus, man. Take it easy, okay? Life’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
“So what are you going to do for money?”
“Don’t worry, wee bro. I’m working on it.”
Networking
While Brian busted his hole dragging wood around the saw mill, Paul networked.
Paul had never dealt drugs. He’d never even so much as sold a spliff to a mate for the price of a pint. He had no qualms with smoking weed or necking the odd E, but he knew that dealers were usually complete wankers. He wasn’t sure if that was just the personality type that took up the profession, or if it was something you had to develop to become successful in the field. Either way, he didn’t feel cut out for it. He considered stealing more honourable. And more fun.
Nevertheless, he risked guilt by association and rode around with John in his little Citroen as he did laps of the town on weeknights, and sat with him when he parked outside Slots-o-Fun or in the town square at weekends. The drug dealer/wanker rule was particularly well illustrated in John, but Paul put up with it.
On one of their laps, John had pointed out a teenaged Goth-type dragging his clunky boots across the town square.
“See him? That scruffy wee bastard stiffed me for a 10-deal last month. I gave him credit for the first time and I haven’t seen him since. I’m going to have to knock him about a bit. Can’t have him telling his freakshow mates I’m a soft touch.”
Paul thought John had a bit of a cheek, commenting on someone else’s appearance, but he kept that to himself. “Well, if you want, I’ll get the money off him.”
John gave him a hopeful smile. “Yeah?” Obviously, he wasn’t keen on the violent side of the business.
“Aye. Park here and come with me.”
They hopped out of the Saxo and tracked the teenager at an inconspicuous distance. He led them to a little cul-de-sac halfway up the Bridle Loanan Road. They broke into a sprint as the young fellah fished his keys out of his knee-length leather jacket. The wee Goth jerked to attention at the sound of their trainers pounding the tarmac. He stood wide-eyed, like a stunned cliché caught in HGV headlights. Paul grabbed him by the lapels and shook him.
“Pay John what you owe him or I’m going to get your ma out of bed and tell her you smoke dope.”
The Goth opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for words. Paul shook him again.
“Ten seconds, wee lad.”
“I... I... don’t have any cash on me.”
“That a fact?” Paul said.
“Seriously, I don’t. But I’ve a bit in my room. I can go get it.”
“No. We’re not stupid,” Paul said. He glanced at John. “Well, I’m not stupid. You’ve probably got a big knife up there for sacrificing chickens and whatnot. No chance I’m letting you go in and get it. Empty your pockets.”
The teenager had a snazzy Samsung mp3 player and a top of the line Nokia mobile phone on him. Paul handed John the phone and pocketed the wee Samsung sound-box.
“Ach, lads,” the kid protested. “I don’t owe anywhere near that much. It was only an aul’ 10-deal.”
“Sorry, wee lad,” Paul said. “But you have to factor in interest, late payment charges, and then there’s my finder’s fee. It all adds up, son.”
“But they were Christmas presents.”
“Now, to be fair, I’m sure they warned you in school that this sort of thing would happen if you got caught up in drugs. Welcome to the dark side, wee man.”
Paul ruffled the kid’s long, black hair and smiled encouragingly.
“Nice doing business with you,” John said, like any wanker would.
The kid disappeared into his house and Paul and John set off back to the square.
“Paul, that was great,” John said. “Too funny.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Listen, I’m going to do you a favour. Point you in the direction of a real player around these parts. What do you say?”
“Sweet.”
The Big Boy
Paul thumbed through a newspaper at his table in the corner while he enjoyed an ice-cold lager. John sat beside him, fidgeting and flipping beer mats. Bennett’s was a small pub, even by Warrenpoint’s standards, but it seemed pretty clean and they took care of the details. A very attractive barmaid stopped by regularly and wiped away the wet rings his glass left on the table. She smiled at him each time. Paul imagined what she would look like naked: hardly a huge stretch of the imagination. Her short skirt and unbuttoned polo shirt gave him a good start. He filled in the blanks with ease.
