Dead I Well May Be

by Adrian McKinty

  I told him no, I’d never been seeing her and that he was mistaken.

  I went down to the 125th IRT stop. I thought about calling Mrs. Shovel (her name was Rebecca); she wanted me to call, she would be waiting. But no. In New York, at least, Bridget was my girl. She was mine. It was all her. Darkey would fuck up. He’d hit her or get drunk; she’d come to me, we’d fly away together, over the ocean. Safe. Aye, oh aye …

  The train came, and I took it to the Bronx.

  It troubled me that now I was mixed up in a killing. We were implicated in the death of Dermot and surely this would amount to something. Surely the cops would be on my trail, pounding doors, relentless. That’s how it was on TV. But, in fact, Dermot’s death barely even registered. It made no difference whatsoever. A drop in the bucket. No one stuffed him with straw, so it didn’t even make the evening news.

  I was still concerned, though, for if you look at the newspapers of the early nineties, they’re absolutely full of stuff about organized crime in New York. There were over three hundred FBI agents working on breaking the Mob’s power in New York City, and to your average reader it seemed that every bloody cannoli shop was bugged or videotaped and every second dough tosser in your local pizzeria was a bloody federal agent. You saw rat after rat and trial upon trial on TV, U.S. Attorney and later Mayor Giuliani grinning in the Sunday papers and boasting about how he was sticking it to the Families. It wasn’t him alone, by any means. I mean, there were the cops, the FBI, treasury men, state police, tax guys, even the fucking Royal Canadian Mounted Police. So you’d think with all this that it would be impossible around then to run an operation like Mr. Duffy’s or like Darkey’s, but it wasn’t.

  It wasn’t at all.

  For as exciting as the Mob story was in New York in the early nineties, the grander narrative wasn’t their decline, their collapse, their self-immolation. No, the big story was the drug-addled slaughter taking place nightly in Harlem and the South Bronx and Bed-Stuy. The big story was who was moving into the vacuum created by the decline and fall of the Mafia.

  And the truth was that above 110th Street the rules were different. No one seemed to care about what happened up there; certainly, in all the time that I was in Harlem and Washington Heights, I never came across a single agent, a single narc, a single goon.

  Not that it would have made much difference even if the Feds had ventured north of 110th, because Darkey was very smart. Very goddamned smart. Darkey concerned himself only with recent Irish immigrants, the poor wee illegal weans fleeing 30 percent unemployment and a civil war and of whom there were tens of thousands in Riverdale, Washington Heights, and the odd wee pocket in the Bronx. Those boys and girls weren’t going near the cops, never mind the United States government. It wasn’t Boston and it wasn’t San Francisco, but look at the INS figures for Irish immigrants to the United States in the late ’80s and multiply that by about a dozen and you’ll have some idea of the scale of what I’m talking about.

  Of course, the Micks weren’t just going uptown. Woodside was a big draw in Queens, and there was Hell’s Kitchen and the Upper East Side around Second and Third. But that was someone else’s space. Not Darkey’s, but probably still under Mr. Duffy. The point of all this is, I suppose, that despite the FBI and despite Mayor Dinkins and despite the cops, Mr. Duffy and Darkey weren’t having any bother at all. I shouldn’t have worried about the peelers looking for me. Jesus, I was nothing. I was protected, and Darkey had them confused and bent. I was safe as houses. Sunshine would look out for us all, and our Darkey was charmed and on to a sweet thing. He had no legal concerns; potential enemies were destroying themselves; the Micks kept coming. He had his girl, his crew, his skinny guardian angel, and but for that flabby and slightly pockmarked face of his you could say he was sitting pretty. So, as I sat there later that night in the public bar of the Four Provinces getting hot and drinking vile Harp Lager and feeling a wee bit sorry for myself and a wee bit anxious about the morning’s events, I had to admit to myself that I really shouldn’t be that concerned. We were fine. And I told myself that things were going to be ok and go on that way for the old foreseeable. Darkey was raking it in and it would trickle down to us and we’d get fatter and richer and maybe we’d retire in a year or two and get to a university or have a bar ourselves somewhere.

