by Ken Bruen
I nodded, continued, “So I was fourteen before I knew I was black, different.”
He didn’t believe it, asked, “But the kids at school, they had to be on your ass. I mean, gimme a break, buddy.”
His glass was empty. I said, “They were on my ass because I was shit at hurling.”
He stared at his glass, like … where’s that go? Echoed, “Hurling, that’s the national game, yeah?”
I said, “Cross between hockey and murder.”
He stood, asked, “Get you a refill there?”
I decided to fuck with him a little, he said, “Large Jameson, Guinness back.”
The boilermaker threw him, but he rallied, said, “Me too.”
Got those squared away, raised the amber, clinked my glass, and you guessed it, said, “Here’s looking at you, pal.”
Fuck on a bike.
The other side of the whiskey, I climbed down a notch, eased, but not totally.
He was assessing me, covertly, then: “Got some pecs on you there, fella. Hitting the gym, huh?”
He was right. Punishing program, keep the snakes from spitting, the ones in my head, the shrink had said. “You take your meds, the snakes won’t go away—we’re scientists, not shamans— but they will be quieter.”
Shrink humor?
I quit the meds. Sure, they hushed the reptiles, but as barter, took my edge. I’d done some steroids, got those abs swollen, but fuck, it’s true, they cut your dick in half. And a black guy with shrinkage? … Depths of absurdity.
I was supping the Guinness, few better blends than the slow wash over Jameson. I said, “Yeah, I work out.”
He produced a soft pack of Camels, gold Zippo, then frowned, asked, “You guys got the no-smoking bug? … It’s illegal in here?” Like he didn’t know already. Then reached out his hand, said, “I’m Bowman, Charlie, my buddies call me Bow.”
I’m thinking, Call you arsehole.
And he waits till I extend my hand, the two fingers visibly crushed. He clocks them, I say, “Phil.”
He shakes my hand, careful of the ruined fingers, goes for levity, asks, “Phil, that it, no surname? C’mon buddy, we’re like bonding, am I right? How can I put it, Phil me in?” He laughed, expecting me to join.
I didn’t.
I said, “For Phil Lynott, Thin Lizzy. You heard Lynott speak, his Dublin accent was near incomprehensible, but when he sang, pure rock. Geldof said Phil was the total rock star, went to bed in the leather trousers.”
Bow’s mouth was turned down. He said, “My taste runs more to Van Morrison.”
Figured.
He spotted the book on the seat beside me, Bukowski, asked, “That’s yours, you’re into … Buk?”
Buk?
Fucksakes.
My mother, broke, impoverished, sullen, ill, had instilled: “Never, and I mean never, let them know how smart you are.”
Took me a long time to assimilate that, too long. The days after her funeral, I’d a few quid from the horses, got a mason to carve:
I
DIDN’T
LET
THEM
KNOW
Like that.
The mason, puzzled, asked, “The hell does that mean?” I gave him the ice eyes, he muttered, “Jeez, what’s wrong with Rest in peace?” I said, “That’s what it means, just another form.” He scratched his arse, said, “Means shite, you ask me.” He said this after I paid him.
So I threw a glance at the Bukowki. Denied him, going, “Not mine. I need books with, like, pictures.”
Bow and I began to meet, few times a week, no biggie, but it grew. Me, careful to play the dumbass, let him cream on his superiority. He paid the freight, I could mostly listen.
A month in, he asked, “You hurting there, Phil?”
I was mid-swallow, my second pint. I stopped, put the glass down, asked, “What?”
His eyes were granite, said, “Bit short on the readies … Hey, I’m not bitching.”
… (Oh yeah?)
“But there’s no free lunch. You familiar with that turn of phrase, black guy? When we freed your asses, we figured you might be self-sufficient. Maybe spring for the odd drink?”
I was thinking of how my mother would love this prick. He tapped his empty glass twice, then, “You’re good company, Phil, not the brightest tool in the box. This ride’s, like, coming to a halt.”
I was trying to rein it in, not let the snakes push the glass into his supercilious mouth, especially when he added: “You getting this? Earth to Leroy, like … hello?”
