Dublin Noir

by Ken Bruen

  Jim,

  I’m sick of this bullshit. You’re a liar and you hurt me so bad and I just can’t pretend anymore. You can keep the apartment—I don’t care anymore. But I’m taking Sammy and the leather love seat. I’ll pick up the rest of my stuff when I get back to the city. And don’t forget, YOU caused this, not me. YOU fucked up!!

  Goodbye (for good this time!!!!!)

  Kathy

  She clicked send, logged off, and left the café. She felt great, like she’d definitely done the right thing. She’d taken too much of Jim’s crap for too long and it was time to move on. She knew her friends would be proud of her.

  On her way back to her hotel, she was tempted to stop for a drink at a trendy-, fun-looking pub, but figured she’d be better off getting a good night’s sleep and a fresh start tomorrow.

  A friendly older man was working at the hotel’s front desk. When he gave Kathy the key to her room, he asked her how she was enjoying her stay in Dublin. Kathy told him she liked the city and then told him about the incident with the stolen laptop. When she got to the part about how awful she’d felt and how she’d offered to give Patrick money, the man at the desk said, “Jaysus, you didn’t give him the money, did you?”

  “Yeah,” Kathy said. “Actually, I did.”

  “I was afraid of that. You fell for a scam, I’m afraid.”

  “A scam?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Was there another man there, besides the one who lost the laptop?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They work in a team of three. One has the laptop, one steals it, and one comes over to help. Is that what happened?”

  Remembering the guy in the suit who’d offered to call the police, Kathy said, “Yeah, there were three guys, I guess. But I really think you have it all wrong. This guy’s laptop really was stolen.”

  Kathy went on, explaining what had happened, but the man at the desk cut her off and said, “I’m telling you, love, it’s happened before and we were even talking about warning our guests about it.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” Kathy said, recognizing the anger and frustration in her voice because she was starting to realize what had happened but didn’t want to admit it to herself yet. “This guy went to the bathroom and someone else—a stranger—came running down the block and—”

  “It wasn’t a stranger,” the man at the desk said. “They were working a scam. They must’ve picked you out as a tourist. Were you holding a camera or a map or something that made you stand out as a foreigner?”

  Kathy couldn’t believe she’d let this happen to her.

  “Yeah, actually, I was.”

  “Jaysus, it’s awful this happened to you. You didn’t give him a lot of money, did you?”

  “No,” Kathy lied. “Just ten dollars … I mean euros.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing,” the man said. “This retired couple from Florida gave them a thousand euros because they felt bad for the guy. I’ll tell you one thing, though—that guy must be a good actor. I mean, to get people to believe him—that takes some talent.”

  “Well, good night,” Kathy said, and started away.

  “Should I call the Gardaí?”

  “No, that’s okay. It was only ten euro.”

  “But the Gardaí should really know about this so they can—”

  “I really don’t want you to call … but thank you.”

  In her room, Kathy tried to forget about the whole thing. There was nothing she could do about it now and she definitely didn’t want to get into a whole thing with the police— answering questions, maybe even having to go to a precinct or wherever. It was better just to forget about it—pretend it hadn’t happened.

  She washed up and got into bed. She’d bought a few thick paperbacks to read during the trip, but she wasn’t in the mood. She turned on the TV and flipped around, but there was nothing to watch except soccer and news. She was watching the BBC News reports about the latest violence in the Middle East, though she was thinking about Patrick. He’d seemed like such a nice young guy—so charming and helpful—but that should’ve been a warning sign. The whole thing was such an obvious setup, the way the thief had appeared out of nowhere to grab the laptop and then how that guy with the business suit came right over to help, and of course it was he who’d offered to call the police. She was angry at herself for falling for that crap, for being such a victim. In New York, there was no way something like this would have happened to her. In New York, she always had her guard up and was naturally suspicious of everyone. If someone started talking to her at a Starbucks in New York she would’ve said a few words to him and ignored him. And in New York she never would’ve been so vulnerable. She was traveling alone for the first time in a foreign city and she was preoccupied with a lot of personal things. They’d probably zeroed in on her as a perfect victim.

