Dublin Noir

by Ken Bruen

  The curator, a stout woman in her late thirties, looked almost apologetic. “The communities were very small, and they didn’t donate very much. But we do what we can.”

  “You don’t need to apologize at all,” I said. “It’s wonderful. I’m so glad I could come.”

  “You also know about the upstairs synagogue?”

  “Is it open for visitors?”

  She smiled. “You’re in luck. But only for another hour.” She stepped away when another, more irate visitor, demanded she answer his question.

  I left the room and walked upstairs. What awaited me were the remnants of one of the oldest city synagogues in all its haphazard glory. To my left was the ark, half-open with a Torah scroll peeking through; a thin layer of dust covered the wooden pews, and a display to my right held toys donated by the area schools. It had been a very long time since I’d stepped inside the premises of any sort of synagogue, and I hadn’t given much thought to praying lately. But suddenly, I was gripped with the desire to face the ark, kneel down, and pray.

  I’m sorry, my mind repeated over and over. And I hope you’ll understand.

  The fever passed and I stood up, mildly disoriented. A voice called out to me: “Miss? We’re closing the museum soon.”

  I checked my watch. Six o’clock already. I dashed down the stairs, called a cab, and was back in my hotel room within twenty minutes. After a quick shower and change, I headed down to the bar, certain I was early. Deborah and the girls were well into their second round.

  “You have a good afternoon then?” Hannah asked somewhat condescendingly. I noticed she was wearing new shoes, which pointed in odd directions and were decidedly unflattering.

  “I got a good nap,” I replied, trying not to stare at her shoes.

  Too late. “Ferragamo. I never thought I’d find them in this ridiculous town.”

  “Stop it, Hannah,” said Deborah, who’d swiveled herself in our direction, “We should get to Temple Bar. It’s probably a madhouse by now.”

  It was. I’d warned Deborah, but even I couldn’t imagine how many people had crowded themselves into this small area of bars, restaurants, and art galleries. I could barely hear what anyone was saying, and when at one point I tried to sit on a bench in the square’s center, a shabby vagrant launched into a tirade about how he’d earmarked the seat for his own. I jumped away and followed the girls into Gogarty’s, where Deborah had reserved the upper floor for her hen night needs.

  Once we’d settled into our seats, Adele took out the tiara, Hannah brought out the lingerie, and a waiter appeared with cocktails. The chattering got louder and the gossip got nastier by the time Deborah quieted us all with a challenge.

  “It’s my last big weekend out and I’m with the girls I love most. But before I get married, I have to purge myself of all the shit I used to do as a single girl—”

  “You’re still single!” Carol yelled out.

  “Barely, and besides, it’ll be so much nicer when I’m married and I can boss you lot around.”

  Deborah giggled, and we joined in to humor her, even though it really wasn’t all that funny.

  “So in the spirit of things, we’re all going to play a game called Confession.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” I said.

  “That’s because I just made it up. But it’ll be great. So, each of you tell us something you’ve never revealed before, then drink your whole cocktail.”

  The rest of us glanced around nervously. Deborah was obviously pissed out of her tree, but this was a bit much.

  “Well? Who’s going to go first?”

  Adele sat up in her chair. “Oh, all right. I shagged two blokes at the same time in uni.”

  Laura cackled. “How was it?”

  Adele downed her drink. “Bloody painful!”

  Everybody laughed, and the tension lifted.

  Laura then proudly confessed to skimming a few thousand quid from her boss over the last couple of years. “But you’ve met him,” pointing to Hannah and Carol, “so you see why. He’s a complete tosser.”

  They nodded, and Laura drank up.

  Carol’s confession was hardly anything, just some bit about shoplifting. The only surprise was where and how much.

  “Harrods? A five-thousand-pound sweater?” Deborah’s eyes nearly popped out. “But how did you get away with it?”

  Carol shrugged. “Dunno, but it wasn’t so hard. Too nerve-wracking, though, and I wouldn’t do it again.” She looked down and fingered her sleeve. Seeing that, we all drank.

  Hannah put down her glass angrily. “You lot make me fucking sick.”

