Just the two of us, and a couple of lobsters, sitting at a corner table, a candle between us. Matchitt in a red cap-sleeve T-shirt and a black Harrington jacket with tartan lining, 50-Is- Me in a leather jacket, black jeans, Tintin T-shirt. Just the two of us, left behind in the exodus from Princetown.
The jet had come in the early evening, piloted by Poodle Clay himself, anxious to bring us the good news that he had made a deal with the Brothers and Sons of Muhammad. He blustered about a bit, but at the end of it all, what he had secured was a promise to withdraw their death threat against McMaster in exchange for a hefty loan to rebuild the Shabazz and financial support for the families of those who had died in our abortive raid. This, while welcome news, was like shutting the bar door after the drunks had staggered. Poodle, to his credit, was only a little taken aback to discover that we had already foiled two plots by the Sons to scuttle McMaster's attempt on the world crown; one literally, although we were a bit vague about the whale.
Martin King, idealistic but fatally flawed - couldn't swim for toffee - was indeed the kingpin of the Sons, and his death had robbed the terrorists of their driving force. Marcel Blackwood on the other hand was a talented boxer with a cocaine problem. He was still ranked number eleven in the world, but was about to be kicked off the ranking list and banned for testing positive for drugs after his last fight. In the way of many criminals in adversity, he had suddenly discovered religion. Cynics might view his sudden conversion as an attempt to lighten his punishment not only in this world but the next. However, cynics might also note gleefully that instead of choosing Catholicism where he might have gotten away with a few Hail Marys and the issuing of the Holy Pin for his condom collection or Mormonism where the tea bags might have been out the window and the Donny and Marie bootlegs in, Blackwood plumped for the family of Muhammad. The Brothers decided his act of contrition ought to be to knock spots off Bobby McMaster, with the aid of an extremely close shave and a little subterfuge. Blackwood, grasping at straws, a notoriously difficult thing to do in boxing gloves, went for it, but thanks to the brilliantly incisive yet subtle intervention of a young journalist had not been able to succeed with the fiendish plot.
There wasn't much we could do with Blackwood. He had no career left. The Brothers would disown him. McMaster's uppercut had speeded up the process, begun by the cocaine, which would eventually lead to his head caving in. His new-found devotion to Muhammad was not such that he found it impossible to curse the Brothers up and down for leading him into such a ridiculous scheme, so ridiculous that it had come within seconds of working.
No, there wasn't much we could do. He cursed them, he cursed us, he packed up, he moved out. Matchitt followed him out to the gate, and gobbed on his back. Sometimes words don't say everything.
'So, Stanley,' I said, sipping my beer to give the appearance of both gentility and a recent vacation from total abstinence - it was my eighth, but only the staff knew that - 'your sudden fall from grace, are you reconciled to it?'
'I've had no fuckin' fall from grace,' he replied testily. He had not made any attempt to conceal his intake, and was mostly pissed.
'You're not on the plane, Stanley. You're meant to be his number one man.'
Matchitt ran a finger across his nose, then sniffed up. 'There wasn't room. You should know that. You're sitting here.'
'At least I was offered a seat.'
'Aye, sure.'
I had, in fact, been assigned a seat, but had given it up to Bernie Gold. A promise, was, after all, a promise. McMaster was, however, adamant he didn't want Matchitt on the plane. His old mate had just gone too far with the whales and now, with the Sons off his back, he felt he no longer needed the specialized attention Matchitt gave him. 'Stanley,' he said, 'is a liability,' though he didn't say it within earshot.
Another time, another place, and I suspect Matchitt would have gone for him anyway; insisted on a seat or offered violence. But when he heard that Sissy hadn't blagged a seat either, he seemed content to remain for an extra night and bring up the rearguard with his new-found companion. Sissy, surprisingly, had rejected the offer of food and was out on patrol with the local cops in one final effort to track down the mysterious Marcus McLiam. If he was in town, and it was becoming increasingly unlikely, then the chances were that he was about to leave, to follow the McMaster camp back to New York. Princetown, luckily, was on the end of a peninsula and there were only a limited number of exits from the town. The police had thoughtfully set up checkpoints on all of these routes and were confident of catching him if he was there to be caught.
