The Bloomsday Dead

by Adrian McKinty

  “He’s a fucking peeler,” Gusty suddenly screams at the top of his voice. “He’s a fucking undercover. Get him.”

  Like in a club when a drunk falls into the DJ’s turntable, the noise in the room immediately ceases. Even the dogs stop killing each other for a second.

  I run for the stairs.

  I don’t make it.

  Two men immediately on top of me hammering punches into the side of my head. I thump one off. The other tries to butt me in the nose, misses, and smashes me in the forehead. I stick a fingernail in his right eye and kick him away. But it’s too late now and the rest of the room is running over. A couple of punches and then an aluminum bat smacks into my ribs. You know you’re in trouble when someone produces a baseball bat. Baseball isn’t played in Ireland. Men who carry baseball bats for a living are professional skull smashers. Another bat crashes into my legs. I go down yelling. A kick lands on the side of my head. More kicks in my ribs. I see the glint of a knife. Baseball bats and knives. Well, that’s it then. They’re not messing about, they’re going to kill me. An undercover cop, fair game in their eyes.

  The bat comes down heavily a couple of inches from my head, breaking someone’s foot instead. A kick just misses getting me in the balls. But someone succeeds in stamping on my chest, knocking the wind out of me.

  And finally I manage to pull out the revolver.

  I shoot someone in the leg and someone else in the gut. Both men fall to the floor with heavy thuds, too shocked even to yell.

  The kicking stops, the men freeze for a moment. I fire into the ceiling. The attackers take a step back.

  I am badly hurt and I realize immediately I’ve a window of only a few seconds before I’ll pass out. Blood is pouring into my mouth, my head’s pounding. I get to my feet. Almost fall, steady myself.

  “I’m not a fucking cop,” I say and swing the pistol around wildly, pointing it at various individuals. They’re scared now, ready to believe me. “Gusty owes me ten grand, I’m his collector.”

  They turn to look at our old pal.

  Need to further concentrate their minds. I shoot him in the crotch. He falls to the ground, screaming.

  “Next person to fucking look in my direction is off to the fiery pit,” I tell them.

  I shamble-run to the stairs. The doorman blocking my path. I shoot him in the left thigh, push past him, and scramble up the steps. The mob boiling behind me, debating whether to follow me or not. Am I a cop? Am I not? A confusion in the stories and the fact that I still have a gun. I have one round left. One for any one of them.

  I open the metal door and run into the street. Down one alley, then another, losing myself.

  Losing myself.

  The blood pouring out.

  My head throbbing.

  Pain mounting.

  Those flashing lights again.

  Take a look back, no pursuit.

  Another alley. I slip, fall into a pile of garbage cans.

  Aye, that’s me. In the goddamn rubbish. At home here.

  In Belfast.

  In Dublin.

  And back.

  I fall way back.

  Across countries. Oceans. Years.

  Lima.

  Los Angeles.

  Farther.

  All the way to a cold January in the Bronx, where my mind wants to take me for reasons that I don’t get now but I’ll understand by midnight.

  Tsssfffff . . . We came running down the lane, between the railway tracks and the security fence. A red number 2 train approaching and Andy afraid that we were going to be sucked over onto the line the way Goldfinger got sucked out of the plane in the Bond flick.

  “There’s no way,” I tried telling him. “It’s all to do with pressure.”

  “Aye, you say that, and when I’m mashed up against the carriages you can tell my ma.”

  The train was accelerating and we still had about fifty yards until we got to the steps at the platform.

  “We’re not going to make it,” Andy said. Fergal was leading us, but he was so looped on paint thinner he thought he was back in the OC, hare coursing or something, screaming and hooting and generally spooking Andy and me.

  “Will you shut it, you big glipe,” I told him, but he was uncontrollable.

  The train was bearing down and those buggers in the MTA never stop.

  “We’re gonna die now,” Andy said behind me.

  “We’re not going to die,” I assured him.

  But the gap between the line and the security fence was only about a yard wide and for the first time I began to think that Andy might be right. Maybe the bloody thing was going to hit us. It was coming at a fair oul clip, that was for sure.

