by Ken Bruen
“Why?”
And got a look of total confusion, he said,
“You were in the army, don’t you love weapons?”
I let out a deep breath, said,
“It’s the very reason I have no use for them, put a dick-head and a gun together, you have a recipe for disaster.”
The day I finally left the army, I’d figured on never having a gun in my possession again. Like so many other resolutions, it was only a matter of time. Tommy’s love of weapons came from the movies; he said
“Man, if I was packing, I’d never be afraid.”
I wanted to say that’s when you most need to be afraid, asked,
“What are you afraid of?”
He gave the Irish answer:
“Bringlodi.”
That’s the Irish word for dreams. I was lost, asked,
“I’m not sure what you mean?”
He gave me the hangdog look, part anger, part sorrow, said,
“Steve, you’re never sure what I mean, fuck, I’m not sure me own self, all I know is, my dreams scare the bejay-sus out of me, and I’m afraid that one La Brea (fine day), the dreams will come true.”
I’d heard him in the grip of his dreams, his body twisting and writhing, his teeth grinding, sweat rolling in torrents off him. There are few more awful sounds than the grinding of teeth, you know that deep trauma is the cause. Though his continued descent into the maelstrom of dope and booze pissed me off and alarmed me, I could understand why. Alas, comprehension didn’t mean compassion or tolerance.
In a futile effort to get him off the fascination of guns, I’d said,
“Knowing you, you had a gun, you’d probably shoot yer-self.”
He’d gone real quiet and I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me till he said,
“Not the worst scenario.”
Tommy reached some basic part of me, some primitive need to protect. I’d promised his father I’d always watch out for him, and a pledge to a dying man in Ireland is the most binding contract you’ll ever take. Seeing his face that time, contemplating suicide as an option, I made an oath to do whatever it took to keep him, if not safe, at least protected.
What gods there be, I think they especially love when you make such an undertaking. They send such grief down the pike that your very words will lodge and strangle in your throat.
As Juan displayed the hardware, the gleaming metal, I felt my throat muscles constrict. Making a supreme effort, I managed to actually look at the assembled tapestry of carnage.
I recognised a Glock 9 mill. The shiny black finish; holds seventeen rounds. One of those odd coincidences, I’d had one during the robbery. I lifted the second, heavy and made of silver aluminium alloy. A German SIG-Sauer, serious firepower. Juan said,
“Take your pick.”
I said,
“Aren’t we like, going to dinner?”
He didn’t follow, gave a dubious,
“Sí.”
“So what, we’re going to shoot them if the food sucks?”
He lunged at the case, grabbed the SIG, worked the slide, and feverishly jacked a round in the chamber, said,
“Fifteen rounds.”
And I thought of one of my favourite Springsteen songs, “American Skin (41 Shots).”
I echoed,
“Fifteen rounds, what are you expecting?”
He ignored that, said,
“Pick one.”
“No thanks.”
He couldn’t believe it, went,
“You’re in America, you don’t want to be armed?”
I shook my head, he hefted the SIG, trying to make sense of me, said,
“Not to have a gun . . . it’s un-American.”
Oh I wanted a gun, just not from him, asked,
“Where are we?”
All I could see was people wearing Gucci sneakers and rip-off Stella McCartney designs; he said,
“West Fifteenth.”
“Didn’t this used to be a shithole, meatpacking and male hookers?”
He shrugged.
“It changed, what are you going to do, now it’s goddamn boutiques and freaking artists.”
His cell phone chirped and he answered, launched into a spitting frenzy, banged it against the window, said,
“Amigo, I gotta take a rain check, one of my homies is in trouble.”
“No big thing.”
Truth is, I was relieved, I said,
“Drop me off here, I’ll walk, get a feel again for the city.”
He indicated the SIG and I shook my head.
The limo pulled over, I got out. Passersby didn’t give me a second look, I could have been P. Diddy but no response; Juan said,
“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”
Yeah, right.