I was massaging my ruined fingers, remembering … One of the first jobs I did, driver for a post office stunt. I was younger, and dare I say … greener?
The outfit were northeners, had lost their driver at the last minute. How I got drafted.
They came out of the post office in Malahide, more a suburb of Dublin now, guns above their heads, screaming like banshees, piled into the back. The motor stalled. Only two minutes, but it was a long 120 seconds. By the Grand Canal, the effluent from the Liffey smelling to high heaven. Changing cars, they held me down, crushed my fingers, using the butt of a shotgun, the Belfast guy going, “Two minutes you lost, two fingers you blow.”
I stared at Bow, asked, “You have something in mind?”
The Zippo was flat on the table, I could see a logo: Focus.
He indicated it, said, “That’s the key. I’m thinking you could do with a wedge, a healthy slab of tax-free euros.”
Jeez, he was some pain in the arse, but I stayed … focused? … below radar, asked, “Who doesn’t?”
Looked like he might applaud, then, “I’m taking a shot here, but I’m figuring you know zilch about art.”
I stayed in role, asked, “Art who?”
Didn’t like it, I noticed. When he was bothered as he was now, the accent dipped. I smiled, thinking, Not so focused now, and certainly not American.
He gritted his teeth, grunted, “Art is … everything. All the rest is … a support system.”
I leaned on the needle, said, “You like art, yeah?”
Thought he might come across the table, but he reined in, took a breath, a drink, said in a patient clipped tone, “Lesson one, you don’t like art, you appreciate it.”
I kept my eyes dull, and that’s an art.
He snapped, “You want to pay attention, fella, maybe you can learn something. I’m going to tell you about one of the very finest, Whistler.”
I resisted the impulse to put my lips together and like … blow.
He began: “There is a portrait by him, a ‘painted tribute to a gentle old lady.’ The lady looks old, but that’s because he was old when he did it. A time, 1871, when the railroads were about to replace the covered wagons. You see a white light wall, then …
“Straight curtain …
“Straight baseboard …
“Chair, footrest … straight …
“Everything is straightened out, the only roundness is her face. He titled it, Arrangement in Gray and Black. Moving along, you’ll see a silk curtain, in Japanese style, with a butterfly as decoration—his tribute to a country he admired. There’s a picture on the wall, and this is significant, as it’s the brightest white spot in the painting. The woman’s hands are white, her handkerchief is white, contrasting the black dress. Her bonnet has different shades to make her face benign, kindly. The entire ensemble is an homage to this lady, his mother, whom he adored.”
He waffled on for maybe another ten minutes, then finally stopped. Looked at me. I was going to go, I’m straight, but instead asked, “I need to know this … why?”
Now he smiled, said, “Because you and me, buddy, we’re going to steal it.”
The Musée d’Orsay had loaned it to the city of Dublin for six months. Had been on display for three now … in Merrion Square, the posh area of the city—a detail of Army and Gardaí were keeping tabs. Once the initial flush of interest and fanfare died down, the crowds dropped off. More important events like the
hurling final, race meetings, took precedence. Security, though in evidence, was more for show than intent. An indication of the public losing interest, the picture had been moved to Parnell Square, the other side of the Liffey, damnation in itself.
Bow said, “Lazy fuckers, last week they didn’t even bother to load the CCTV.”
“How do you know?” I asked. And got the frost smile, superior and not a mile from aggressive.
He used his index finger to tap his nose, said, “A guy on the museum staff? He’s got himself a little problem.”
Did he mean cocaine or curiosity?
He continued: “I’ve helped him … get connected … and he’s grateful … and now he’s vulnerable. In ten days there will be a window in the security—the patrol is to be switched, the CCTV is to be revamped, there’ll only be two guys on actual watch. Can you fucking believe it?”
We hadn’t had a drink for over half an hour, the lecture was lengthy, so I injected a touch of steel, asked, “And the two, the ones keeping guard, they’re going to what, give it to us?”
Now he laughed, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse. “How fucking stupid are you?” Shaking his head, like good help was hard to find, he said, “We’re going to give them the gas.”
That’s what we did.
Dream job—in, out. No frills, no flak.
… Unless you count the dead guy.