'Of course, I don't think he's here at all,' said Stanley. I nodded. 'Probably not.'
'A red lobster. Designed to confuse us. Nobody's fault. Not Sissy's.'
'I agree. Disinformation. He's in New York. Has been all the time.'
'Or he's here. Just to keep an eye on us. Lying low the whole time. Disguised.'
'As a local.'
'As a poof.'
A couple of heads turned. I smiled apologetically and whispered, 'Between you and Jackie, all the slabbering youse do gets Bobby into some trouble.'
Matchitt sat back, threw up his hands. 'Whaddya mean? What slabbering?'
'You on the boat. Jackie to the Mirror. Loose talk. Costs lives.'
'Bollocks.'
'And now in here.'
'Whaddya mean?'
'In here. Just now.'
'Just now what?'
'You said it. Poof. You said, poof.'
'So what?'
'It was just a poor choice of word, given our surroundings.'
'No, it wasn't.'
'It was. A poor choice. There was no need for it.'
'All I said was poof.'
'It's a derogatory term.'
'No, it's not. I'm calling a spade a spade. A poof a poof.'
'Stanley, you don't understand. . .'
'I understand perfectly. What exactly are you objecting to, me calling a poof a poof, or me calling a poof a poof in a place populated by poofs?'
'Both.'
'So it's just the term poof.'
'Yes.'
'What would you have me say, fruit?'
'Stanley, how would you like someone to call you a mindless bigot?'
'To my face?'
'To your face.'
'I've no objection, if they don't mind taking their chances.'
'You're talking violence.'
'Maybe.'
'Because it's a term you don't like.'
'Maybe.'
'So what if people don't like being called poofs. Are they right to offer violence?'
'But they are poofs. That's my point.'
'And you're not a mindless bigot?'
'Clearly not.'
'Can you prove it?'
'Well, I'm having this argument, so I'm not mindless. And I've formed a close friendship with Sissy, so I'm not a bigot.'
'You're a selective bigot, then.'
'No. I'm not a bigot. I've nothing against poofs.'
'So why call them poofs?'
'Because it's what they are.'
'But it's not what they like to be called.'
'How do you know, Starkey?'
'Of course they don't, Stanley.'
'But how do you know?'
I sighed. 'I'm sorry I brought this up.'
'But seriously, how do you know?'
'Stanley, let's drop it.'
'You're admitting defeat?'
'No, Stanley. I'm just bored.'
'You're beaten, mate.'
Stanley shifted his gaze across the room to a line of waiters who were chatting by the kitchen doors. His eyes flitted from one to the other. Five or six of them. He nodded slowly.
'See the third one along?'
A tall guy, short hair, designer stubble. I nodded. 'He's a poof.'
'Stanley, I'm not interested.'
'No, but he is, he definitely is.'
Matchitt raised his hand and waved across to him. He noticed immediate
ly and came across.
Matchitt smiled. 'We'd like to see the sweet trolley,' he said.
'I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't serve. ..'
Matchitt pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. 'I'd like to see the sweet trolley,' he repeated and handed the waiter the note.
'Very good, sir,' he said, accepting the note quickly and crumpling it into his trouser pocket. He left us for a moment and returned pushing the sweet trolley ahead of him. 'Tonight,' he said, 'our specialities are Pecan Pie, Strawberry Pavlova, Black Forest Gateau or Key Lime Pie. I would particularly recommend the Black Forest Gateau.'
I nodded. I gave him an appreciative grin, then concentrated on the contents of the trolley.
'Are you a poof ?' asked Matchitt. 'Stanley. . .'
'I'm only asking.'
The waiter leant forward slightly. His eyes crinkled up. 'Excuse me?'
'I asked if you were a poof.'
The waiter straightened, then looked from Matchitt to me. 'Pay no attention,' I said. 'I'll have the Black ...'
'Are you a fuckin' poof or what?'
'Sir, I . ..'
'Are you a fuckin' poof or what?'
'I must object to your. . .'
'Are you a poof ?'