  “If we cut over to the other side of the tracks, there’s more room,” Andy suggested.

  “Go and you’ll trip and fall and get bloody electrocuted and then beheaded and I’ll have to explain that to your ma,” I said.

  “Well, big Fergal’s going to get it first, the way he’s carrying on.”

  “And he deserves it, his idea.”

  I looked up the track to see where Fergal was, but everything was absorbed into the train’s headlights. It couldn’t be more than ten feet in front of us. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  It sounded its horn and I found myself screaming.

  “Oh my God,” Andy yelled out and then the thing was on top of us.

  “It’s sucking me in,” I heard myself shrieking. “Sucking me in, so it is.”

  Couple of people staring at us from their seats, lights, clattering wheels, sparks. In a few seconds the train was past. Fergal was giving it the fingers from the side of the track. I was hyperventilating. Deep breaths, I told myself, deep breaths.

  Andy put his hand on my back. I shook my head.

  “That boy is going to get us killed,” I said, pointing at Fergal.

  “More than likely,” Andy agreed.

  We headed up the line, caught Fergal, grabbed him by the jacket, and trailed the useless ganch after us. We exited the subway station and found the steps down the hill. Sure, it saved us about fifteen blocks by going over the fence and along the tracks, but it had taken years off our lives.

  A minute later we walked into the brightly lit bar, more or less in one piece. Fergal looked at his clunky digital watch and told us that it was exactly nine o’clock.

  “My shortcut paid off. We’ll be able to get a seat now,” he said, sliding his way among the patrons. Andy gave me a disgusted glance and I validated it with an eyebrow raise.

  We walked to the bar, but before we got five paces a bouncer tapped me on the shoulder.

  “How old are you boys?” the bouncer asked in a monotone.

  “How can you ask me that question?” Andy said. I groaned. Just answer, you bloody big stupid eejit. “Can’t you see that I’m twenty-five?” Andy continued. The bouncer looked at him with skepticism as Andy rummaged for the fakest of fake IDs. Fergal waved his hand in front of the bouncer’s face.

  “These are my mates,” he said.

  Fergal was five or six years older than Andy and myself, but even so, that wouldn’t matter to the bouncer. I sighed. All this way into the heart of the Bronx and then risking death on a shortcut along the elevated subway tracks. All for some mythical bar that would probably be shite. Moot, anyway, because it looked like we were going to get chucked out after just two seconds inside the establishment.

  “I’m twenty-five,” Andy insisted and showed the ID.

  The bouncer looked at Fergal for a second.

  “Wait a minute. Do you work for Sunshine and Darkey White?” the bouncer asked.

  Fergal’s eyes narrowed. He drew himself up to his full height.

  “Aye, I do,” Fergal said.

  “And these are your mates?” the bouncer asked him.

  “Aye, they’re tagging along. Andy here has been with us about six months, and for young Michael, this is his very first week in America.”

  The bouncer looked upset and then afraid.r />
  “Sorry, I had no idea, I had no idea,” he said apologetically.

  “It’s ok,” Fergal said.

  He backed away.

  “Sorry for grabbing you on the shoulder, pal. I didn’t know you were working for Darkey White,” he said to me.

  “Forget it,” I muttered. “It’s nothing.” Although it wasn’t nothing, and Fergal suddenly gained stature before my eyes.

  We walked upstairs to the top bar, our ultimate destination.

  Of course, we could have gone drinking anywhere in Riverdale or Manhattan but what was special about this place, allegedly, was that it was full of underage Fordham girls, who, Fergal claimed, were gagging for it all the bloody time. Beer, underage girls, Fergal on paint thinner. Quite the mix.

  “My prediction,” I told Andy, “is that it’s going to end in tears.”

  “Lucky if it’s only tears.”

  We opened the door of the top bar and went in. But for once, Shangrila wasn’t over the next mountain. It was right bloody here, if your particular utopia was heavily made-up seventeen-year-old Catholic girls, in slut skirts, heels, jewels, and perfume from their ma’s closet.

