Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped. Spilt my Coke. A heavily built bloke in a trench coat raised his hands in apology. 'Easy there, bubba,' he said.
'I'm sorry,' I replied, wiping at the Coke as it dribbled down my coat, apologizing as we British Irish do for things we haven't done. It comes from an inferiority complex caused by being inferior.
'Let me get you another.'
'Never worry. I was nearly finished.'
'Sure?'
'Certain.'
'Okay. Sorry again. The reason I touched you, I'm meeting a girl tonight, first date, y'know? And I couldn't help overhearing you discuss the plot of that movie. It sounds intriguing. I have Irish roots, y'know? From County Cork originally. Say, isn't it dreadful the way everyone's killing each other over there at the moment?'
'We have a ceasefire,' I said.
'Whatever, sounds like an incredible movie - where'd you see it?'
I looked at Sissy. She rolled her eyes. 'Private screening,' I said. 'Really? You in the business?'
I nodded.
'That's a shame, sounds like a good night out. What's it called?
I'll watch out for it.'
'Born on the Twelfth of July.'
'Born on the Twelfth of July. Cool. I'll remember that.'
'Good.'
'Who stars?'
'Who else? Sylvester.'
'Sylvester? Cool. Sounds great.'
'And Tweetie Pie.'
His eyes narrowed. Then he laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. 'Aw, you guys!'
He turned and left Duncan's, still chortling. I shook my head. 'Americans,' I said.
'Include me out,' said Sissy.
28
Sissy practised the sophisticated surveillance techniques of her late husband. The fishing boat, having been rescued from Harlem, was now restored and lurked in a mildly dilapidated section of what was once known as Brooklyn's Irish quarter. Times had changed, ethnic boundaries had shifted or been stolen, and it was now merely a place where no quarter was given. Sissy was big enough and threatening enough not to have to worry about giving quarters, or halves or three-quarters, and I was wasted enough to look like I'd taken a quarter, or a half, or the whole rock. We were left alone. Sissy munched on a doughnut. I munched on my fingernails. Together we weighed down the hood and watched a brownstone building on the corner of the block, a four-storey effort that had seen better days. I'd checked the names earlier; McLiam was listed on the third floor.
Two hours we sat there. It was pleasantly warm if you were well wrapped up. It was a run-down area, but it wasn't Harlem. People came and went. No one bothered us. We didn't see McLiam. We didn't even see anyone who looked particularly Irish. No pointy green hats. No shaggy horse tied up outside. We just watched and waited.
Eventually I said: 'Well, I guess the party's not at McLiam's.'
'Seems not.'
'We should try some thunder and lightning.'
'Mmmmm?'
'Ring the bell and run away. See who comes out.'
She didn't think much of that idea. I didn't think much of that idea, but it was better than sitting for another couple of hours waiting for McLiam to make a move. So I sauntered across the road and rang the bell. There wasn't any need to run away. There was no response. No muffled reply over the intercom. No anxious glances out of the windows. I nodded across the road to Sissy, then pressed the button beneath.
'Yeah? Who's that?'
Young voice. Teenage. Chinese struggling to go American. 'I'm looking for Marcus McLiam.'
'Upstairs.'
He clicked off. I pressed again. 'Yeah.'
'Hi. Yeah. Marcus McLiam. He's not in.'
'Can't help that.'
'I know. I'm sorry. Do you know where he is?'
'Try the office, man.'
Click. Buzz. 'Sorry. One more question...'
'Fuck, man, I'm doing something here, you the fuckin' cops or what?'
'Immigration.'
'He works on West 42nd. Beside the Port Authority. Irish place. Norda. Nerda. Something like that.'
'Noraid?'
'Yeah. That's it.'
'Okay. Cheers.'
Click. I crossed back to the car. I told Sissy about my chat. 'You think we should take a look inside?'
She looked up at the apartment, then shook her head. 'Let's tackle the man himself. I like the immigration line. That should open a few doors for us. Tell me about Noraid.'
