Eightball Boogie

by Declan Burke

  It was going to be a long and lousy night.

  13

  I walked back into town, hailed a cab. The sleet was coming down hard, the flurries a little thicker. It still wasn’t sticking, though, the streets wet and shiny under the orange streetlights. Ben was in the living room, sitting in front of a blazing fire, Pokémon cards scattered on the rug.

  “Hey, Ben.”

  He was absorbed in a cartoon, Johnny Dangerfield. I barely registered.

  “There’ll be snow tomorrow,” I told him. “Then we’ll build the biggest snowman ever.”

  I waited for a response, decided to buy myself a Johnny Dangerfield mask, went through to the kitchen. Bracing myself, but either Gonzo hadn’t arrived or Denise was hiding him under the stairs. She was sitting at the table, a coffee at her elbow, leafing through a magazine. Pots bubbled on the cooker. The windows were steamed up.

  “You’re cooking dinner?”

  “Dinner cooks itself, Harry. It’s a woman’s secret. Don’t tell the lads.”

  “You didn’t get my message?”

  “I got your message.”

  “I thought you wanted to go out?”

  “Not if it’s where you’re going. Besides, where do you think we’d get a babysitter at that short notice? It’s the day before Christmas Eve. People are out enjoying themselves, having a good time.” She went back to the magazine. “Some people, anyway.”

  It was pointless trying to argue and I didn’t even want to. I went upstairs, had a shower, lay down for a quick nap. Ben shook me awake about three seconds later.

  “Dinner’s ready, Dad.”

  “Alright, son. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  We ate in silence. Ben and I watched Willy Wonka until it was time for him to go to bed. I watched as he brushed his teeth, getting more paste on his chin than his teeth, brought him downstairs to Denise, head buried in my shoulder.

  “Want to put him to bed?”

  “You’re doing a great job,” she said. “For someone who’s had so little practice.”

  “Cheers.”

  I tucked him in, gave him a kiss.

  “Be a good boy for your mum, okay?”

  “Okay,” he muttered, already dozing off. I said: “Who’s coming tomorrow night?”

  “Santa.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Eddie.”

  “Eddie? Who told you that?”

  He turned, settled. His eyes were closed.

  “Mum said Eddie’s coming tomorrow.”

  Eddie. I hadn’t heard Gonzo called by his Christian name in maybe ten years.

  “Who’s Eddie?” I asked, brushing his cow’s lick off his forehead.

  “Dunno.”

  He didn’t know. I didn’t know who Eddie was either, not now, not after four years away. Ben’s mouth was gaping open, which suggested that we both cared about the same. I watched him until I was sure he was asleep, went downstairs. Denise was flicking through the TV channels. I called a cab.

  “You’re going out?”

  “No, I’m just teasing the cabbie.”

  “You don’t think you’ll be a gooseberry?”

  “If Dutchie and Michelle wanted privacy, they’d stay home. They don’t, they want to meet people. I’m people.”

  “Just about.”

  The cab dropped me at the office. I went upstairs, pulled Ben’s bike out from under the desk. Opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, took out the gun, stuck it in my belt, invisible under my jacket. Then I dug a padded envelope out of the top drawer of the desk. I scribbled the office address on the front, stuck a stamp on it, slipped Herbie’s camera inside. Left the office, Ben’s bike under one arm, and posted the envelope in the tiny branch office at the end of the street. Then I headed across the road to The Cellars.

  Dutchie was already at the bar, a pint and a short in front of him. He looked at the bike.

  “Traffic that bad?”

  “Ben’s Christmas present. Mind if I stash it out back, pick it up tomorrow?”

  He led the way out to the storeroom. I put the bike in behind the beer kegs. Then I pulled the gun out of my belt. He didn’t look as surprised as he should have.

  “The Dibble were around this morning,” I reminded him. “If they turn the place over, plant a real gun, they have me by the curlies. If there’s no fake to replace, they can’t put in a plant.”

  Dutchie laughed, short and hard.