  There were mirrors everywhere and bright interrogation-style lights. MTV was playing on two TV screens, the music so loud that everyone except the bar staff had to shout. The girls had attracted a rough crowd of ne’er-do-wells from Long Island—surly suburban kids, looking for action of any description: girls or fights, either would be acceptable.

  Fergal sussed a vacant table near the corner right under one of the TVs. He led the way, his big arms swinging wildly at his sides, terrifying me into thinking that he was about to knock over someone’s pint. He could handle himself, but it was inevitable that Andy and me would be drawn in to any fracas. A couple of silent prayers and mantras kept him safe all the way to the corner. We sat down and took off our jackets.

  “My shout,” I said, and asked the boys what they were having. Everyone was on lagers, so that was easy to remember. The barman caught my eye as soon as I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. Part of the advance Sunshine had sent me to bring me over from Belfast to New York.

  I ordered three pints. I paid with the bill, got the change, and put the three pints into a triangle. I weaved my way back through the tables, avoiding obvious booby traps in the shape of extended legs or handbags or the belts of folded-up coats.

  “Cheers,” Fergal said, grabbing his pint right out of my hand and drinking half of it in one gulp and then belching. It was tough to be seen with Fergal. He played quite the rube. Eccentric one too. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and trousers and tatty woolen waistcoat. He had a red beard that looked like a case of scrum pox gone awry. Andy claimed that Fergal was a sophisticated thief back in the OC, but it was hard to credit.

  I sat down, looked at Andy, and we both took a sip of beer.

  “So what’s the craic?” Andy asked me. “How’s America treating you so far?”

  “It’s ok.”

  “How’s your place?” he asked.

  “Fucking shitehole.”

  “Be it ever so humble . . .”

  “Ok, boys, listen,” Fergal said, looking serious and conspiratorial. With the getup he was in, the conspiracy could have involved a plot against Queen Victoria, but more likely it was about the girls.

  “Listen. I’ve been checking out the table under the clock. Don’t all look round at once, but tell me how old you think the brunette under the R in Rangers is?”

  Fergal was checking out a brazen wee hussy with a six-inch-high beehive hairdo, hello-sailor lipstick, and pancake to cover the acne. She was with her older sister, who, after a great deal of pestering, was obviously taking her out on a Saturday-night thrill. Neither sister was going home with anyone tonight.

  “Sixteen,” Andy offered.

  Fergal looked at me.

  “Not sixteen, no way,” I said. “I know for a fact how old she is.”

  “Seventeen?” Fergal suggested.

  I shook my head again, taking a big sip of my pint to keep up the suspense.

  “That girl is fourteen years old,” I said at last.

  Both of them were suitably impressed, taking unsubtle double takes.

  “No way,” Andy said.

  “Believe it, kiddo. I’ll go ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

  They didn’t believe me. I asked her. She said she was twenty-one and I told her I heard there was going to be a police raid to check IDs. The whole table cleared out five minutes later and once the rumor was out, four other tables after that.

  Andy’s round. He went to the bar, but despite being a giant he had some trouble getting served. Fergal, fully recovered now from his paint-thinner experience, was in a reflective mood.

  “Yon Andy boy is encumbered not just by imposing stature but also by his astounding lack of bar presence,” Fergal said.

  “Explain.”

  “Certainly. He’s not ugly, not handsome. And to have presence at the bar you need to have either a very handsome noticeable face or a very ugly noticeable face. Andy is right in the middle,” Fergal said.

  “Whereas you, Fergal, are a big lanky bugger with a horrible beard, the dress sense of a street person, and a nose that’s bigger than some of the smaller hills in the Netherlands,” I said, just to see how far I could push Fergal boy. But he wasn’t fazed.

  “All very true, and explains why I never have to wait more than thirty seconds at the bar. You get served very quickly because, I conjecture, the barman is thinking that anyone with your evil eyes is liable to do just about anything if he doesn’t get his pint pretty sharpish.”

  “I take evil eyes as a compliment,” I said.

  “As you should.”

  Andy came back and asked what we were talking about.

  “Just oul shite,” I told him truthfully, and got stuck into beer number three.