Sissy nosed the car back out into the traffic while I fumbled about for some info on Noraid. There wasn't much. It was a name everyone back home knew, but nobody knew much about, save that they were sympathetic to all shades of militant Irish Republicanism.
'They raise money amongst the Irish community here for those suffering under the British jackboot back home. For the poor, for the political prisoners. They set up tours for New York's second- and third-generation Irish who see the old homeland through shamrock-tainted glasses. They pay big money, spend a week getting a terror tour of the North, Guinness, folk music, meet a couple of ex-terrorists out because of the ceasefire who fill their thick skulls with tales of sticking it to the Brits. A bit of a thrill for armchair terrorists. Then they write their big cheques and feel good about doing something for the cause. Noraid has been making its money exploiting sad old Yanks desperately looking for a culture to cling to, using that money to finance the senseless murder of people back home. They've been nothing but apologists for a gang of murdering cut-throat bastards, they wouldn't know the real Ireland if it came up and spat down their throats. I'd say they're panicking because the war's theoretically over. They've made a nice wee living from it and now they're scared that's going to change, so maybe they're doing their little bit to help it start up again. Bastards the lot of them.'
'So you've no strong feelings one way or the other about them,' said Sissy, piloting the car back up onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
'No,' I said.
We decided to approach Noraid separately. Strategy. I went first. Maybe it wasn't a good idea. I felt a little tense. Rather than cleansing the soul, my little rant against Noraid had served to crystallize my dormant feelings towards them. Once again I had forgone my chosen stance as the detached journalist; I wasn't even semi-detached; I was a journalistic chalet bungalow, well built down below but with a lot of empty space up top.
It was a slick, modern office, laid out much like a travel agent's, with the staff on one side of a counter and a wide range of brochures on display for the public to leaf through or lift on the other. I browsed for a couple of minutes; there were two fellas behind the counter, both busy on phones. One nodded over and held up two fingers. I didn't take it as an insult, though I was prepared to. About half the brochures depicted the Ireland of postcard and Hollywood, the rest the heroic struggle of the downtrodden. There were plenty of pictures of gunmen in silhouette, of dead hunger strikers and civil rights marches. Not too many of kids with their heads blown off.
The fella who'd signalled came off his phone and approached the counter with a grin and an apology. I moved towards him. I smiled back, but steely with it.
'Afternoon,' I said. 'G'day,' he replied. 'Australian?'
'Sure am.'
'Immigration,' I said.
He stiffened. 'Identification,' he said. 'Boy, you're defensive.' He put his hand out. 'Identification.'
I laughed, winked, leant forward. 'I'm interested in immigrating here. I was told you might be able to help me out.'
'We're not that sort of an organization.'
'Just the basic details. How to get a Green Card, that sort of thing.'
'We're not that sort of an organization.'
'Whaddya mean, you're Noraid, aren't you?'
'Sure.'
'That's like Traveller's Aid, isn't it? You help people from Northern Ireland out when they're on holiday, don't you?'
'No, sir, that's not us. That's not what we do.'
'Well, what do you do, if not that?'
'We're
a pressure group. We're trying to bring about a united Ireland. You've come to the wrong place.'
'You can't get me a Green Card then?'
He took a deep breath. His eyes flitted behind me as the door opened. Sissy's thundercloud shadow passed over me as she sauntered towards the brochures. 'No, sir, we can't.'
I nodded. He looked back at his colleague, but he was still on the phone. 'I was misinformed then,' I said.
He nodded. 'You must have been.'
'I was told to ask for Marcus McLiam. You're not him. He's Irish. I think he's Irish. Can I speak to him?'
'Marcus isn't here today.'
'But I was told to ask for him.'
'Marcus isn't here today.'
'When will he be back?'
'I can't say.'
'Can't say or won't say?'
'Sir, if there's nothing more I can do for you, I've work to do.'
'Sorry. Don't let me keep you.' I stood back, ready to go, then stopped. 'Just one thing. How come an Australian is working in an organization dedicated to the armed struggle in Ireland?'
'Easy, sir. I like to help out where I see injustice.'
'Have you ever been to Ireland?'
'No. I hope to go soon.'