  “Wise up, Harry. Those boys’d plant cabbage in concrete if they thought it’d get them a free Danish with their coffee.”

  The gun went in under one of the Guinness kegs. Marie, the girl who helped out whenever Dutchie was busy or unavailable or just plain lazy, pulled us a couple of pints.

  “So where’s Michelle?”

  “Meeting some of the girls from work. She’ll be in later. We knocked the Chinkers on the head.”

  “Suits me. Dee isn’t coming.”

  “Couldn’t get a babysitter?”

  “Or wouldn’t. Does it matter?”

  “Not to me. Try a short?”

  We were comfortably drunk by the time Michelle got in, maybe an hour later. She wasn’t the most conventionally attractive of women, her hair a frizzy blonde job that would never go out of fashion because it had never really been in style. Her nose was a little too pointed, her chin sloped away like it was ashamed of itself, but she was sexy in the way she carried herself, confident of who she was and what she could do. She leaned in, kissed me on the cheek while Dutchie organised a stool. She sat up at the bar between us, looked me over.

  “Fighting, Harry?” She tut-tutted. “And where’s Dee?”

  “The negotiations are still at a delicate phase.”

  “You’re still out?”

  “Mostly.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Keep the jump-leads handy.”

  Gonzo arrived just after ten. I had my back to the bar, clocked him straight away. He pushed through the crowd, grinning a tentative one. Stood in front of me, hands jammed into the pockets of his frayed denims, shoulders hunched.

  “Harry,” he drawled. “Long time no see.”

  “Gonz.”

  I gave him the once over. Taking in the dirty blonde dreads, the faded Levis stuffed into a pair of heavy-duty biker’s boots. The shoulders that had straightened, broadened, giving him a couple of extra inches up and out. He was bulky but carried it easy. It was just as well. Another couple of pounds and the bright orange Puffa bomber jacket he was wearing would have made him look like the Michelin Man.

  “Nice jacket, Gonz,” Dutchie said, reaching out to shake Gonzo’s hand, making a production number of it. “No danger of being knocked down wearing that.” He winked, nodded at me. “If you’re wondering about the smell, it’s the whiff of burning martyr.”

  Gonzo laughed. My guts curdled.

  “Alright, Dutch? How’s tricks?” He looked at Michelle. “How’re you keeping, Chuck? You’re looking well.”

  “Good to see you, Gonzo.” She kissed him on the cheek, barely making contact. That didn’t stop him grinning, wolfish, rubbing his cheek to erase an imaginary lipstick mark.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Maybe I should come home more often.”

  I let that one slide. I remembered that smile. It burned, an acid sloshing around with the porter and whiskey. I let it.

  “Pint, Gonz?” Dutch asked.

  “Stout.”

  Dutchie and Michelle made small talk while Gonzo and I stared one another out, neither of us wanting to make the first move. The arrangement suited me. The way I felt about it, the less I heard from Gonzo the longer I’d live, longer and happier. He blinked first.

  “How’ve you been, Harry?”

  “Fine. Up times, down times. You know the drill.”

  “Yeah.”

  He drank deep from his pint, downing half of it in two gulps. Wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, which left some of the creamy head stuck to his upper lip. That irrita
ted me. I let it.

  “I was out at the house,” he said then. He smiled, slow and lazy. “I looked in on Ben. He’s a cute kid.”

  I wanted to punch him there and then, get it over with.

  “Yeah. He got his mother’s nose.”

  “She’s looking well, too.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I didn’t see a wedding ring, though.”

  “That’s because we’re not married, Gonz.”

  “How come?”

  “I was afraid you’d turn up.” I’d had enough of the small talk. “How long are you staying, Gonz?”

  He shrugged, taken aback.

  “I don’t know. Couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks. I told Denise I’d do B&B but she said I was being daft. She made up a bed in Ben’s room.”

  “For who, me?”

  “Harry!” Michelle’s tone was stern, letting me know I’d overstepped the mark. I waved her away. I hadn’t even started my run up.

