Dead I Well May Be

by Adrian McKinty

  Got your pieces? Scotchy asked us. I nodded.

  Ach, shite, I left it at home, Fergal said.

  Dumb-ass fucker, Scotchy said, furious. See if there’s one in the glove compartment.

  We all went back to the car. Fergal looked in the glove compartment, but there wasn’t anything useful there.

  Hey, your lights are on, I said to Scotchy, but he made as if he didn’t hear me.

  Your lights are on, I said again.

  They’re on on purpose, he said angrily.

  Oh yeah, what purpose is that? I persisted.

  Jesus, Bruce. Look, it’s just a fucking purpose, ok? I don’t have to fill you in on every fucking detail, do I? Scotchy said, really boiling.

  No, you don’t have to fill me in on every fucking detail, but you would inspire my confidence better, and Fergal’s too, no doubt, if you admitted that you made a mistake by leaving the fucking lights on rather than trying to bullshit me with some line about having them on on fucking purpose. A good leader, Scotchy, admits his bloody mistakes.

  All right, all fucking right, I fucking left them on by fucking accident, ok. Fucking, you fucking bastard, I’m not fucking Alexander the fucking Great but I would like you to do what I fucking tell you for once in your miserable fucking life.

  Scotchy screamed all this at me, pretty near apoplexy.

  Well, there goes the bloody element of surprise, I thought but didn’t mention.

  Ok, fine, Scotchy, fine, I said.

  Scotchy composed himself and looked daggers at me.

  Do your deep breathing, Fergal suggested.

  Shut up, Fergal, Scotchy said.

  Aye, shut up, Fergal. You don’t know the burdens of command like Rommel over here, I said.

  Scotchy untucked his black rayon shirt, seethed, scratched his arse, and said nothing. I grinned at Fergal.

  Ok, Michael, Scotchy said, pulling me close. Let’s just get on with this, you and me first, Fergal behind us.

  Fergal shook his head.

  I don’t want to go if you two are fighting, he said.

  Jesus, we’re not fighting, Fergal, I said.

  Scotchy was rolling his eyes, but even he saw that he had to placate him.

  It’s all over, Fergal, ok? he said.

  Fergal was unconvinced. I put my arm around Scotchy.

  Look, Fergal, we’re mates, me and Scotch, I said.

  Fergal nodded.

  I nodded.

  W-what if he has a dog? Fergal asked me.

  Fergal, I remembered, had a phobia about dogs. He probably got bitten as a kid or something.

  Fergal, relax. Shovel doesn’t have a dog, I said.

  He smiled, contented, and walked ahead of us into the building.

  You think we can rely on Fergal? Seems a bit off, Scotchy whispered to me.

  Ach, he’s ok, I whispered back.

  The building door was locked, so Scotchy pressed several apartment buttons until someone buzzed us in.

  Third floor, Scotchy said. He was tense. He was giving off a ton of sweat and a stink of fear. I was feeling fine. I had a .22, Scotchy had a .38, and lanky Fergal was not, despite appearances, a complete idiot. We’d be ok. Probably. We went up the stairs and stopped outside the apartment. Number 34.

  Ring the bell or break it down? Fergal asked.

  Scotchy was thinking.

  Make a lot of noise breaking it down, I said.

  Aye, you’re right there, Bruce, Scotchy said, fumbling for his pack of Tareyton. We all waited while he lit one.

  Ok, you ring it, Fergal, we’ll keep out of sight, Scotchy said finally.

  Fergal rang the bell.

  Who is it? a woman’s voice asked.

  Fergal Dorey, Fergal said.

  What was that?

  Friend of Shovel’s.

  He’s not here. He went out, the woman said.

  Fergal hesitated and looked back at us.

  You’ve got one of those new microwaves for him, Scotchy whispered.

  Aye, I have his microwave for him, Fergal said.

  His microwave? the woman asked.

  Yes.

  There was a long pause and we could hear footsteps down the hall. There was a pause and footsteps coming back.

  The door opened and Shovel was standing there grinning.

  Fergal, you bastard, you finally brought—Shovel started to say, but Scotchy was yelling at Fergal now:

  Grab the fucker, grab him.