  And sure enough, events might just have gone that way but for a process already in motion that three of our little crew knew about, but crucially not me and not Scotchy.

  But again, that’s the future and this is now, and at the minute I was getting a bit eggy about the death of some wee shite called Dermot and getting all existential about organized crime and the racial nature of policing policy in NYC.

  You look troubled, Andy said.

  Do I?

  Yes.

  Oh.

  What were you thinking about?

  I was thinking that we’re bloody lucky we’re uptown, otherwise the peelers would be down our fucking necks.

  Yeah.

  You ever see that film Across 110th Street? I asked him.

  No.

  No, me neither, but I bet it makes some pretty good points about organized crime and the racial nature of policing policy in New York. Peels don’t care what goes on up here, fucking don’t care, I said.

  Andy cocked his head.

  What’s the matter with you today? he asked. Do you want to be fucking caught?

  No.

  Well, Jesus.

  All right, forget it, excuse me for thinking, Andy. Big mistake around here. Forgot who I was talking to, I said.

  Andy looked hurt.

  Joking mate, joking. Sorry. Tell me, big fella, how ya feeling? I asked him.

  Andy started telling me how he was feeling, and I sat there. Keeping it in, nodding my head, making him think I was interested in the bollocks he was spieling me. Sighing, scratching my arse, Andy jabbering, me drinking, listening, and neither of us had a clue that Scotchy was going to come down the stairs in ten minutes and blow all of my concerns about the cops, the city, and every other aspect of my present life not just out of the water but out of the universe in which water can even exist as a molecule of bonded hydrogen and oxygen.

  Yeah, it’s coming. And I should have been up there at that fucking meeting to register my protest and see Darkey in the face, but I wasn’t because I’d gotten there late.

  The meeting was still going on, but Andy was down here now because all the smoke had been making him a bit sick. He was telling me about the stuff I’d missed, and apparently it had been exciting.

  Fireworks, Andy said, and went on to explain that Darkey (a bit unreasonably, I thought) considered the whole Dermot thing a complete cock-up because Dermot was dead and the peels were involved. Darkey had exploded at Sunshine and given him a really big seeing-to. He must have been really furious or else this was the standard Andy exaggeration. I looked at old And. He was big and blond and dopey-looking. He wasn’t a complete idiot, but he wasn’t going to be invited to the Institute for Advanced Studies anytime soon. He was really sweet, though, and he didn’t deserve that beating the other day. Scotchy needed a beating, Fergal did, but Andy didn’t.

  Turn your head, I said.

  He turned his head. He had a few bruises on him but he looked ok.

  You don’t look too bad, you big eejit. Want a pint?

  Aye.

  I went up and bought him a Guinness. I got myself a bottle of Newcastle Brown and came back.

  Have you seen Bridget? I asked him.

  Aye. She told me this joke.

  Was it about parrots? I asked.

  Yeah, it was funny.

  Where is she now? I asked.

  Think she left with Darkey, going to the opera or something, Andy said.

  They’ve both gone already?

  Andy nodded.

  Says she’s thinking of changing her name.

  What?

  Yeah, to Brigid. Pronounced the same, but it’s the Irish spelling, apparently. She
’s the patron saint of Ireland, along with Patrick. Bridget says that she was the earth goddess, mother Eire, that the early Christians co-opted to—

  I never heard anything about this, I interrupted him.

  Oh aye, you’re out of the loop, Mikey, Andy said, and his mind jumped to other things: Tell you it was wild, boy. This morning, I mean. I mean, Jesus, I was keeking it. Really, keeking my bloody whips. I had no clue. No clue at all what was going on. Just sitting there revving. And waiting for the peels. All those bloody people. You’d think it was a parade or a free show or something. Me just sitting there. All in Spanish. I have it, you know. The lingo. Too fast, though. Christ, Michael. Look at you, all calm. You’re cold, man. You and Scotch standing up and shooting, cool plan.

  Didn’t work.

  Sure it did. You must have got him.

  His own boys shot him, I said.