  In the glare of the BBC news, Kathy had a long, hard, self-hating cry, and when she finally recovered she missed Jim. Yeah, he’d cheated on her and, yeah, he’d treated her like shit, but he was a good guy and she loved him. She felt safe and protected and secure when they were together. Without him she was lost.

  Kathy couldn’t believe she’d sent that e-mail; that had to be the stupidest thing she’d done today—much stupider than falling for the scam.

  It was about 5:30, New York time. She tried Jim’s cell and their home number, but there was no answer. She kept trying, off and on, for the next few hours; he either wasn’t home or was screening calls. Then she realized that, since she’d written to Jim on their AOL account, she could “unsend” the message if he hadn’t read it yet.

  She went down to the front desk, waited for the man to finish a phone conversation, and then asked him if there was a computer with Internet access she could use.

  “I’m afraid the business room is closed,” he said.

  “This is an emergency,” she said. “I have to e-mail my fiancé.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but the door is locked and I don’t have the key. The guy who does have the key should be back in about a half hour though.”

  “What about your computer?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not connected to the Internet.”

  “Is there an Internet café close by?”

  The man gave her instructions to one that was open twenty-four hours a day.

  Kathy raced out of the hotel and, after a couple of wrong turns, found the café, which was still very active. She had to wait a few minutes for a computer to become available. It was past 9 o’clock in New York and Kathy didn’t see how Jim couldn’t be home by now. He always checked his e-mail first thing after he came into the apartment, so it seemed impossible that this would work.

  It was a slow connection, but she was finally able to log onto AOL. Kathy opened her “sent mail” file, clicked “unsend” on her message to Jim, and discovered that the message hadn’t been read yet.

  “Thank God,” she said aloud as she unsent it.

  Later, back in her hotel room, she called Jim and he picked up on the first ring. He explained that his cell battery had died and he’d been out wining and dining a client. Kathy sensed that he was lying, that he’d really been out with that bitch from his office again, and that he might’ve even brought her back to the apartment with him. Still, it was a relief to hear his voice, to know that everything would return to normal, and she said, “God, I miss you so much, sweetie. This is the last time I go anywhere without you.”

  TAINTED GOODS

  BY CHARLIE STELLA

  Abroad tells you you’re a comfortable fit, what it means, make no mistake about it, boyos, it means you have a small dick, she’s trying not to hurt your feelings,” Jack Dugan said.

  Dugan was a tall gangly man of fifty-two years. He had a thinning hairline, a long uneven nose, and dark deep-set eyes. He was dressed in a black polo shirt, black slacks, and black leather loafers. He wore thick jewelry on his wrist and around his neck. He’d been drinking si
nce the early afternoon. Now that he’d switched to the hard stuff, he was rambling in overdrive.

  “It’s the same thing, you hear about a broad has a nice personality,” he went on. “Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. You’re guaran-fuckin-teed, though, she has this great personality, she’s no looker. Comfortable fit is the same fuckin’ thing. It means you don’t need to stand around a locker room full of Mandingos to know you were robbed at birth. It means you’re the type has to crowd the piss stalls. Even the stalls in this place, which are like fuckin’ showers, you got a comfortable fitting dick, you don’t want nobody else to see it. Not that they can that easy, anyway.”

  The two men sitting across the table were twin brothers from Ireland several years younger than Dugan. Both were stocky men of five-foot-ten; each weighed about two hundred pounds, had short blond hair, blue eyes, and thick necks. The older of the twins by a few minutes sat directly across from Dugan. He had grown a fuzzy blond mustache. He played with it from time to time.