  Fergal charged through the doorway and rugby-tackled Shovel to the ground. I bundled in behind Scotchy and closed the door.

  Later that evening on the ride back on the IRT, when I thought, wrongly, that the night was all over and done with, I replayed everything that happened. The whole house of horrors. Bridget cleaning the blood out of my shirt, the food stop, the car ride, and most of all the feathers over Shovel. I wasn’t a sadist, I wasn’t enjoying it. But I wanted to remember. It was a lot to take in at once and I wanted to be sure I had it all. I needed to know that I was certain of what I was doing. I wasn’t just being carried away by youth and emotion. Things were happening and I was part of them. But also occasionally I was stopping, analyzing events and saying to myself that it was all ok by me. And it was ok, too. Why? I don’t know. That’s another question entirely.

  Mrs. Shovel, or whatever her real name was, had appeared in the hall. All four of us stood in the apartment’s corridor. It was wallpapered in flowers, narrow. It was hard to move. She had to be in her early thirties, tough-looking, suntanned, surprisingly pretty. She had a black wig on, flip-flops, a nightie. She was yelling. Scotchy smacked her across the face with his gun. She went down like a doll, thumping into a picture frame, breaking it. Shovel screamed and tried to get up. but I had the .22 in his face.

  One move, big guy, and I’ll have to shoot you, I said, trying to bring an air of calm to the proceedings.

  Scotchy had the opposite agenda. He bent down and started beating Shovel with the butt of his pistol. He was roaring. It wasn’t entirely coherent. Spitting the words out:

  Fucker, why did you do it, why, you fucking idiot? Are you stupid? Did you think we wouldn’t know? Did you think we were such fucking pussies that we wouldn’t do nothing? Huh? Is that what you thought?

  Blood was pouring from Shovel’s face. He was protesting. He was innocent. He had no idea what Scotchy was talking about. Fergal was still sitting on him. Scotchy took the pistol butt and smashed it into Shovel’s mouth. He started to struggle wildly. I sat down on his legs and Fergal wedged himself on the torso. Scotchy stood up and started kicking him in the back and head. He exhausted himself after a few seconds. Blood was everywhere now. It was on our clothes and pooling dark and awful on the wood floor. Shovel had lost consciousness.

  Get a pillow, get two, Scotchy barked at Fergal.

  Fergal went off to find the bedroom.

  Are you going to shoot him? I asked dispassionately.

  Aye, I’m going to shoot him, Scotchy said.

  I felt myself go a bit weak. This I hadn’t signed on for. The teen rackets seldom came to this in the Cool or Greenisland or Carricktown. A chill went through me. I’d never seen a real murder before and I didn’t want to now.

  Fortunately, I was not to break my duck that night, for even Scotchy was not that big of an eejit.

  Belfast six-pack, he said after a pause.

  Harsh, I said.

  With fucking Andy dying on us, probably brain-damaged for life, Scotchy yelled in my face, spittle landing on my cheeks.

  I said nothing. He glared at me.

  Fergal came back with the pillows.

  Fergal, turn the TV on, loud, Scotchy said.

  Fergal went off again. I looked at Scotchy and then at Shovel.

  I’ll do it, I said. Better the .22 for the noise.

  Scotchy nodded. I was thinking more of Shovel than the noise. Me with a .22 was going to be a lot easier to get over than Scotchy with the .38. I put one pillow over his ankle and pushed the gun
in deep. I waited until the TV got loud. I pulled the trigger. Feathers, blood. I did the other ankle. Same again. Cordite, the pillow caught fire. I put it out. I did the left knee and Shovel convulsed and woke and vomited. Scotchy knocked him out with a surprisingly deft kick to the temple. I did the other knee and gave the gun to Fergal to do the elbows. I couldn’t hack it anymore. I stood and took a breath. Scotchy thought I was just giving Fergal the weapon because he was in a better position. He didn’t realize I was on the verge of fainting or puking. Fergal shot him in an elbow, messily. I should have done it myself. Not that I was any expert, but I’d more sense than him. I took a breath and grabbed the gun back.

  More like this, Fergal, I said and shot him in the other elbow, aiming for the fleshy parts. His body convulsed and there was just the bleeding and the feathers and a low moan from the wife.