We’d donned cleaner’s gear, always wanted to don something, gives that hint of gravitas. Bow said, “Help us blend.”
Especially in my case, sign of the new Ireland, black guy riding a mop, no one blinked an eye.
We’d become America.
Them janitor blues, pushing dee broom, miming dee black and sullen—translate: invisible.
The guards, one in mid-yawn. We hit them fast, tied them up, tops, four minutes. I didn’t glance at the painting, was fearful it might remind me of my mother. Bow did, I heard the catch in his breathing. Then we were almost done, reached the back door, when a soldier came out of nowhere, a pistol in his hand, roared, “Hold on just a bloody minute!”
Bow shot him in the gut. I’d been going for the gas. I stared at Bow, whined, “No need for that.”
The smirk, his mouth curled down, he put two more rounds in the guy, asked, “Who’s talking about need?”
The heat came down
Hard
Relentless
Like the Dublin drizzle, rain that drove Joyce to Switzerland
With
… Malice aforethought.
We kept a low-to-lowest profile. A whole month before we met for the split, the rendezvous in an apartment on Pembroke Road, not far from the American embassy, an area I’d have little business in. Bow had rented the bottom floor, wide spacious affair, marred by filth, empty takeaway cartons, dirty plates in the sink, clothes strewn on the floor, the coffee table a riot of booze. He was dressed, I kid you not, in a smoking jacket, like some Agatha Christie major. Not even David Niven could pull that gig off.
Worse: on the pocket, the letter … B.
For … Bollocks?
He was wearing unironed tan cords and flip-flops, the sound slapping against the bare floor. I was wearing a T, jeans, Nike trainers with the cushion sole. A logo on my T … Point Blankers.
Near the window was the painting, dropped like an afterthought. I took my first real appraisal. The old lady did indeed look … old. She was nothing like my mother—my mother had never sat down in her wretched life.
I heard the unmistakable rack of a weapon and turned to see Bow holding a pistol. He said, “Excuse the mess, but decent help, man, it’s impossible to find.”
I stared at the gun, asked, “You’re not American, right?”
Winded him, came at him from left field, I added: “You’re good most of the time, you’ve it down and tight, almost pull it off but it slips, couple of words blow the act.”
His eyes gone feral, he moved the weapon, pointing at the center of my chest, asked, “What fucking words?”
I sighed theatrically (is there any other way?), said, “Okay, you say … mighty, fierce …”
He put up his left hand. Not going to concede easy, protested, “Could have picked them up, been here a time.”
I nodded, then, “But you use fierce in both senses, like terrific, and like woesome—gotta be Irish to instinctively get that. You can learn the sense of it, but never the full usage.”
He went to interrupt but I shouted, “Hey, I’m not done! The real giveaway, apart from calling a pint a pint of stout, is me fags … Americans are never going to be able to call cigarettes gay.”
He shrugged, let it go, said, “Had you going for a while, yeah?”
I could give him that, allowed, “Sure, you’re as good as the real thing.”
Used the gun to scratch his belly, said, “Long as we’re confronting, you’re not Homer Simpson either, not the dumb schmuck you peddle. The Bukowski, it was yours, and the way you didn’t look at the painting, you’d have to be real smart not to show curiosity.”
I reached in my pocket, registered his alarm, soothed, “It’s a book, see …” Took out the Bukowski, Ham on Rye, flipped it on the floor, said, “A going-away present, because we’re done, right?”
As if I hadn’t noticed the weapon. His grip on the butt had eased, not a lot but a little. He said, “In the bedroom I got near thirty large, you believe that, nigger?”
No matter how many times I hear the word, and I hear it plenty, it is always a lash coming out of a white mouth, an obscenity. He let it saturate, then added, “I got enough nose candy to light up O’Connell Street for months, soon as I deliver the painting and get the rest of the cash. A serious amount, but guess what, I’m a greedy bastard, I don’t really share.” Pause, then, “And share with a darkie? … Get real. Gotta tell you, I’m a supporter of the Klan—did you know they were founded by a John Kennedy? How’s that for blarney?”
I lowered my head, said, “Never let the left hand see what—”
Shot him in the face, the gun in my right hand, almost hidden by the crushed fingers. The second tore through his chest. I said, Brooklyn inflection, “Duh, you gotta … focus.”