'Sir. . .'
'Are you a poof ?'
The waiter looked anxiously back towards the kitchen. His voice rose a little in pitch, and was all the more potent against the embarrassed silence which had descended on the restaurant. 'Sir, I should advise you that if you wish to cause a scene, I am a karate black belt.'
'Aye, and I've a black belt on me trousers and DMs on me feet. So are ye a poof or not?'
We were joined by the maitre d'. Tall. Balding. Carried himself well. 'Is there a problem, gentlemen?'
'This . . .' began the waiter, but his superior raised a finger to his lips.
'Sir?'
Matchitt pointed at the waiter. 'I was merely enquiring if your waiter was a poof.'
The maitre d' stiffened. 'Sir?'
'Is he a poof ?'
The maitre d' turned back to the waiter. 'That will be all, Thomas,' he said gruffly. 'You may return to the kitchen.'
Thomas nodded and walked quickly away, eyes front. The maitre d' placed two hands on our table and leant forward. 'Gentlemen,' he began, but looked directly at Matchitt, 'I'm afraid I must ask you to leave the restaurant. I really cannot allow my staff to be insulted in this way.'
'I only asked if he was a poof. Is he?'
'No, sir, he isn't.' His eyes bore angrily into Matchitt and his mouth curled up in distaste. 'But I am. Now I regret to say I must ask you to leave the restaurant. Immediately. We really can do without custom like yours. Please leave now. Or I will have you removed.'
Matchitt snorted. 'Aye. You and whose army?'
The maitre d' placed a hand on Matchitt's shoulder. This was not a good idea. Matchitt, as if capitulating, shrugged lightly, but then quickly slapped the hand away. Surprised, the maitre d' stumbled forward. Matchitt rammed a fist into his stomach as he came towards him. He let out a startled, winded gasp and sprawled across the table, sending our plates flying in the process. He lay there for a second as Matchitt and I both pushed our chairs back and stood.
'Stanley, you stupid cunt,' I shouted.
He stuck his fist out towards me. 'Hold onto your horses, Starkey,' he snapped and bent towards the prostrate figure.
The maitre d' coughed twice, then tried to raise himself. Matchitt helped him up.
'Are you all right there, mate?' he asked. He coughed again. 'Yes ... I . . .'
'You really don't like being called a poof, do you?' The maitre d' shook his head.
Matchitt turned to me. 'You were right, Starkey,' he said, then thumped the maitre d' in the stomach again. He gasped, folded down. Matchitt stopped him falling by holding him up by one ear. Then he walked him forward and buried his head in the Black Forest Gateau.
I stood with open mouth. Our fellow diners sat open-mouthed. A broad grin sliced Matchitt's face. 'God, Starkey,' he said, 'you were right all along. The poof is in the pudding.'
He cackled.
I shook my head. I grabbed my coat and made for the door. Matchitt grabbed his and followed. 'You stupid bastard,' I shouted. 'Hahahahahaha,' said Matchitt.
We made it as far as the car. I fumbled with the keys for a minute, while Matchitt pulled impatiently at the passenger door, still laughing his head off.
Then there was the hurried scuff of many footsteps on gravel, and six gay waiters beat the tripe out of us.
37
We ran for our lives.
No, we limped.
No, that suggests one good leg each. We lumped. We lumped for our lives.
We lumped and screamed and bled and when finally they gave up the chase we collapsed on the beach where the bitter wind whipped through us and blasted sand into our bloody crevices.
The pain, the sand, the wind, the drink, the hangover. All in one. And yet he slept. Matchitt on his back, snoring loudly, eyes fist-puffed, nose black-blood-hardened, looked almost happy, happy with the thrill of the assault. It wasn't the winning that mattered, it was the taking part.
I hated him.
I had always disliked him, but now I hated him. He represented everything I hated in a human being: a swirling, bigoted condescension, a nationalism born of old wives' tales and ghetto prejudice, in love with the glamour of confrontation, an enemy of compromise, an insecure, incomplete man with ambitious delusions of mediocrity. And he got me into fights.