  I remembered to breathe again.

  It was a terrible thing. It had been ugly. Kicking someone, punching them, is one thing but shooting an unconscious man six times is something else. A mate, too.

  All three of us got up. We stood there, stunned.

  Six shots, Belfast six-pack, Scotchy said in a whisper, and a gurgle that apparently was laughter came into his mouth. Fergal nodded and broke into a smile.

  Always wondered what that meant. Is that really how they do it, Michael? he asked, quietly awed.

  That, Fergal, is how they do it, I said clinically, as if it was all second nature to me now, as if I’d maybe seen it dozens of times. Perhaps it was even a little tedious. Of course I’d never done it, seen it once and had been sick for a week. Fergal looked at me in a new light. I was quite the cold motherfucker. He would spread it around too. Even Scotchy, I could see, was a bit appalled by what we had accomplished. Last time in the Four P. Shovel had bought us all a round.

  Their discomfort was an opportunity and I took it.

  Let’s go, I said and opened the door. The others followed. Scotchy was going to kick him on the way out but he felt bad now and didn’t. We were spattered with blood, but it was night and the car was just outside. Scotchy was shaking and trying not to show it. He handed me the keys.

  You drive, he said.

  I wasn’t used to driving on the right, but I took the keys and started her up. I headed back. There was a McDonald’s drive-through and I saw this as another opportunity. I turned the wheel.

  You boys want anything? I asked. I’m narving.

  Scotchy was pale in the front seat. Fergal dry-heaving now in the back. Both shook their heads. I pulled in and ordered a Big Mac meal and ate it as I drove. Fergal would spread this around too. It would reach Sunshine. It would reach Darkey. It might even reach Mr. Duffy. We stopped outside the Four Provinces and went in to get cleaned up. Bridget took my clothes. Andy was no better.

  I seriously think you should take him to the hospital, I said.

  Scotchy was in no mood to argue now and Mrs. Callaghan dialed the number. I showered and waited until the paramedics came.

  When we were alone, I found Bridget and kissed her.

  I absolutely have to see you, I said.

  She didn’t say anything.

  Tomorrow, I said.

  I don’t know, Michael, she said.

  For God’s sake, Bridget, we’ve both been through the mill. Tomorrow, please. Come on, we’ll do something fun.

  She nodded her head ambiguously and went downstairs.

  I stood there for a moment. Was she tiring of me? Would she come? Who knew? I shook my head wearily and followed her down.

  I had a free pint off Pat and drank it and chatted about the upcoming English football season, ate some Tayto crisps, and went down the steps and caught the train….

  All over.

  Done.

  You got through.

  You got through. Ugly, but it was Scotchy’s fault, not yours. No.

  You look for that paperback about the Russian guy but it’s gone. You sit in the subway car and you think. Not your fault. Not your fault. The train rattles and it nearly rocks you off to sleep. It stops at the stop and doesn’t move again. After a while a man comes with information. There’s a problem on the line and you have to get off at 137th. You get out and they give you a useless transfer.

  It’s dark now in Harlem.

  You walk down the hill from City College and St. Nicholas Park. The streets are empty. No junkies, no hookers, no undercover cops, no delivery boys, no workers, no nothing. Bodegas are shut and barricaded. The moon. The deserted avenue. The tremendous sleeping buildings and the rusted octopi of fire escapes. It is still warm and Harlem is all around and comforting. It’s straight here. Simple. You know how things stand. You know who you are and who they are. You know your place. You know how things will be. You know everything. You can exist here without pressure, without history. You can be anonymous.

  It’s a pleasant walk down Amsterdam. A gypsy cab comes by and honks. You look at it and nod. It stops. You get in. Three bucks to 123rd and Amsterdam, you say.

  The man nods, smiles.

  Some day, huh, he says.

  You don’t reply. But in the silence you agree and look out of the window.

  2: DOWNTOWN

  T

  hat should have been it. The night should have ended there—but it didn’t. Instead it got dragged out into a jazz of drink and craic and bars and cars. I was asleep and abed only about forty minutes when they came calling in their transport. A big yellow van that they must have borrowed. Guy called Marley driving, whom I’d never previously encountered and after that evening did not meet again until the night, several months later in real time and an epoch in psychological time, when I put a screwdriver through his throat and he went down into the embrace of the soft Westchester snow without even a whimper.