  “Now, take that missy over there, the kid from Dublin,” Dugan continued. He pointed to a slender waitress carrying a tray of drinks away from the bar. “Nice bright smile, the red hair, the freckles, the green eyes. Pretty girl, no? Not the type you’d turn away it comes to bedding down for the night. Her, you don’t give a fuck about her personality. It isn’t the thing. Her, you feed her whatever it takes to get her pants down. She’s a looker, plain and simple. No feelings to hurt, once you’ve done the deed.”

  Dugan belched into a fist before downing a shot of Jameson. He slapped the glass down and reached for the half-filled Bud bottle on the table. He took a quick drink from the bottle and belched again, this time loudly.

  “Excuse,” he said.

  Dugan wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his right hand and then pointed at the twins, one at a time.

  “You want a shot, just say so. Don’t be shy, boyos.”

  The twins had pints in front of them. They waved the offer off. Dugan poured himself another shot of Jameson.

  “Here’s a little tidbit about that one, the missy I just mentioned,” he said, and then pointed at the same waitress again. She was setting drinks on coasters at a round table with a party of six. “She likes it in the ass, that one. Purrs like a fuckin’ cat, you set the anchor there.”

  The twins turned to take a better look at the waitress. They were both smiling when they faced Dugan again.

  “And the thing is,” he continued, “the best thing, she’s a little off in the head, if you understand what I’m saying.” He wiggled a thumb alongside his right ear. “Some kind of condition from shock, the poor thing was taken by a crew busted out of Mountjoy, took turns with her until she was soft as shite. Gangbanged for two days until the Gardaí found them. Her head’s fucked ever since.”

  Dugan stopped as the twins turned again to look at the girl.

  “Catherine, her name is,” Dugan said. “Catherine Collins.” He leaned forward to whisper. “Call her Cathy, you’re petting her head while she polishes your knob. She likes that. Purrs, I swear to God.”

  He stopped to take another drink from the Bud bottle.

  “Comes across a little retarded, like she can’t think for herself, but she can, don’t kid yourself. She asked for it there, her brown spot. Turned and pointed.”

  The twins smiled at one another.

  “She was tainted goods, why they shipped her here,” Dugan went on. “Whatever those cons did to her, she’s taken a shine to being a pin cushion. Auntie Mary back home can’t keep watch while she’s running her bar on the north side. Catherine come over under the eye of the ape bouncer here, Rusty. Have you met him yet? He’s not here tonight, but he’ll pick her up after closing. Big fucker. Him you don’t wanna mess with. Not even the two a’you.”

  Dugan yawned before he continued, “He’s some kind of relative, Rusty is. Her cousin, I think. He’s a cunt hair less daft than the girl, but he can lift trees out the fuckin’ ground, he gets angry enough. Snapped an Italian’s arm off the end of the bar one night for giving the same missy some shit and grabbing her ass.”

  Dugan was watching the girl now.

  “Shame it is, too,” he said, “an ass like that going to waste.”

  He wiped one side of his mouth on his shoulder. The waitress Dugan was talking about stopped at their table to pick up an empty bottle.

  “Thanks, hon,” Dugan said. “You’re looking very pretty tonight.”

  The waitress smiled at all three men and moved on.

  Dugan was about to go on when a well-dressed couple distracted him across the room. He stopped to watch a fat, middle-aged man with an attractive, well-dressed older woman. They were seated at a table and immediately attended to by another waitress.

  “There he is,” Dugan told the twins. “Don’t look. He’s directly behind the two of you. First table off the stairway.”

  The twins looked down at the table.

  “I’d like to take the fat fuck and throw him down the stairs,” Dugan said. “Take his wife downstairs to the kitchen and fuck her in the ass on the chopping board, make him watch.”

  “How do you want us to handle it?” the older brother asked. His accent was thick.