There was a faint moonlight poking through the clouds and the wiry rattle of yachts in the bay; behind me, the modest lights of Princetown in its winter slumber; in front, way out in front, the Atlantic and Ireland and home. Where was Patricia now? Was there room in her turbulent mind for me? Two minds now, one barely formed, one set hard. She was at home contemplating new responsibilities; I was on a bitter-cold beach contemplating recent irresponsibilities; she was at home remembering the beauty of a relationship which had led her to conceive; I was cursing an ill-conceived relationship with a murderer thrust upon me by circumstance I had courted. Matchitt snored.
I sat shivering for I don't know how long. Maybe an hour. My head pounded. My nose cracked and bloody. My lip thick and unwieldy. In the ice-windy, throbbing darkness I made promises to myself that I knew I would not keep, the same promises, the promises Patricia had grown tired of. Everything would be different, but everything would be the same. There was a frightening inevitability about it.
After a while the water began to lap gently at my feet and the thought came to me that if I slipped into that water I could float gently out into the ocean and home to Patricia, that the waves would carry me to her, or that a whale would nudge me across and I would step out at the mouth of the Lagan and find her waiting for me, our baby in her arms. And I would say to her, I love you, please forgive me, and she would smile and the three of us would scrum together, then walk through the city to our home. I smiled at the sea, black and welcoming, but the wind threw sand in my eyes and burnt them. I worked my fingers into them, and the tears ran down my face and I shook my head and knew that I would not be able to swim home to Ireland, that I couldn't swim and hated the water, ever since at school I had put my learner's armbands on my feet and nearly drowned. I moved back, pushing achily through the sand. I looked across at Matchitt. His DMs were already partly submerged.
It came to me then that his accidental death by drowning would be no great loss to mankind. One small step, in fact. I could just get up and tie his laces together and then lump off into the distance and leave the waves to gather him up. Perhaps he would float out to sea and be washed up somewhere further along the coast, his corpse bloated and picked at by seagulls. But it wouldn't happen like that. When the salt water trickled into his nose he would splutter into consciousness and he would see me grinning from the top of the beach and he would stagger after me through the streets and eventually he would catch me and kill me, for that was hi
s nature.
I stood up. I creaked. I shuffled across to him and kicked him. He didn't respond. I kicked him harder. Nothing. His breath was raspy, but undisturbed. I bent and grabbed the neck of his jacket and dragged him up the beach. It took a long time. He was heavy, I was weak. It took fifteen minutes, punctuated by kicks and curses, to get him up onto the boardwalk. I flopped him down again and he rolled over. 'Thanks,' he mumbled, and slept again.
I cursed him and walked away.
It was late. The bars were shut, the streets empty. I walked the drink-sodden walk of the drink-sodden with added sand-soaked grit-shoed lumpness for comfort. I needed a hot bath and some love. A bath and some hot love. Even a shower and someone to pat my head and tell me everything would be okay and that, yes, the tide had washed Matchitt away, but it was a forlorn hope. I trudged into Poodle's yard and rang the bell; I'd had a key, once, but it was long gone. Sissy answered the door and I needed her face to be anxious yet welcoming, but it was stern and war-set. She was fully dressed, which I thought was a bad sign.
'Morning,' I said, and I wasn't far off the mark.
'Where the hell have you been?' she rasped.
I shrugged.
'Where's Stanley?'
'Nevil Shuted.'
'What?'
'On the beach.' I laughed and cracked my lip. I felt the blood trickle. 'We got in a fight. He's okay. Sleeping it off. Nice to know you're concerned.'
-'I'm not particularly. You should be. We have a visitor.'
Goody, I thought. Just what I needed. Another twist. 'Who is it? The Duke of Marlborough?'
'Take a look, Starkey.'
'Just tell me, Sissy.'
'Take a look.'
'I'm not in the mood for surprises.'
'He's locked in the front room.'
'He's stuck?'
'He's locked. You'll see what I mean when you open the door. He arrived after ten and I thought it wouldn't do any harm to lock him in for a while. I thought Stanley would be back sooner. He banged and wailed for a while, but he's been quiet these last few hours.'
Of wee sweetie mice and men Page 26