  Not the way Sunshine sold it. Said you were aces. You and Scotch. Jesus. Cold. Super cool. Why didn’t you think they’d shoot you? You boys. I didn’t know, though. I was just sitting there. They say that’s the worst. The waiting. At least you were doing something. Ha, I’m sure you boys were thinking up excuses for the meeting with your Maker. Is this Guinness? Tastes funny. Hey, and you know I heard what you did to Shovel, thanks for that. Thanks for getting him.

  It was nothing, I said. I tried to think of something to change the subject, but nothing came, and on he went about his driving.

  And on my first morning out of the hospital, too. I mean, you have to admit it was impressive.

  It was impressive.

  It was, wasn’t it? he said, his eyes wide and excited.

  Aye. And you’re feeling ok, big lad?

  I’m ok. I could have been out yesterday, but they were covering themselves, Andy said.

  Nice nurses?

  Not really, although there was this one girl from, like, Jamaica or something. I thought I was hitting it off but she was just being nice, I think.

  You get her number or anything? I asked him.

  Nah, nothing like that. Here, you want some chocolates? he asked.

  I wouldn’t say no to chocolates. These wouldn’t be a present by any chance, would they? I asked.

  Aye, behind the bar for safekeeping, Andy said, grinning.

  I let him get another round and the chocolates, which I had contributed five bucks towards, so they better be pretty fucking special. He came back. I was drinking lager now, because of the heat. It was extraordinarily bad stuff, but easier going down than the Guinness.

  What you do after? he asked, giving me my pint.

  I picked out a hazel log and a couple of caramels and a nice nougat one. I shoveled a couple in at once.

  What? I asked him.

  What did you do after this morning?

  Uh, nothing. Slept.

  I couldn’t have slept, could you? he asked.

  I just told you I slept.

  Tell you, you’re cold, man.

  Thanks.

  I was pumped. Pumped. Suppose for you it was all automatic, but I had to sit there, just sit, you know. Then drive afterwards. How’s your hand, by the way? Scotchy says you were the only one stupid enough to get himself hurt.

  Scotchy said that?

  Aye, when he was telling Mr. White and before the fireworks. He was dead calm at first, you know, Mr. White, I mean, he just listened, and then goes all ape and starts yelling at Sunshine—

  What exactly did Scotchy say about me? I interrupted.

  Nothing. Just said typical Bruce got himself a nick to show the girls. It was jokey, like.

  That bastard Scotchy. He was lying on the floor keeking his whips, and I was the only one doing anything, I muttered.

  Sunshine appeared at the top of the stairs. I nodded a hello and he came straight over. He was smiling. He’d had what was left of his hair cut, shampooed, and plastered on his scalp. Must have needed the attention after this morning’s debacle. He didn’t seem perturbed in the least by Darkey’s firestorm, and I wondered if Andy was completely yanking me.

  Michael, I want to talk to you, he said.

  Sure, go ahead, Sunshine.

  Over here, Sunshine said, and led me over to the bar.

  This is for you, he said and gave me an envelope. I wanted to be cool and not look, but I couldn’t help it. I opened it and there were ten fifty-dollar bills inside. More than twice (after Darkey’s taxes) what I got in a week.

  What’s this for? I asked.

  For this morning. If you hadn’t talked with him, we all would have been arrested. Or worse. You convinced his employees, not him. But that was enough. You saved my bacon, Michael.

  Our bacon.

  Yeah.

  Well, look, thanks for this, I said.

  It’s not much.

  No, thanks, anyway.

  Scotchy made the report, but I told Darkey what you’d done, Sunshine said, significantly.

  Aye, I know. Andy was just after telling me, I replied, sounding pissed off.

  Listen, I made sure Darkey knew what happened, Sunshine whispered.

  He looked at me; he seemed odd and off-kilter. Still shook up from the morning. He wouldn’t go on a job again in a hurry, I thought. Conditioner wafted at me from his strands of hair.

  Uh, again, thanks for putting in a word, I said, finally.

  Michael, we’re very much alike, you and me. I think you’re a bit underappreciated around here, but don’t worry, I know what you did. Anyway, enjoy yourself with that.