  “What?” we chorused.

  “You make me absolutely ill! Confessing all these horrendous things. You’re all just play-acting anyway. You wouldn’t know what something horrible is if you stared it in the face!”

  Hannah’s own had changed from red to purple.

  “It’s confession time, and I’ll tell each and every one of you something, oh yes I will. Adele, you’re a malicious cow who’d stab every one of us in the back if you could. And probably has. Remember David?”

  Adele’s face paled.

  “Oh, yes bet you thought I’d never find out. You sorry little bitch. And then you, Carol, always stealing my work, passing it off as your own, and then getting better marks!”

  Hannah stood up. “Now, I don’t have much to say to you, Laura, but that you’d admit so happily to stealing money from someone who you set me up with? That you said time and again would be a good match for me? Why the fuck would I want to date someone like that, then?”

  “I … I …” Laura stammered helplessly.

  “And as for you, Andrea, you’re simply nothing. No drive, no personality. I mean, why are you here? Because of Deborah’s charity, that’s why. Because you’re just the poor fucking pseudo-relation who grew up on the wrong side of town and always got the scraps. Deborah’s not your friend, she just pities you. Like the rest of us.”

  I couldn’t move. It hurt to hear what I’d long suspected was the truth, especially broadcast for the entire bar.

  “And then there’s the would-be bride. Ha, that’s what you think. Well, I’ve got a surprise, because it’s time you knew the truth about Sam and what an utter wanker he is.”

  All of us sat on the edge of our seats, looking between Hannah and Deborah.

  “Do you know he’s tried to pull each and every woman sitting here? In some cases, he’s actually succeeded. In fact, thanks to your dear fiancé, I’m going to have to get a fucking procedure when I get home from this sorry excuse for a party.”

  “You fucking bitch!” Deborah leaned across the table and would have punched Hannah if Laura hadn’t caught her arm in time. “I never want to see any of you again!” Hannah threw the remains of her drink on the table and stormed out of the bar.

  Deborah sat down shakily, trying to get her bearings. “Can someone get me another fucking drink?”

  The night somehow continued, though the party feeling was long gone. After a while, Adele turned to me and asked half-heartedly if I had anything to confess.

  I thought of the last time I’d seen Sam, right before I was due to board the plane. I’d asked him to come over even though he was busy at work. He’d been nastier than ever, threatening to tell Deborah all sorts of lies about me that would irrevocably ruin our friendship, hurling all sorts of awful insults at me. I couldn’t help it. I grabbed the nearest thing I could to shut him up. It wasn’t till he’d fallen to the ground, blood gushing out of his head, his eyes fixed in a stricken expression, that I realized what had happened. I had to act fast, especially as the cab I’d called would be arriving at any moment. Thankfully, so were the garbage collectors.

  “No, not a thing,” I said, and finished the remains of my cocktail.

  THE MAN FOR THE JOB

  BY GARY PHILLIPS

  No, how the hell could I be Wilson Pickett?”

  “Oh, right. Sorry,” the square mumbled as I stepped out
of the cab. He went down the street the way he’d been heading when he stopped to ask me that bullshit.

  “You sure this is where you want me to let you?”

  “Ain’t no sweat, man, I can handle it.” I peeled off some bills and handed them to the driver. On the backseat was a folded newspaper and an article about that bald chick, the singer, Shanay, Sinbad, whatever the fuck, and how she’d joined some kind of Catholic cult and was calling for the Pope to renounce Beelzebub. Hilarious.

  “Enjoy your stay, sir.” He touched his cap and put his hack in gear. The car was just like the kind I’d seen roving around London, only there weren’t as many of them here. You’d think they’d be stacked up at the hotel I was staying at, but the doorman hipped me to hoof over to O’Connell Street, where I found some lined up.

  I snuggled my upturned collar closer to my neck and put the zipper of my leather jacket all the way up. When you got the crawlies like I had, everything is like constant heated pins poking from beneath your skin. Plus the goddamn cold, which I wasn’t a fan of to begin with—gloomy weather was all up in my ass. I looked across a section of the park and could see the projects, or estates as they called them over here, just beyond.

