“Hi, baby,” Cherry says. Her voice isn’t sexy anymore. That velvet’s gone frigid. More like ice against glass now. She climbs over the center console of my car and sits that cute ass on the passenger side. Stranger sticks to the back seat.
I rub my eyes and start the car. “I’m sorry.”
She squeals and stretches out her pale legs. Laughing at a joke nobody told.
“This shouldn’t have happened to either of you.” I put the car into drive and pull out. Remember to turn on my headlights at the last minute. Every time I brake, I hear something wet slosh around behind me. I assume it’s coming from Stranger, but I don’t want to find out.
Something changes in Cherry. She doesn’t turn her head around to look. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” There’s no playfulness in her voice anymore—no—something’s cold in her too. Maybe worse than Stranger. She stutters forward, movements between movements missing. Then she’s back in place. One second she’s screaming at me, black ichor oozing between her teeth and out of the bullet holes I left in her head. Then she’s smiling sweet, serene—that girl that gave me the sweet scent of her breath and a glimmer of her sex for only few dollars.
I turn up the heat—it’s freezing in here. “And you, in the back. I’m sorry, I really mean that. It was a wrong place, wrong time thing. You understand?” Find myself sweating in seconds. Turn the air conditioning back up.
It’s like someone flips a switch. Cherry’s rehearsed smile is back. I peek to my rear view and Stranger’s gone. Maybe I can work through this. Maybe this one won’t be as bad.
So I drive. I drive trying to ignore how absolutely fucked this night went. I let the road hypnotize me and lull me into that zone where your brain’s light and the world is wide-open. It’s better than sleeping, but it has its disadvantages.
The chirp of a siren and a red/blue flash of light in my rearview bring me back to earth—hard.
I should have never taken this job.
The Worst Day since Yesterday—1999
11
“Where’s the sodding blast caps?” Danny punched me on the side while rifling through the car trunk. His eyes darted back and forth. Didn’t stop a minute to focus, just went from spot to spot.
Danny Clarke was a good guy—fucking insane—but a real stand-up type. Uncle Sean hooked us up when we were “coming up” through the ranks. Irish independence was apparently rife with side operations—drugs, protection rackets, prostitution. Sean would rationalize it to me without me having asked. I often wondered if it was guilt or if he worried I’d do something about the things I saw. Didn’t matter to me much. He had nothing to worry about. I owed him that much. That was why I’d spent all this time living in Northern Ireland as Thomas Curren.
Danny and I were teamed up because we had a knack for keeping our noses clean. Danny was a scrapper—old-school violent, hair-trigger temper—which Sean absolutely adored about him. He was an odd guy. Completely obsessed with Elvis and the fifties greaser movement. Rocked a pompadour nearly six inches high—even carried a switchblade. The most striking thing about him was the tattoo of Bettie Page draped across his torso from navel to clavicle. She was completely nude and held the sacred heart of Jesus against her chest. In any weather, he’d wear his shirts with enough buttons undone to ensure people saw the art.
I entertained the thought of getting some ink done at one point. According to Danny, I chickened out. To my recollection, I didn’t feel that a pig in a leprechaun’s hat with a rainbow coming out of its ass was appropriate.
“You hear me, Mutters?” This time it was a liver punch. “Blast caps?’
I hated that stupid nickname—Mutters. Over the years everyone took to calling me that. They said I talked to myself after jobs or when I was asleep. I figured it was a line of bullshit made up to bust my balls. Talking in my sleep I could see, but a guy would know if he was jabbering on when he was awake.
I rounded the rear of the car. Opened the back driver’s side door. Blast caps sitting on the seat. I pulled them out and tossed them at Danny’s head. “Back seat, asshole.” I lit a cigarette—one of Danny’s weird Lebanese ones. They tasted like burnt hair. “And I told you to stop calling me that.” Exhaled and felt my head go for a swim. Surveyed our surroundings. Most small, Irish towns looked the damn same.