  “If it’s a problem –”

  “Of course it’s a problem, Gonz. All I want to know is how long it’s going to be a problem.”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, picking his words with care. “I’ll be taking a look around, see if there’s anything happening. If there isn’t, I’ll be off again.”

  “Anything like what?”

  “Anything like anything. Bar work, maybe. I did some sign painting on the islands, when I was out in Greece. I’ve a few quid put away, enough for a second-hand van. Maybe there’s some courier work going. Know of anything?”

  “No. Dutchie’s the man to ask.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll ask Dutch.”

  He looked hurt, wounded. I put him out of his misery.

  “The way it is, Gonz, you can stay as long as you don’t get in the way, and I’m only saying that because I’m expecting you to take off first chance you get. But don’t look for something that’s not there anymore. Alright?”

  “Jesus, Harry…”

  Maybe it was his reasonable tone. Maybe I thought I’d never get the chance to say it again. Maybe it was the beer, the bile. But it was coming and coming hard. I let it go.

  “Fuck you and your ‘Jesus Harry’. Everyone thought I was a soft prick and fuck me if you didn’t prove them right.”

  “Come on, Harry.” Now it was Dutchie’s turn, laying a hand on my shoulder.

  “Back off, Dutch.” I looked at Gonzo. “You fucked the woman I was going to marry. I should have kicked you into the middle of next week, and don’t think I didn’t consider it. But what I did was ask you to be my child’s godfather.”

  “Follow Brando and De Niro? You’re kidding.”

  “What’s that, funny?”

  “C’mon, Harry –”

  “Denise used to say it was like something out of The Omen. That was funny. For the first two months, it was funny. After that, it wasn’t funny anymore. After that I was wondering if something had happened, something serious. Wondering if maybe you were dead. Four years, not knowing. All it needed was a phone-call or a postcard, a fucking message on the fucking answering machine.”

  Dutchie touched me on the shoulder.

  “Harry,” he urged, wary. “It’s Christmas.”

  “It was Christmas last year too, Dutch, and the year before that. It was Christmas for the last four fucking years, Dutch.” I looked back at Gonzo. “Just for the record, how come you left so quick?”

  “Just had to get away, Harry. When you have to go, you go.”

  “You couldn’t wait one more fucking night?”

  “I didn’t realise it meant that much.”

  “Ben being christened? Didn’t mean that much?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Tell you what, Gonz. Just forget it, all of it. Let’s pretend we don’t even know each other.”

  “People change, Harry.”

  “You’re changed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not. Now rev up and fuck off.”

  He thought that over. Then he hauled off and drove a punch at my head like he was grabbing for fresh air the far side. I went down like I’d been torpedoed. Dutchie was between us by the time I got up, stunned, shaking my head.

  “Enough,” he said, terse. “Any more and you’re both out. Hear that? Harry?”

  There was blood on the back of my hand. I’d bounced my head off the bar on the way down and my eyes were watering. It was a good buzz, though. Gonzo’s fists were still clenched, waiting for it to kick off. The old Gonzo, unrepentant, the thin veneer of contrition scraped bare and ugly in the slipstream of one vicious swing. I patted Dutchie on the back, dabbed at my bloody nose with the tissue he gave me. I’d got what I wanted.

  “Second time today,” I told Gonzo. “First one hurt.”

  “Thought you might laugh if I tickled. You being such a grumpy cunt and all.”

  Dutchie manoeuvred his stool between us, put up another round. Then Gonzo got one in, and after that we started to lose count. We talked at right angles for a while, slow to start, faster as the beer paid off. He told us about Greece and Spain. I told him about Denise and Ben, Ben mostly, but I didn’t say anything he couldn’t have guessed anyway.

  Closing time came and went. Dutchie suggested a few late ones. The idea of a club, all noise and desperation, was appealing for once. When we got inside, we settled ourselves in the darkest corner we could find. We shouted at one another across the table until we realised we weren’t saying anything worth hearing. Dutchie went to the bar. Gonzo shifted around to sit on the stool beside me, nudging me in the ribs.