  Dugan suddenly smiled in the direction of the couple. He spoke without moving his lips. “She’s a flirt, the cunt he’s with. Nancy, her name is. Likes to cock tease. Likes to do the halfway thing. I’ve had her down in the card room more than a couple times. She seems to think it’s okay I jam three fingers up her twat, she gives me a blowjob afterward. That isn’t cheating to her. Never let me fuck her, though. Not yet. She’ll suck your dick till you’re dry, but she won’t let you between her legs with it. I guess that’s keeping the marriage vows sacred enough. Who’m I to argue?”

  He waved at the woman.

  “The cigar nights they have in this place,” he continued. “Our man brings her along for sport. She flirts with every guy in the joint while he’s getting tanked. Then she takes a few too many trips to the bathroom, if you know what I mean. Likes to reaffirm herself, I think.”

  The twins were eyeing her husband.

  “I’m here, I find my way downstairs with her myself,” Dugan said. “I don’t know that he knows or not, what she’s doing down there all that time, but he doesn’t show it up here. Up here, most the time, he watches her like a hawk. Unless, of course, he’s on the hustle, which he is a lot more often lately, he can’t pay his bets.”

  Dugan took a long, deep breath. He seemed to forget where he was in the story. The eldest twin leaned forward, motioning toward the man Dugan had been talking about.

  Dugan pointed a finger between both twins and picked up where he had left off. “Then, when he’s trying to squeeze somebody for some bullshit investment in his government contract bullshit, his attention is focused on whoever the mark is. Usually, another well-dressed guy can’t hold his liquor. Like the sucker owns the Irish joint on First Avenue, Donahue’s. A nice guy, Alex. He took it up the ass for thirty grand from this fat fuck. I heard, I told the guy, gimme half the note. I’ll hang that fat slob out a window until he scams somebody else for the thirty grand he owes. I’ll hang him an extra few minutes for a few more on top of the thirty, teach the deadbeat a lesson. Or I’ll take my cut and be very happy with that, fifteen dimes. That’s the only time this slob is focused, though, when he’s on the make for new money to bet with. Otherwise, he’s a very jealous fat slob cock-sucker.”

  Dugan held up his beer to toast the couple across the room. “I don’t get her angle, though,” he whispered. “Tell you the truth, why she’s with him, I don’t get that at all. She’s up there herself and all, maybe fifty, fifty-five or so, but she can do better than him. She has to know his story. He’s on the edge of the cliff with more than one office taking bets.”

  Dugan returned his attention to the twins. “Ryan no longer has the patience to wait this prick out. And I need the scratch now so I can bring it to Dublin and keep the boyos off my b
ack. There’s five hundred in it for you two, to make an example of this scam artist. His number has come and gone, far as I’m concerned.”

  The brothers nodded.

  “I heard you,” Dugan said. He was smiling at the woman across the room again. “How do I want you to handle this? I’ll follow herself down when she goes to the powder room. I’ll keep her down there longer than usual. I’ll hold her fuckin’ head in the toilet, I gotta. He’ll eventually go down to see what’s the problem. You’ll follow him. The card room is straight ahead once you’re in the hall with the ladies’ room. Take him in there, deadbolt the door behind you, gag him, and break his face. Leave him tied so he can’t move until somebody from the place finds him after hours.”

  The brothers nodded in unison.

  “And make it ugly,” Dugan said.

  Six days later, Dugan woke up in a damp basement on the north side of Dublin. A hard-looking slender woman in her late forties put fire to a cigarette across the room. She wore a stained kitchen apron and boots. A stocky man puffing on a pipe sat at a table off to the right. His face was unfamiliar to Dugan.

  “He’s coming around,” the woman said.

  Dugan strained to see her. He’d been drugged upstairs in the bar the night before after passing off money from Marty Ryan to three IRA soldiers. They kept him drinking from a Jameson bottle spiked with poteen. Dugan had nearly poisoned himself from drinking.

  The woman was sharpening a boning knife at a table near the stairway. Dugan struggled to see clearly. It hurt to hold his head up for long.