'Well, I hope you do.' I grinned and put my hand out to him. After a moment's hesitation he reached over and we shook. `And I hope you take your fuckin' blinkers off when you do go, you interfering Australian shite.'
I let go of his hand and made for the door. He was round the counter and after me in a second. Then I stopped, stood my ground. I wagged a finger at him. `You touch me, I'll sue your ass off !' I shouted.
He was a big fella, all muscle and teeth, but he stopped, surprised that I wasn't still running. I glared at him. He was weighing it up in his mind. When you're in America you can always keep someone at bay with the threat of a good lawsuit.
His jaw set firm. 'Leave the building, sir, or I'll be forced to call the police.'
'I'm leaving. Just making a point.'
'Well, make it somewhere else.'
'Do you have a Green Card?'
'As a matter of fact I have.'
'What about him?' I nodded back to his colleague.
He didn't know. 'Of course he has,' he said.
I tutted. 'I'm giving you due warning. I'll be back tomorrow. You better have your documents sorted or you're on the boat. Understand?'
'I'm calling the cops.'
I turned to Sissy. She had a brochure open. 'And what the fuck're you looking at?'
'Excuse me?'
'I said, what the fuck are you looking at?' Her mouth dropped open. 'I. . .'
'Okay! That's enough!' Australia stepped forward, fists bunched. I opened the door quickly and jumped out onto the sidewalk.
He stopped in the doorway. We looked at each other for a few moments. Then I shrugged and said: 'Good night.' I turned and walked on up the street. I didn't bother looking back.
There was a McDonald's three blocks up. I bought a cheese burger and a Diet Coke for myself and two cheeseburgers and fries for Sissy and found a table upstairs. She arrived in five minutes and slipped into the two seats opposite me. I pushed her food across to her. 'Successful?' I asked.
She nodded and unwrapped a cheeseburger. She bit into it. Chewed. Swallowed. Took a sip of Coke.
'You seemed to enjoy that,' she said.
I shrugged. 'You have to take your enjoyment where you can these days. Anyway I don't see why I have to be pleasant to people who support terrorism.'
'It doesn't do any harm if you get vital information in the process.'
'Did you get vital information?'
'I did.'
'Well, then? What's the problem? I had my fun, we got our information. I mean, I hate Noraid anyway, but I especially hate Australians who work for Noraid. What business is it of theirs to stick their noses into other people's problems?'
'You might say the same about me.'
'You're getting paid for it.'
'So is he.'
'I doubt it. He looks like a volunteer. Jesus, you'd think Australia had enough problems of its own without.. .'
'Starkey, will you calm down?' She reached across the table, put her hand on my arm. 'No need to get excited. I understand, you're patriotic in your own way, it's natural to get a little upset. . .'
I laughed. Grimly. Feeling slightly stupid. 'I'm sorry. It's not your fault, I shouldn't take it out on you. I'm the least patriotic person I know. I shouldn't let it rile me. I don't give a damn whether we end up in a united Ireland or not. I just have a thing about terrorists. And people who suck up to them, like Noraid.'
'You've a chip on both shoulders.'
I nodded. An entire pastie supper, in fact, but I didn't expect she'd get that one; if she did, she'd probably eat it. 'We're getting away from the point here. What happened in there?'
'You got him in quite a state, Starkey. Came back to the counter all mumbles. I asked him if he was okay. He apologized to me, for you, and for him. We chatted for a while about how many crazy people there are in New York. Then I could see the look coming into his eyes, you know, the look that says, what's this black person doing in this Irish place?'
'Like me in Harlem.'
'Like you in Harlem. So I asked what time Marcus would be back at and he said why, and I said, well, I got an urgent message for him; he said what about, and I said, well, it's personal, but it concerns my daughter. He weighed it up for a little, then said sorry, but Marcus was off work. I asked where I could contact him; he said I couldn't. I said why not. He said he wasn't allowed to give out personal information about employees. I said, well, son, you'd be looking for personal information if your daughter was pregnant, and he said, oh. Anyway, we chatted a bit, I asked him if he had a girlfriend, said he had; I said, well, how would you feel if she was pregnant, but she wasn't able to tell you, because she was scared you wouldn't want to know, because you maybe didn't want children, and she wasn't sure you wanted a long-term relationship with a black woman.'