  Ta, I will, I said.

  Don’t mention it. Literally, don’t mention it, he said.

  Ok.

  He wanted to say something else, I thought, but instead he just nodded and went back upstairs. I had to run after him.

  Listen, Sunshine, I got rid of your piece, but I’ll need mine back.

  He looked at me and grinned as if this level of competence was unheard of.

  Well done, Michael, always thinking. That hadn’t even occurred to me. Of course I’ll get your .22 back or anything else you want.

  The .22 will be fine. I don’t think we’ll get in anything like that again.

  We won’t, he said, firmly.

  Ok.

  He padded up the stairs and then stopped halfway. He came back down again.

  Michael, look, whatever else happens, I just want you to know that, that … I’m really grateful and sorry. Thanks.

  He turned and went back up again.

  How fucking weird, I thought.

  I stuffed the envelope inside my jacket and dandered back to Andy.

  What was that all about? Andy asked.

  Uhh, nothing, um, gave me a bit of roasting for being late, nothing major, but he didn’t want to do it in front of you, didn’t want to embarrass me. Considerate, I suppose, I said.

  Aye, he’s like that sometimes, Andy agreed.

  Yeah.

  See the state of him, though. He got a manicure, you know, like a fucking poofter, Andy said.

  I must say, Andrew, I disapprove of your homophobia, I said.

  My what-a-phobia? Andy said, having never heard the term before.

  Most of the great generals have been gay or at least bi. Alexander, Caesar, Octavian, Marlborough, the list is long, I said with an air of world-weariness.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you saying Sunshine’s gay? Andy asked.

  No, I don’t think so. There was some talk of a girl, but anyway you’re missing my point, Andy, my point is—

  Jesus, you don’t think I’m fucking queer? Andy interrupted, but before I could reply Scotchy and Fergal appeared on the stairs, both of them grinning like a couple of banshees. They went to the bar and came back with four pints and chasers.

  Pick up your Bushmills, Scotchy said, sitting down and giving us one each.

  We picked up our shorts dutifully. Scotchy took a breath for what promised to be a long-winded toast:

  Gentlemen, raise your glasses and listen up. Because of our recent good w
orks and our years of dedicated service (in your case, Bruce, nearly a year of dedicated service) and our recent near brushes with death and the forces of law and order, we have been given the fucking plum of fucking plums. Drink.

  We drank, and Scotchy sat there grinning at us. He filled our glasses again and winked at us. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, but Andy cracked.

  Well, what is it? Andy whinged, desperately.

  Andy, my boy, you are lucky you are off the sick because, my young friend, you and me and young Fergal here and even Bruce (and unfortunately Big Bob too) are all off to the climes south of the border to the sunny Republic of fucking Mexico.

  Mexico? Andy said.

  Ayeup, Mex-eee-co. Girls, tequila, beaches, music, more girls, you name it, we are there, boys. Sun, sand, and fucking R&R. Glasses up and down the hatch, Scotchy yelled.

  I brought the glass up, but I couldn’t drink.

  Sometimes, occasionally, now and again, a hint of the future will leak into the present. Not often, but it happens once in a while. You feel it in the back of your neck or your toes or fingertips. At that institute in Princeton that Andy’s not getting invited to, they’ll tell you that events take place at the quantum level and the light cone from these events extends backwards as well as forwards along time’s arrow. And sometimes, if you’re attuned, sensitive, you get a hint. This was one of those times. As soon as Scotchy finished his toast, a shiver like Baikal ice went down my spine, as if in premonition.

  Scotchy shoved me.

  Drink up.

  I looked at him, ignored the message from the future, and drank up.

  Somebody walked on my grave, I muttered.

  Aye, well.

  What’s the job? I asked him, to cover any embarrassment.

  Job, nothing. The job is the smallest part of it. The job, Bruce dear, is your proverbial slice of pie, forget talk of the job. Think rather of long walks on the golden sandy beaches of the Caribbean Sea with charming señoritas and a room of your own in a luxury villa to take her back to. Think of booze and pot and swimming and lasses by the score. Uncle Scotchy has fixed us up.