Danny stuffed the caps into a satchel at his side. “Well, you do mutter. What else should I call you?” His lilt was thick. Took me weeks to penetrate most of what he told me. Sometimes I had to slow him down or it all turned into a mish mash of harsh gibberish. Never did tell me where he was from. I tried pegging it once or twice but failed spectacularly.
“By my name would be nice.” I pointed at him with the lit end of my cigarette.
Danny frowned, creased his brow. Shook his head. “Nah, Mutters works.” He closed the trunk and gave me a grin. “Let’s us know you’re as bug-fuck as any of the rest of us.” He walked to the front of the car and sat on the hood. He licked the cuff of his jacket sleeve and rubbed it against a collection of hard water stains above the front driver’s side headlight. He surveyed the ghost town in its early morning silence with a joyless grin.
I finished my cigarette. Killed it under the heel of my boot. Walked over to where Danny was seated. “We really need explosives for this one?” Today’s job was in a town called Newry. Place was one of those crazy old, stick-up-the-ass kind of towns, but the people were nice enough. Northern Ireland was a wonderful place. Made sense to fight the good fight for it.
Danny shrugged. “I like to be prepared.”
“We shouldn’t even have to do this.”
“Don’t get started with that cease-fire shite.” Danny slipped a cigarette between his lips. Reached out to me for a light. Snapped his fingers. “Go on, then.”
I handed my BIC over. “It’s true, though. They said on the news that shit should be done with.”
“You’re fucking delusional.” He lit his cigarette. Handed the lighter back to me. “That Provie talk is for appearances. You and I know your uncle believes in that shit as much as he believes in Father Christmas.” He took a long drag off the cigarette. “This is all money matters and posturing. Shit’s sake, we spent two months entertaining those PLO wankers. That didn’t clue you in? Sean’s planning for the future and Irish freedom ain’t on his ledger.” Smoke erupted from his mouth between words.
I frowned. “Yeah. Maybe I’m in denial.” I looked up at the gray sky. “It’s gotta end sometime soon, though.”
“Of course, at some point everything needs to end, Mutters. Especially when there’s no profit to draw anymore.” He blew smoke up and away from my face. Snapped his fingers in a broken melody— “Shave and a Haircut.”
“Now, fill us in on today’s customer.”
I had it all in my head. “Guy by the name of Collins. Walks his dog here near the park every day—early morning. Always alone.”
“And you’re sure this is the path he likes to take?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Big dog?”
“Surprisingly, no. It’s a little Yorkie.”
“Ha, the balls on him. What are his sins?” He let the cigarette hang from his lips and tucked his thumbs under the strap of his satchel.
I cracked my knuckles one at a time. “Pissing Sean and his friends off. Heard he wrote a book—some tell-all bullshit. Testified against somebody they got a hard on for over here.” I learned a few years back that the motives for these jobs were completely useless to remember.
“Loose lips.” Danny wagged a finger at me. “Come to think of it, folks have been wondering about you when it comes to that.”
I took a step back. “Why the hell would they think that?”
“A few of the boys wondered if you was wired because of all the muttering. Lucky for you, I gave them a yarn about the plate in your head. Something about the syphilis rotting a piece of your skull off.”
“Syphilis doesn’t…” I crossed
my arms. “Go fuck yourself, Danny.”
“Never need to tell me twice, friend.” He gave me a hearty pat on the shoulder. “I’ll set things up at the far end of the park.” He pointed down the road at a line of small trees. “You need to lead him over—go for broke. If not, handle the business this time.”
“Why me?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, there are fellas with doubts and my lips can only do so much.”
“Yeah, I heard your blowjobs were awful.” Rubbed the back of my head with my hands. Cracked my knuckles. Felt the butterflies going wild in my gut. Most of these gigs, I’d been gun shy—literally. Not that I wasn’t responsible for some awful things. I had a habit of avoiding personal confrontation. This meant Danny tended to pick up my slack.