  Even though I was knackered it was deemed necessary that I be got up and forced to join in the jollity, for Darkey, when he was on a bender or even a mild celebration, was like a Jack ashore, everyone possible was to be brought within the compass of his merriment. And I, after all, was the star of the evening or so they all kept saying. Sunshine, Big Bob, and Darkey had arrived at the Four Provinces—after their important chin wag—not too long after I’d buggered off home following our own little escapade. Darkey and Big Bob had been drinking, so Sunshine was driving them back (though Marley was doing the actual driving). They’d all ended up in the lounge bar of the Four P. intercepting Scotchy and Fergal just as they were belting one for the road. They were both the worse for drink, but somehow Sunshine got the story out of them and with indignation Darkey had asked how they could have let me go back home on the subway when clearly I was the hero of the hour for my coolness in dealing with Shovel. Darkey is, if anything, a man of the whim and he decided that all of them were going to the hospital right that minute to see poor Andy; and then that done, they were all going to go down to Harlem and call on and subsequently fete me.

  Jesus. Poor me.

  Like I say, I was only asleep forty minutes but I was away, already reasonably untroubled by conscience or anything else. Yeah, I was off somewhere, but resistance was useless.

  They didn’t get in to see Andy but they came on down to 123rd Street anyway. They rang my buzzer, but I had the fan on and cotton wool stuffed in my ears to keep out the racket from east of here.

  Come on you fucking lazy wee hoor’s spawn bastard. It’s us. We’re fucking doing a Petula, Scotchy was no doubt screaming through the intercom. They buzzed for about ten seconds and then Darkey’s patience must have got the better of him for he told Big Bob to jemmy the lock, which Big Bob did. They probably would have broken my door down had I not finally heard their cackling and yelling and banging. For some reason I thought it was a bunch of drunk Serbians up from Ratko’s pad to raise hell and I went to the door with a metal baseball bat in my hand and a revolver in my boxer shorts.

  They laughed when I opened up the door. Boxers, Zoso T-shirt, gun, baseball bat, hair askew, snarl on face.

  Darkey leaned forwa
rd and punched me on the arm.

  Well done, you wee fucker, he said.

  Darkey, who had never been to Ireland in his life but who took on a bit of the accent and manner when he was around Scotchy and myself. It was terrifying.

  They dressed me in jeans and boots and leather jacket and hauled me out into the night, dragging me downstairs violently. For just a second or two I thought that perhaps all this bonhomie was a cover and really they were going to drive me down to the Hudson and shoot me in the back of the neck. No, worse. First, Darkey kicks my face in and then when it’s a bloody mess and I’m blinded and brains are coming out my ears, Scotchy says: I’m very disappointed in you, son. And then he fucking tops me.

  But instead of turning left at Amsterdam we turned right and it seemed that we really were going downtown after all. The boys didn’t see, but my heart stopped beating like a steam engine and the tension eased out of me. It’ll be a bad night: drink, smoke, and some terrible restaurant at the break of dawn, but at least I’m going to live, which is something.

  Darkey poured a half pint of some single malt down my throat and fell asleep in the backseat. With him practically out of it, Big Bob and Scotchy got to arguing about where we were going to go and, of course, with Scotchy and Big Bob trying to get things done it all ended farcically with us being pulled over by a cop. It was left to Sunshine in the front seat to deal with the peeler and take us to the first den of I., which was a strip joint in the vicinity of Madison Square Garden.

  Darkey was revived and led us in. He was well received. The place was standard fare: dark booths, a gangway, stripper poles, main act, side acts, filthy glasses, spaced-out clientele.

  I found a quiet corner to try and kip and I really must have nodded off, for Fergal’s droning voice woke me with talk about a redheaded girl he’d fallen in love with. Fergal was maybe traumatized by the whole Shovel business or maybe he was just being Fergal. He was a gangly bloke and always a bit of a high-strung character. He’d been a thief back in the O.C. Fingers, he tried to get everyone to call him, but no one did. He had a good five years on me, but I was the older brother.