  Fergal finished his pint and looked around the bar.

  “Boys. Sorry I brought you. This place is a bust, let’s get over into the city,” he said with ennui. We all agreed, drank the rest of our bevvies, and grabbed our coats from the backs of the chairs. We had all just stood up when the bar door opened and Scotchy Finn came in.

  Scotchy Finn. Finally.

  “There he is,” Andy said. “That’s Scotchy, he bloody said he was coming, but you never know with him.”

  “That’s Scotchy?” I asked, staring at a dangerously thin, paleskinned, orange-haired, bucktoothed, sleekit wee freak.

  “That’s him,” Andy insisted.

  I hadn’t encountered Scotchy yet, but his reputation had preceded him. He was supposed to have met me at the airport, but he hadn’t. He was supposed to have gotten me an apartment in Riverdale, but he’d found me one in Harlem instead. He was supposed to have taken me around the city, but he’d left all that to Andy. To cap it all, the story was that if Sunshine liked me, Scotchy was going to get his own crew, with the three of us under him. Our new boss.

  Scotchy saw us and beamed from ear to ear.

  “Boys, you weren’t heading out, were you? Rounds on me,” Scotchy said, and threw his jacket into the corner. We all sat down again. Scotchy went to the bar and came back almost immediately with four pints and whiskey chasers.

  “Death to death,” Scotchy said, and knocked back his whiskey.

  We all followed suit.

  “You’re the newie, right?” he asked me.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Heard you were in the fucking British army,” he asked aggressively.

  “Aye, right again.”

  “Well, ya bloody collaborator, I spent my time blowing up the British army, trapping them, killing ’em, sniping them, down in South Armagh,” Scotchy said with a touch of hammy malevolence.

  “Aye, I thought I could detect a culchie inbred-hillbilly accent. South Armagh. Surprised you had the time to fight the Brits when you were fucking your sister and the various domestic farm animals that were handy, not that you could p
robably tell the difference between your sister and the farm animals,” I said, and took a drink of my pint.

  I wasn’t sure how he would react to that and I was nervous for about half a second before Scotchy opened his fangy chops, grinned, and broke into a laugh.

  “I think I’m going to like you, Michael,” he said.

  “Well, I’d love to say the same, but I’m not too sure, Scotchy,” I told him.

  “Forsythe, is it? Like Bruce Forsyth, that fucking shite comedian?”

  “Aye, like Bruce Forsyth the shite comedian,” I said.

  “Ok, from now you’re fucking going to be Bruce,” Scotchy said.

  “I don’t think so, mate,” I replied.

  Scotchy ignored me and turned his attention to Andy and Fergal.

  “Well, boys, how have you been while I’ve been dodging bullets and making us all rich in Washington Heights?”

  “Good,” I said, still speaking for the group, my first attempt to assert my dominance over them and, hopefully, one day over Scotchy, too.

  Scotchy ignored me again, then went on to tell us what particular mischief he’d been up to all night with Big Bob and Mikey Price and the rest of the crew. Extortion, muscle, threats—fun stuff. After a couple of bloody anecdotes, Scotchy looked at me and grabbed me by the arm.

  “Come on, new boy, get those down your neck and it’s back to my place. Having a party for ya. Just decided. Get youse fixed up yet, even Andy over there, the big scunner.”

  We wolfed our pints, barely able to keep up with Scotchy as he got in another and ordered a keg of beer to carry out. Scotchy tried to pull the remaining jailbait, but no one would go with him. He went to the bog while Fergal and I lugged the keg to Scotchy’s Oldsmobile.

  “Are you sure you should be driving, Scotchy?” Andy asked him as we got in the back. Scotchy swiped at the top of his head.

  “Ok, ok, I was only asking,” Andy muttered.

  Scotchy put the car in gear and spun the wheels out of the car park. Scotchy was a terrible driver—even when fully sober he fiddled continually with the washer fluid, the mirror, and the radio; and now he was half tore.

  Twice he almost got us into accidents, one of them with a police car.

  He flipped the stations and when Karen Carpenter’s warble came on, Andy asked him to leave it.