Got the cash, put the portrait under my coat, didn’t look back. Near Stephen’s Green a wino was sprawled beside a litter bin. I gave him some notes and stuffed the Whistler in the bin. He croaked, “No good, huh?”
I said, “It’s a question of appreciation.”
TRIBUNAL
BY PAT MULLAN
There’s a buzz about the place. Sure as hell wasn’t here when I left fifteen years ago. He remembered Dublin as the pits then. Dark, priest-ridden, can’t-do culture, living on government handouts and money from the emigrants. A Godforsaken hole of a place. For himself, anyway. Edmund Burke. Yeah, that’s me. My old man had delusions. Thought if he named me after the great Irish statesman that the name would overcome the bad genes and the lousy upbringing. Willie Burke had been a failure, failed at every no-risk job he ever attempted, and the old man had ended his days earning a mere pittance as a salesman in a tailoring shop that had seen its best days in the last century. Mass on Sunday was the highlight of his mother’s week, a timid woman from the west of Ireland who’d never felt at home in the big city. An only child, Edmund had been conceived just as his mother’s biological clock was about to stop ticking. She was forty-two when she had him.
All these things flooded his mind as he jumped into the taxi at Dublin Airport and told the driver to take him to Ballsbridge. He’d survived. Succeeded because his father’s failure terrified him. Got into Trinity, earned a law degree, headed for England, stayed a year in a boring clerk job at a London legal firm as resident Paddy. Luck intervened. His mother’s uncle in Boston sponsored him to the States. Decided that he’d go by sea instead of air. Took a 28,000-ton liner out of Liverpool. Gave him a sense of being a pilgrim setting out for the New World.
Now he was back. Why. The Celtic Tiger! That’s why. Well, one of the reasons. He was run
ning away again. But that’s another story. Taking a year off from his New York law firm. Had just about enough of his mob clients. As well as his ex who wanted to rob him blind. Oh yeah, he’d stashed away a few dollars, but still hadn’t made that million. Maybe Dublin’s the place to be these days. Everybody’s here. All these faces in Dublin on a Tuesday and you see them again in New York or L.A. on the weekend. Aidan Quinn. Gabriel Byrne. Liam Neeson. Colin Farrell. Michael Flatley now a household name with Riverdance conquering the world. And Michael O’Leary and Ryanair conquering the skies. The priests are scarce on the ground these days. Divorce is legal. The Bishop of Galway has a love child with an American lover, and the President of Ireland has crossed the religious divide to take communion in a Protestant cathedral. The IRA is about to call it quits and the border separating the Republic from Northern Ireland is gradually becoming an imaginary line. Money talks. And money goes where it’s well treated. And the Celtic Tiger is treating it well.
Money! That’s really why I’m here, he reminded himself. Not here to feel sentimental. Still, the old city looks good, he thought. New roads, new houses, construction cranes everywhere. Plenty of Mercs and BMWs. They’re not taking the Liverpool boat anymore. No! They’re in investment banking, working for McKinsey and Microsoft. Turning Ireland into the largest exporter of computer software outside of the United States.
At Ballsbridge, Burke paid the taxi fare and walked up Shelbourne Road. Dublin 4. The most sought after neighborhood in the city. Bright skies and the early morning briskness countered his lack of sleep. Old stately homes lined the streets. Surrounded by sturdy stone walls, they exuded wealth and power. As a kid this would have been an alien place to him. Still is, he thought, as he reached a modern four-story apartment block in Ballsbridge Gardens. He already had a key, mailed to him in New York before he’d left.
Once inside, he realized that he could be anywhere. Luxury that would be right at home on Fifth Avenue. He dropped his bags, started the coffee machine, and minutes later sat in the large Jacuzzi bathtub watching the bubbles welcome him to Dublin.
Refreshed and dressed, he arrived at Lillie’s Bordello at 6:00. The most elite club in Dublin. Had he been here a few nights ago, after the Irish Film and Television Awards, he could have joined Pierce Brosnan and James Nesbitt as they sang “Danny Boy” at the piano in the VIP room.