  Walking head down, hands tucked away, I knew deep inside but wouldn’t fess up that I was two steps from being certified a fool. I could have been back in my comfortable hotel room, hands roaming all over Molly, Mary, or whatever the fuck was the name of the honey who’d started conversing with me in that pub after the game at Lansdowne.

  “I’ve seen you play before,” she said, her liquid browns steady on me.

  I’d been giving her and a couple of her girlfriends the glance. They’d started whispering and giggling to each other after me and some of the others from the Dragons and the Claymores had strolled into the joint. The teams had come to Dublin to play an exhibition game at the stadium normally used for rugby and soccer. The stands weren’t nearly as full for us as they would be for their own games, but the curiosity factor and that football, my kind of football, involved its own slamming and swearing got some of the natives out to see us. What the fuck, slappin’ heads was slappin’ heads.

  And where you had muscular dudes grappling and tearing at each other, you had the type of woman who dug that kind of action—and not just to watch.

  “When was that?” I said, moving to give her space at the bar. She leaned in.

  “In Chicago. I lived there for a while. Had a job selling dog products.”

  “Dog products?”

  “Flea-control solutions, chewy treats, that sort of rubbish.”

  I liked her toothy smile. Well, okay, I also liked the fact she had some guns straining that sweater she was wearing. Those bad boys were calling my name. But damn, she knew I was looking. She was too. “So you saw me on TV?”

  “Live and in color,” she said, assessing me up and down like a coach figuring out if I was first-string or pine-rider. “Soldier Field. The Falcons against the Bears, before they were in the Central Division. You had two touchdowns for Atlanta.” She paused, considering something, then said, “I believe you shook your arse at the crowd after that second one.”

  I gave her my gee-whiz Urkel bit. Babes like a motha-fuckah to be self-effacing and shit. “Just trying to keep the fun in the game. Say did we—?”

  “No, Zelmont, we didn’t. All your women blur in your mind, do they?” She’d lit a cigarette and let the smoke float between us.

  “It’s not that, it’s just, you know, when you’re on the road during the season, shit just gets jumbled. ’Course, it’s not like I’d forget you.”

  She knew it was bullshit, but it wasn’t as if we were carrying on a romance like in one of them whack Merchant Ivory flicks I’d been forced to watch once. She knew the score.

  And not an hour later, we were doing it freestyle in my room and I had my hands and lips all over her gorgeous tatas.

  “I know this is going to sound off,” I said later as we lay in bed, my hand rubbing her firm, what she’d call it? Arse. Hilarious.

  “You’re mad for me and want me to journey to your mansion in America with ya?” She said it in that kind of exaggerated Irish accent they used to do in those old black-and-whites where some stooped-over gray-haired dame played Jimmy Cagney’s mother.

  “Right,” I said, gently squeezing one of her breasts, getting a moan out of her. She put her hand on mine. “Do you know where to cop some crack? Get some, I mean.”

  She laughed down in her throat. “Good thing I was in the States. Over here, crack means to fart and the craic means, well, means the good life. Which,” and her amber eyes crinkled at the edges, “I guess is a kind of way of looking at it. Though lately that slang has found its way here, meaning what you mean.”

  I had no goddamn idea what the fuck she was talking about. I was needing, but had enough sense to know it was best not to go off and probably screw up what might be my only connection, and my only chance of doing the nasty again before I had to light out tomorrow.

  She reached across me for the phone on the night stand, those wonderful titties mashing against my chest. “Let me make a few calls, darling.”

  And that’s how I found myself staring, confused, at a sign. I figured the burning in my head had bored a hole in it and the crack cravings had me seeing mirages and what not. But then I remembered that Connolley, our backup quarterback, had been over here before to see some cousins and had mentioned that it wasn’t unusual to see signs in Gaelic.

  I sniffed, resisting the urge to scratch my itching, the invisible ants marching up and down my arms in sneakers with spikes. I tried to get rid of the image of hundreds of those tiny pincer jaws taking little chunk after little chunk out of my flesh. There was a sign in English just to the left of the Irish one, but the only reason I’d stopped was not to locate myself, but to get psyched. I was on a field I hadn’t played on before, and had better be on my J.