'Ever think of writing a soap opera, Sissy?'
'No. Shut up and listen. He said he didn't even know Marcus had a girlfriend, but then he didn't see much of him outside of Noraid. Said he understood my position but that there wasn't much he could do. He hated to say it, but now that he thought about it, maybe Marcus had an inkling something was up, because he rushed into the office yesterday and said he wouldn't be in for a while, he was going on vacation. Said it left them short-staffed, but there wasn't much he could do, because they're all volunteers. So off he went on vacation. Yesterday. Missed him by a day.'
'No idea where he went?'
Sissy slurped up on her Coke, swallowed. Princetown,' she said, cool as you like.
29
The fishing boat wasn't up to it, so we travelled by Greyhound. It was a nine-hour trip, scooting quickly up the road to Providence, Rhode Island, stopping for a bite to eat at a depot outside the city, and then meandering at a more leisurely pace through the myriad small towns on Cape Cod before rolling into Princetown.
The bus was half empty. Sissy took up a pair of seats and a lot of time talking about her life. I sat in front of her, and before we were a couple of hours down the road I had a sore neck looking back at her. Once in a while she would lose her train of thought and stare out of the window, and I knew she was thinking about her husband. I wondered if she knew he was capable of snipping someone's fingers off with a set of rose clippers. It wasn't the sort of thing that generally cropped up at the dinner table. The thing was, I supposed, you never really knew what your partner was capable of. I had never thought Patricia capable of conceiving a child by another man. I had never considered that Mary McMaster might wear sexy underwear for another man. I had never thought that a Harlem man might worship Barry Manilow or that a selfconfessed scaredy-cat might take part in a daring rescue mission. I had never thought very much at all, in fact.
'He's not very open-minded, is he?' Sissy was saying.
&nb
sp; 'Mmmmm?'
'Your boxer. He's hardly Mr Liberal.'
'How do you mean?'
'He's perceived as being a racist.'
I shrugged. 'He's misunderstood.'
'If he does lean a little to the right, Princetown'll be an eyeopener for him.'
'In what way?'
'You've never heard of it before?'
I shook my head. 'I know about Cape Cod. Playground of the rich and famous, isn't it? The Kennedys and all that.'
'Sure. But Princetown itself. You know that after Frisco and Key West, it's the gay capital of America?'
'You mean, jolly, happy-go-lucky ... ?'
'Starkey, you know what I mean.'
'Yeah. Okay. But it's a holiday resort, isn't it? It'll be empty this time of the year.'
'I doubt it. It has a large all-year-round gay community. A lot of writers and artists. Hardy perennials.'
'Okay. So he'll be welcomed with open arms. He can become a gay icon.'
'Maybe. If he chooses his comments more judiciously than he did when he spoke about black people in New York.'
'You heard about that?'
'We all heard about that, Starkey.'
'Like I say, he's misunderstood. Don't worry about him. He's only got a few days until the fight. He'll be busy training, getting psyched up, he won't have time to mix with the locals. And even if he does, he's well aware of the damage ill-considered comments can do. And he won't even want to. He's a well-balanced guy. He's got no problems with blacks or gays or Catholics or Muslims. All he wants to do is get his wife back, fight for the title, become champion of the world. He doesn't want to offend anyone.'
A salty rain was blowing in off the Atlantic when we finally reached Princetown.
Sissy had picked up a guidebook on our stop in Providence and spent the second half of the journey regaling me with stories from the town's old whaling days, of its literary past and present, and then, as our hunger grew, she switched to the restaurant guide and taunted me with a walk through dozens of lobster restaurants and Portuguese bakeries. I was stiff, tired, hungry and prepared to eat well, relax and immerse myself in a bit of culture before turning to the fight game and its attendant problems. I'd just lifted our bags out when Stanley Matchitt walked up and stuck his hand out. I shook it warily.
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