Danny laughed. “Anything over five inches and the gag reflex kicks in.” He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. “Shoot me a message if it’s needed. I’ll pop whatever I’ve got set up if we get extra company. Should provide a nice diversion.”
“What do I call you with, my pager?” I flipped him off, American-style. “Fuck you and your fancy phone.”
“Jealous.” With that he jogged off.
It was colder than normal that morning. I buttoned my coat up. Lifted the collar and jammed my gloved hands into my pockets. Ran a finger over the handle of the hunting knife I had stowed away on my right side. Up the road I saw a man with his dog. Didn’t take long to realize he was Collins. I picked up the pace. He was too busy to notice me coming. The little lapdog of his was struggling to keep itself in squat while it took a crap. I could see its paws were trembling from the cold. Had to wonder why he didn’t let the poor thing do its business in the yard. Closed my eyes tight for three steps and took a deep breath. Reminded myself to relax—act, no thinking. I had to do this. Danny’s talk was his way of getting a subtle message to me: this was a last chance. If I didn’t get the job done myself, I’d have problems. If there were problems, Uncle Sean wouldn’t hesitate in solving them terribly.
I got within hand’s reach of Collins and he looked up to me. Gave a smile and a tip of the hat. “Good morning.” Pretty jovial-sounding fella for a man with a price on his head.
I nodded in reply to his greeting. Pulled the knife from my pocket, flipped it open, and drove the blade into his throat—beneath the Adam’s apple. I cut deep and wide enough to open the trachea. No noise came from his mouth, but blood, steam, and a low hiss emerged from the new wound. Collins reached up, wide-eyed as a hooked fish. Operating on panic, he jerked back and turned to run, but stumbled over his dog. The dog yelped, Collins stumbled, and he fell on top of it with a crunch. Then the dog was silent.
“Easy, easy.” I crouched down and scooped Collins up into my arms. He was breathing—shallow. The dog was dead, too small to handle the weight of its master. I hadn’t counted on that. Figured it would have run away in fear or I would have made it run away.
I stared into Collins’ glassy eyes. Affected my own lilt—felt appropriate. “Sean Shea sends his regards.” I stuck the blade into his belly and pulled up. Ended with a twist before I yanked it out. Collins’ eyelids flutters and he breathed his last. I let the body drop. Wiped the blade clean along the back of his coat.
My heart was pounding. I looked to his dog. The poor thing lay dead on its side. I stood. Looked down at Collins and put the knife away. Sean Shea sent his regards indeed. The spineless old bastard sent younger, dumber men to shed blood in his name. The thought of it made the blood rush up to my cheeks and ears. Entire face like it was on fire. Nearly a decade of this stupidity. Fighting yet another man’s war for nothing in return. I was a fool. But I had no choice. This was the life a monster had to live.
“Good morning.” It was Collins. His voice hoarse, as if he had a sore throat. A small yip from his dog followed.
I looked ahead of me. There he was, gutted like a pig. Collins’ left hand cupped a handful of his insides trying to escape from his open gut. A steady stream of curdled, red ink crawled down his throat. His hands were clenched tight around his wet intestines and he twisted them around his fists over and over. It was a demented magic trick, a never-ending rope pulled from a gaping emptiness in the center of him. Something in the wound shuffled—looked at me with a hundred eyes and a thousand tiny legs. Collins’ little pup stood shivering, its head hanging low. Its tongue hung out the side of its mouth, the same ink that came from Collins’ wounds collected at the edges of the dog’s lips. A cloud of tiny gnats drifted into the air above them.
“Good morning,” Collins repeated, strained and clearly invested in the work of pulling everything out from inside him.
“Not for either of us.” I looked back to his physical body. It was easier to deal with.
Collins yanked on the dog’s leash. Its front paws lifted, and it snarled. Seemed louder than a dog that size should be. Then again, they were dead. Any noise was louder than it should be.
“Shut up.”