I knew not taking the gun had been an insult. Too, I figured it had been some sort of test and I failed, like I gave a fuck. Ate in a diner, of all the reasons to live in America, they top the list, them and Johnny Cash.
“I feel the need. The need for speed.”
— TOM CRUISE, “MAVERICK,” Top Gun
STAPLETON WAS IN a safe house in Monaghan, he’d recently hijacked a shitpile of weapons. A bloody affair, he lost three men and took two Brits down. Bad trade-off. He was in serious stir with the Organisation, he was, to coin a phase, a little too loose a cannon. And, he was hemorrhaging money; men they could get, always another sucker willing to lie down for the cause but money, that was the life pulse. One other man in the house with him, a Derry guy named Dubh . . . the Irish for black . . . he was well-named, his eyes were as dark as the mercy of the Paras. Like Stapleton, he’d started with the Stickies, the official IRA, then when the split happened he’d joined the Provos but they were bleating for peace, too, so he’d joined the newest most ferocious offshoot, the Patriots. He was fascinated by hardware and spent hours cleaning the weapons, studying the manuals, loading and unloading. He actually polished the ammunition, with loving care. Stapleton had joked,
“You need to get out more, cara (mate).”
And got a look he’d have been proud to display himself. Dubh was his kind of guy but a rarity now, literally a dying breed. He was drinking a large Jameson, bottle of stout as chaser, said, giving the black liquid the evil eye,
“Not the same out of a bottle, is it?”
Stapleton was tempted to say,
“You’re having no problems with the Jameson.”
Cooped up with a guy for who knew how long, you didn’t want to sour the air, so he nodded. He had a mug of tea himself, heavily sweetened, he surely liked his tea, or cha, as his mother used to call it. Dubh’s tongue was loosened by the booze and he was as close to loquacious as he’d ever be, asked,
“You ever watch pictures?”
He meant movies, but being old Ireland he hadn’t yet adopted movies or any of the other Americanisms. All the freedom fighters were video literate, not from choice but from enforced confinement, in Long Kesh or safe houses. ‘Nam movies were hugely popular, and of course, Michael Collins, In the Name of the Father, Harry’s Game. Stapleton didn’t watch, preferred to listen to music but only as background. He was constantly on the alert for the Brit patrols, how the hell were you going to hear a helicopter if you were watching Robert Duvall doing his own chopper riff. Dubh, more to himself, continued:
“Me, I like Jim Cameron, The Terminator, Aliens, all that fucking hardware and you know, it looks used. Cameron, I tell you, he knows his stuff, he was on the verge of inventing a pulse gun by joining a Thompson submachine gun with a Franchi SPAS-twelve pump-action shotgun.”
Stapleton glanced at him, the guy’s eyes shining, fired on visions of carnage, he was near orgasmic,
“It was based on the Spandau MG 42 with thermal imagery sights.”
Stapleton was almost moved, here was a young man, his whole life shaped by violence, the only thing to excite him being the talk and dreams of weapons, the deadlier the better. Elsewhere in the country, young men were talking about Gaeli
c football, hurling, women, dances, cars, and Saturday nights at the pub. Dubh would only ever drink in shebeens, the illegal establishments run by the Boyos and where the smell of cordite was as familiar as the kegs of Smithwick’s brought in from Dundalk.
A few weeks later, Dubh would be shot in the head by the most basic rifle available, nothing fancy, no laser sight or even thermal capability, it killed him instantly, Stapleton felt that was irony of the most Protestant style, i.e., vicious.
Like James Cameron desperately needing Titanic to come in mega, Stapleton needed a big hit. He was running out of time, cash, and credibility. His master plan was to hit south of the border and involve Southerners, patsies who’d take the fall, involve the Republic and, best of all, grab the fucking euros to finance the Northern campaign.
His plan was fairly simple: get hold of some dumb guy from the Republic, do a couple of gigs in the North, get him a taste for it, then go south, hit big there, kill the idiot and get the hell out, leave Southern fingerprints all over it. How hard could it be? Belfast was crawling with starry-eyed youngsters who’d come over the border, wanting the romance of the cause, wanted to carry weapons and attain that sheen of patriotism they’d acquired more from Hollywood movies than Irish history.