  “Who’s the bird?” he shouted.

  “What bird?”

  “That bird, on the edge of the floor. She’s been clocking you since we came in.”

  She looked away when I glanced over my shoulder but there was no mistaking the delightful Miss Conway’s pout. She was standing on the edge of the dance-floor, grinding a hip against the big bloke beside her, hips kinking in time to the rhythm. She was wearing a cropped belly top that showed most of her flat stomach and all of her cleavage, which was also flat.

  “Never seen her before.”

  “Sweet.”

  “The way cyanide smells.”

  Dutchie came back with the drinks. He had just settled into his seat again when Michelle came back from the toilet and dragged him, protesting, onto the dance floor. Gonzo shouted: “Fancy a buzz?”

  “No.”

  He slipped the corner of a plastic wrap out of his shirt pocket, twitched it. Then he squeezed two pills from the wrap, holding them in his palm under the table. They looked like Paracetamol except for the grooved line running across the circumference.

  “C’mon, Harry. You know you want to.”

  I knew he wouldn’t give up until he got his way. I knew, from bitter experience, that it was easier to agree, to succumb. Maybe that way, when I woke up in the morning, Gonzo would be gone again, taking the car with him, maybe, and it’d be worth it just to see him gone.

  Then I met his eye. He was the old Gonzo again, the one-man party who didn’t give a shit and took even less, the five-year-old trapped in the body of a sociopath.

  “No chance, Gonz. Forget it.”

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said, popping both pills. “These fuckers haven’t paid off all night. That’s four and five right there.”

  “Five?”

  “Nothing’s happening. You get a quick buzz like you’re about to come up and that’s your lot.”

  “Maybe the pills aren’t the problem.”

  “There was a time you weren’t such a pious bastard.”

  “And there was a time you weren’t a total cunt.”

  He sipped his pint, chewed the inside of his lip.

  “Fuck sakes. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

  “Once’d be a start. Wouldn’t mean a fucking thing, but it’d be nice to know you can say it all the same.”

  “Jesus. Okay, Harry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I fucked Celine.
I’m sorry I didn’t come to Ben’s christening. I’m sorry I didn’t ring. I’m sorry your life is a pile of shite, that you’re a miserable fucker.” He sparked a smoke. “Let me know if I’m leaving anything out, yeah?”

  “How about being sorry for coming back, for lying through your teeth?”

  “What are you talking about? I told you, I’m looking to get started –”

  “Yeah, I know. Sign-painting and a second-hand Hi-Ace. Give it a rest, Gonz. It’s so tired it’s yawning.”

  He looked at me, shrewd.

  “Never could keep anything from you, Harry. Never was able to kid you.”

  “Save the nostalgia for when you retire, Gonz. What are you trying to do, make me feel good about myself?” I laughed, bitter. “I don’t need you to tell me I’m smart, I know I’m a fuckwit, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you. So cut to the chase. Give me some of that old eight ball boogie.”

  He stared, squinting, like he wasn’t sure I was really me. It was an old trick he had, letting the other person think he was taking them seriously, gaining time while he thought up another lie. I was pretty sure he was about to start spoofing again. He didn’t. He told me the truth. It wasn’t the whole truth, I found out later, but at least he wasn’t lying.

  “Ever get bored, Harry? So bored your brain shuts down because it has nothing to do?”

  “You were bored, so you decided to come home and fuck us all up again. Is that it?”

  “There’s only one place you get that bored. I was there eighteen months, kept my head down, got out eight months early.”

  “Boo-fucking-hoo.”

  He ignored me.

  “Stir isn’t as bad as people make out. You need to fuck some fairy early, so no one tries to fuck you, but you’re fed and watered, everything’s taken care of. Anything you want you can get, providing you can pay for it.” He shrugged. “Seven fucking tabs got me twenty-six months. There’s paedophiles walking the streets, sticky-fingered fuckers running the country, I'm banged up for a few party favours. The big laugh inside was when they started letting the Provies out. Funny, that was. Fucking hilarious. Worse than psychos, we were.”