  Maura, yeah, that was her name, had told me that this place, Ballymun, was going through renovations. There was a main street running through the middle with brown and gray buildings on either side, and three tall main towers standing out. I didn’t grow up in the projects but had been in more than a few in my time for one reason or another. Lately, though, it had been for the reason I was here now after being given my walking papers from the NFL for failing a random drug test, and getting bounced to the European league.

  And it ain’t like I was 24-7 on the pipe. I wasn’t no weak-kneed dope fiend. It was just that my gimpy hip had been giving me fits again and I’d been hiding that precious detail from the docs. But if I asked for more than the usual allotment of painkillers, they’d know something was up. Hell, if you played ball for more than two years you just naturally needed some kind of legal narcotic cocktail to dull the constant throb from that sprained ankle that never had much of a chance to heal, or the tingle you never lost in your hamstring when you had to cut sharp down field. That was expected. The league’s croakers knew what to give you for that shit, that was the ordinary.

  But my on-again, off-again hip had started to pain me something fierce after I’d been tackled by this wheat-smellin’ Russian fuck playing for the Monarchs two weeks ago in Wembley Stadium. Bad enough after that I’d started cutting the pain with crack, knowing it would hype the demand in me if I wasn’t cool, and I could be the monkey dancing on the string again.

  The fuck? Enough of that inspecting myself humbug. This wasn’t no excursion to some all broads college with me working to get some muff diving professor and her prize pupil back with me to my room. Had to stay on point. I crossed behind a bulldozer on the low end of a mound of torn-down brick and wood and glass. There were a couple of figures moving over the mound, picking at this and lifting that in their search for plumbing pipes or porcelain to sell, I assumed.

  I went past them and, checking the directions Maura had written for me, found the doorway I was looking for in the night. Not too surprisingly, there were some kids bivouacked in front o
f the building I’d been told to find. A couple of them were passing a joint and another was bopping to a boom box blazing a Tupac number, “Dear Mama.” The aroma of their chronic drifted to me as I got close. Their blunt popped and sizzled, too many seeds in the cheap shit they were toking on.

  “Hey,” one of the kids said, spying me as Shakur growled, “I reminisced on tha stress I caused, it wuz hell huggin’ on my mama from a jail cell.”

  “You a boxer, are you, mistah? Come to show us hooligans how to put our energies and urges to good use?” He did a quick flurry, hands and feet movin’ and grovin’ all the time, his eyes never leaving mine.

  The others cracked up. The oldest of them couldn’t have been over thirteen. Since yesterday it had been hard as Chinese chess for me to understand their accents. But now with the jones all over me like poison ivy, I was getting every word.

  To the one, they all looked hungry. Not for a burger so much as that something they couldn’t get growing up around here. Say what you want about anything else, but that was a condition I knew something about, ’cause it was how I’d come up in South Central L.A., even if I never did live in the projects.

  “Gotta do some business.” I flashed a ducat.

  “Yeah?” the one who’d called me a boxer said. “Like ’em young, do you?”

  “Sound like I’m cooing like Michael Jackson?” Not that I believed for a second these little shits wouldn’t have taken me around the corner and laid a busted chair leg or rusted muffler upside my head in a heartbeat. I pressed the money into the kid’s chest and he took hold of it. I pointed at the door behind him.

  He snorted and, making a show like he was Jeeves, stepped aside, bowing and indicating for me to come forward. What a surprise, the door wasn’t locked, and I entered the tower called Pearse, whoever the hell that was.

  As the door closed behind me, my radar bumpin’ in case one of them got a notion, I heard a clop-clop. I looked back through the safety glass and got sight of another kid in a watchcap and torn windbreaker galloping up to the others on a spotted nag. The horse’s belly was sagging, the hind legs barely thicker than my arms, but damned if those kids didn’t gather around it, petting and nuzzling the sad beast. Maybe they’d use the scratch I gave them to feed the thing rather than waste it on weed. Yeah, maybe.