He fully intended to make them history.
He remembered his father, before the Brits took him out, a tall man, always speaking in Irish, with a Fainne in his lapel. It was the gold badge awarded to Irish speakers who spoke fluently. When they’d put the riddled body in the casket, Stapleton had leaned over, took the pin from his dad’s only suit. He used to wear it but it was a dead give away for the Brits, so he carried it in his wallet, alongside the old currency of the South, the punts, the green notes with herself on them.
The volunteers nowadays, they wore frigging earrings, like nancy boys. Not on his watch they didn’t. A young fellow from Fermanagh had a stud in his left ear, Stapleton ripped it out, said,
“You’re a man, an Irish man, have some fucking dignity.”
And . . . they watched soccer, Jaysus . . . and even betimes . . . rugby. So okay, Manchester United had a huge Irish history but the beautiful game was killing the Gaelic. Stapleton had been a ferocious hurler. His own honed stick, from the ash, complete with the steel bands on the end, was among his proudest possessions. He’d broken it across the back of an informer. The dreaded snitch, now elevated to supergrass . . . selling out their comrades for money and to save their own wretched skins. He heard there was some American band called Supergrass . . . he wouldn’t be listening for them anytime soon. The supergrass, a term coined by the English press, a man who’d sell his own mother, and indeed, their like had been the cause of a lot of good men going down. Then, they became discredited and had to be whisked away to save the blushes of the Brits.
When Stapleton had still been a regular part of the campaign and they were being decimated by the traitors, his unit caught one of them.
Young guy, twenty years of age, looked like the punk he was. After he’d been through the water, cigarettes, testicles routines, they gave him to Stapleton. He took him to a shack on the outskirts of the city, the kid, whinging, hurting, terror in his eyes. Stapleton had to contain the rage of his men who wanted the old-style punishment, tar and feathers.
Like it was yesterday, Stapleton could summon the scene effortlessly. Put a blanket round the lad, who was shivering, asked,
“Want a cup of tea, drop of the creature in it?”
The wretch, his teeth bloody stumps, nodded, desperate for any bit of kindness. Stapleton clicked his fingers and one of his unit went to fetch it, pissed in the cup after he added the Jameson. Stapleton had to hold the cup to the fellow’s lips, his tremors were so bad. He hunkered down, asked,
“Know where that blanket comes from?”
The kid, confusion in his eyes, looked at the grey material, pulled it round him tighter, as if it would protect him, echoed,
“Blanket?”
The guys from the unit had gathered round, an opportunity to see the legendary Stapleton at work, they weren’t much impressed, yet. Stapleton said,
“What you’ve got there is a piece of living history, a blanket from Long Kesh, part of the dirty protest, you smell it, you can still get the shite they used to daub the walls.”
The kid tried to shrug it off; Stapleton was up, walked away, then returned with his old hurly, swinging it, hearing the roars of the crowd as a Northern county took the All Ireland title from the south, he said,
“And this, this is your legacy, you like sport?”
Despite the warmth of his words, the friendliness, a chill had entered the enclosed space, the kid stammered,
“Liver . . . Liverpool . . . Gerard . . .”
Never got to finish as Stapleton swung light and loose, the stick taking the kid full in the mouth, Stapleton, continuing in his easy tone,
“Fucking Brit game . . .”
Whack.
The kid’s jaw.
“Now, hurling, we’ve been playing it for centuries . . .”
The kid’s body doubled as the hurly shattered his kneecaps. Five minutes of intensive beating, the swish of the stick, Stapleton’s mini history of the growth of Irish sport, and all the while, the measured quiet words, as the young body was battered to mush.
When one of the guys in the unit finally took the hurly from Stapleton’s bloody hands, the shaft had actually ruptured and grey matter clung to the end. They buried the kid in a shallow grave, Stapleton flung the stick in, too, muttered,
“May you roast in hell, you treacherous cunt.”