A big man entered the bar and spoiled Paul’s view. This guy’s slow gait could best be described as a lumber. This was a word Paul had come across in books when the urge was in him to read, but he’d never actually seen it in action. The man’s walk, combined with his pure white hair, made Paul think of the clinically depressed polar bear that had died in Belfast Zoo a few years back. An expensive suit jacket stretched tight across his shoulders. John gave Paul a sharp nudge in the ribs.
“That’s him,” John said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Aye. Richard O’Rourke. Alleged car dealer. Uses his garage as a front for an illegal car smuggling trade. He started out as a mechanic, but look at his hands. Clean. They haven’t touched an engine in years.”
“Fuck me,” Paul said. “He could squish my head in one of those fists.”
“So don’t give him reason to.”
“You going to introduce me, then?”
“Fuck, no. I’m scared shitless of him. But you’re the one keeps nattering about going big-time. O’Rourke’s the man to talk to.”
Paul felt like strangling John but, instead, he nodded and got out of his seat. The three pints he’d downed while waiting for O’Rourke to show up set him at ease. He walked up to the bar and winked again at the sexy wee barmaid.
“Could I have another pint, please? And get this man whatever he wants.”
The barmaid looked to O’Rourke and raised her shapely eyebrows.
O’Rourke didn’t even glance at Paul but was happy to accept the drink.
“Double brandy.”
She smiled, nodded and got busy fixing the drinks.
“It’s Mister O’Rourke, isn’t it?”
His big boulder of a head swivelled on its elephantine neck. He locked on to Paul with a thousand-yard stare. “Until I know you better, son.”
“I’m Paul. You look like a man who can’t pass up a good business opportunity. Will you hear me out for a second or two?”
O’Rourke’s suddenly focussed glare conveyed that he wasn’t mad about the idea. But, because he didn’t outright say so, Paul gave him the pitch after the barmaid set down their drinks and disappeared out back.
“I think I might be able to supply you with some good quality used cars. I moved down here from Bel
fast a couple of weeks ago. I’ve a few contacts in the city and a lot of relevant experience. I think we could help each other out. You don’t have to decide right now, I’m sure you just want to relax after a day’s work. But, if you have a business card with you, perhaps I could call you during office hours tomorrow?”
“I’m a businessman, son,” O’Rourke said. “Every hour is an office hour.”
“That’s my philosophy too. I hope it brings me as much success as it seems to have brought you.”
O’Rourke shrugged off the compliment with a snort. Paul made a mental note. The man was not impressed by arse-lickers.
“Right,” Paul said. “This is how I can see things working for us. I’ll call you once a week and you’ll give me a wish-list of cars. I’ll bring you everything I can from it, as soon as I can, and you decide if the motors are up to scratch. I propose we start small. One or two cars to begin with and we’ll see where it takes us.”
O’Rourke adopted the same approach to conversation as he did to movement; slow, steady and economical. When the barmaid was out of earshot he answered Paul.
“What makes you think I’d be interested in that kind of business, officer...?”
“I’m not a peeler, Mister O’Rourke,” Paul said. “And I’ve done my homework. Eddie Matthews from Twinbrook says hello. You can phone him for a reference.”
O’Rourke gave Paul the hairy eyeball. Paul held his ground and O’Rourke’s gaze. Eventually, O’Rourke nodded.
“Okay.” Even O’Rourke’s whispers rumbled. “I assume that they’ll be basic ringers. A changed number plate as a temporary fix with the serial numbers intact, right? I can move these out of the country but the overheads are high. We won’t be talking about big money.”
“You can quote a price before I search out the car. That way I can assess the risk better.”
O’Rourke handed Paul a card.
“Call me tomorrow and I’ll give you your first job.”
And, as easy as that, Paul had branched out.
Coffee and Scones
Rachel hid her girlish grin behind her coffee cup. Too late. Karen had caught it and latched on mercilessly.
The Point Page 4