The ghost dog kept at it. Barked a high-pitched refrain. It bounced between my ears. “I said shut up.” I kicked Collins’ body as revenge, but he wouldn’t stop. A switch went off in my head. I drove my boots against his flanks and his head until I felt bone give away under my soles—until pieces of him came back from each kick. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” The knife was back in my hand. I squatted back down and drove it wherever Collins took up space. The blade pierced his temple, stuck in deep enough to bring his head off the ground when I pulled it back out. His face hit the concrete with a wet slap. Still, the damn dog barked.
My skin was on fire—felt like mites all over me. The barking was too much. “Shut up.” The intensity and speed of my strikes increased. I had to make him stop. My arm burned from the effort, so I stood back up and kept at it with my boots. Every breath sent a spray of spittle through my clenched teeth.
I was jerked back into reality by a firm hand on my shoulder.
I turned. Danny was there, wide-eyed as Collins. “Fuck’s sake, Mutters, enough. He’s done.”
Sirens.
Danny nodded. “Run.” He pulled a small switch from his satchel and pressed a button at the top. Around the corner, an explosion sounded off. The ground beneath us trembled. He turned tail and sprinted to the car. “Go, you fucking mental patient.”
The world snapped back into place. Collins was a bloody mess. Looked like a truck hit it. I smelled shit, blood, and piss. Couldn’t tell if it was the dog or Collins—maybe me. Their specters were gone. Both of their bodies steamed where the air touched their insides. I looked at my hands. They were red—lacquered with gore. A pang of guilt swept over me. I should have warned Collins off—told him to be on his way, to keep his mouth shut.
I heard the sirens moving to where the explosions went off. Danny bought me some extra time. He drove by, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes locked on me. Fine. I was crazy. Being branded crazy was better than being branded a rat. The mouth on him, everyone within fifty miles would know Sean Shea’s great-nephew was fuck-all nutso and not the type to snitch. Though, why I cared was beyond me.
It would be the last time I saw Danny.
I’d ruminated enough over the corpse of a stranger and his pet, so I turned and ran. The cold against my face provided a small relief. I kept running until the only sound was my breath and a dull hum in the distance.
Preab San Ol—2001
12
Liam took a seat across from me in the booth closest to the emergency exit of Finn McCool’s—my favorite bar in White Plains. Was a time I was king of this joint. It was sad to see families eating there during the day. I propped my elbows on the table and held my chin in my hands. It took everything in me not to leap up and take him in a bear hug.
Liam sighed and locked our grandfather’s eyes on me. “How long were you back before you decided to call?” His hands moved to the fabric napkin at his right and he unfolded it. Slipped it over his lap and laid the silverware it housed to his right in
a neat row.
I couldn’t look him in the eye. “Just a few weeks.” There was a TV behind Liam playing an American football game. Decided to feign an interest in the events unfolding. I recognized the Redskins, but I had no clue what team they were playing. Looked like a there was a black cat on their silver helmets.
“A few weeks?” Liam raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah.” Took a sip of my black and tan.
“A few weeks ago. With 9/11? What kind of idiot do you think I am?”
I did the math in my head. He was right. A few weeks back, New York City was attacked by terrorists—a modern-day Pearl Harbor for the Millennial set. The Twin Towers were gone—a memory. The entire country was in a state of panic. No way could I get into the country after the fact. Not that getting in was easy to begin with. “Fine. I apologize. Had to keep a low profile, you know?”
He frowned. “Well, Uncle Sean called Mom as soon as you left. You’ve been back stateside nearly a fucking year, Bryan. No low profile on our side.”
“I…I wanted to call. I didn’t know if it was safe.”
“You could have found a way. I mean, Christ, nearly ten years. First, we thought you were killed by the Arabs. Then we figured following that Provie bullshit would do you in. We were terrified when Sean called. Figured you blew yourself up.” He leaned forward. Lowered his voice. “That shit in Manchester, back in ninety-six, was that you?” He looked away to see if anyone was listening in.
He was wise beyond his years, Liam was. “Well, we’re talking now. How soon before you ship out?”
Hell Chose Me Page 8