That’s who Stapleton was.
“It Ain’t Cool to Be Crazy About You”
— GEORGE STRAIT
NEXT DAY, I hailed a cab, went to Ground Zero. Nothing had prepared me, not the newspapers, the TV images, seeing the sheer emptiness devastated me. I tried to read the notices honouring the dead but had to turn away. The enormity of the loss was too much to grasp and I walked, as fast as I could.
I don’t know how long I strode but gradually my mind refocused and I saw Rosie O’Grady’s, went in, and the barman said,
“How are you doing, sir?”
Sir!
I said I was good and could I have a large Seagram’s, water back. He placed it before me and I took a hefty belt, waited for it to mellow me out.
It did.
Easing out a suppressed breath, I shook my head to clear the images. Tommy, going, the first time he saw the Towers,
“Fucking hell.”
Tommy wasn’t easily impressed, worked at taking everything as no big deal, kept the world low key. His home life had been chaotic and his anger he’d converted into feigned indifference. We’d grown up on the same street and been friends from the off, during my college years, I’d often tried to pair him with various women. He’d say sure and then behave so badly they never lasted. Over pints, late, after my final exams, he’d said,
“You know, Steve, I never had a good idea in my life.”
I was the worse for wear, that hour when maudlin is dangerously close, said,
“Hey buddy, you came to Dublin, how bad was that?”
Sometimes, the more he drank, the more sober he appeared, he thought about what I said, then,
“Naw, I’d no place to go, you’re the only direction I ever had.”
Like I said, maudlin.
I’d clapped his arm, tried the Irish solution, asked,
“You want some Jameson?”
Shook his head, then,
“I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Life.”
I laughed out loud, went,
“Shit, buddy, no one gets it, what do you think these pubs are for?”
He wasn’t buying, said,
“You do, Steve, you’re a player, always in control. And if you cut loose, I think it’s because you get bored, you like to shake it up but you only visit the edge, you don’t live there, and see . . .”
&nb
sp; He took a deep breath, this was more analysis than Tommy ever did, then,
“See, after you do some mad bollix of a thing, you scuttle back to safety. You can do that, I know as I’ve seen you do it so often.”
His voice was loud, a hint of hysteria, it was late, way past closing time and we were part of that cherished tradition after hours. The barman gave us a look of warning, not because a raised voice bothered him but lest we draw the Guards. Tommy continued:
“What I want to know is, how do you do that shit?”
I leant over, advised,
“Keep it down, buddy.”
He sat back, a triumphant smile on his face, said,
“There you go, case proved.”
I don’t know what time we got out of there, I’d trotted a line of clichés, hackneyed phrases, and he’d stopped in the middle of Grafton Street, said,
“It’s okay, Steve, you can ease up, life’s a joke, just sometimes, I’m not in the mood for laughing.”
We never went as deep again. On some very basic level, I hadn’t reassured him, who could? That we might have connected on some instinctive stage hadn’t happened. Odd times, I’d try to get us back there, back to the raw emotion of being lost, but the book was closed. As if we’d taken a look at his very soul and found it bare. So he distanced it, made a decision to party on, even if he was an unwanted guest.
A few times, I caught an expression in his eyes, not lost but frustrated. He’d adopted the Irish version of fatalism—fecklessness. When you just don’t give a toss. We even had a prayer for it, albeit a Galway one, a softer sound than fuckit, we said . . . feckit.
Kept it almost light but the intention was clear. The hell with it all and let the devil take the consequences. On a toilet wall, I saw it expressed best: The lord gave me no class, let the devil give me style. After we returned from America, Tommy said,
“Biggest mistake we ever made.”
“What’s that, then?”
As if I didn’t know.
He sighed, raising his hands in mock defeat, said,
“Coming back.”
My mother was dying, I’d little choice. Had tried to persuade him to remain in America, to no avail.