by Ken Bruen
“What, are you nuts, in Galway? They have the army doing security and hey, hello, those guys are seriously armed.”
As if he didn’t hear, he said,
“We always have a third guy but he’s . . . am . . . indisposed.”
I let it sink in, waited for more and when it wasn’t coming, said,
“Oh no, you’ve got to be kidding, you think I’d get involved?”
His head was down and in a low voice, he said,
“I said you’d help.”
“You stupid bastard. Go tell them you were mistaken.”
Now he leaned across the table, grabbed my arm, pleaded,
“Steve, you refuse and I’m dead.”
Another twenty minutes we went at it, round and round and always back to the same conclusion. Finally I said,
“Okay. But this better be nailed down solid, you hear?”
He nodded, then,
“It’s next Wednesday, that’s when they move a mother-lode.”
“Fuck.”
“Mammas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be
Cowboys.”
— WILLIE NELSON
I SNAPPED OUT of my reverie. Replaying Tommy’s death—I couldn’t go there yet, not so soon after visiting Ground Zero. I visualised Siobhan and the way she might look at you, those eyes always on the alert for betrayal. She wasn’t the proverbial deer caught in headlights—she’d been bodily lifted and set down in rush hour traffic.
Her great and maybe only friend was a girl she’d trained in the bank with, Kaitlin, they were same age but radically different in every other way. Kaitlin was party animal and complete extrovert. Siobhan was always the quiet one, intense, preoccupied. Kaitlin had not been, as they say, blessed in the looks department. As close to ugly as it gets and a serious weight problem. If it bothered her, and it must have, she hid it well. I had rarely met a person of such genuine good nature. When you get two girls as tight they were and then one finds a partner, a certain distance ensues.
Not with them.
Siobhan always made certain she saw Kaitlin twice a week. They’d have what has become known as the girls’ night out and they’d hit a pub, do some concentrated drinking. Siobhan didn’t drink much around me and I’d asked,
“What’s with that, you get plastered with Kaitlin, then play Miss Mormon with me?”
She’d stared at me, not in an angry way but that focused expression of weighing what I’d asked. You never got a fast reply from her but it was always the truth, whether you liked it or not; she’d said,
“With you, I want to savour every minute, drink would blur that, Kaitlin is an open book to me, drunk or sober, I know her and like her, I need to let the devils out every so often.”
I made the mistake of sharing this with Tommy, who went,
“Horseshite.”
What did I expect?
Kaitlin got the opportunity to transfer to New York and took it. She wasn’t the type of girl to agonise over decisions, she acted fast. We threw a party for her departure and like the tradition of our ancestors, piled up with booze. Siobhan had bought her a gold Claddagh brooch, cost a week’s wages, I bought her a Saint Bridget’s Cross.
They’re supposed to keep your home safe; Mike, who owned the music store, told me he’d had one and when his home was robbed, the only thing they took was the cross. I didn’t share this with Kaitlin.
A lot of people came and it was one lively affair. The Saw Doctors were on the turntable, and Kaitlin, her face flushed, grabbed my hand, said,
“Dance with me.”
I did. . . . badly.
The Saw Doctors were from Tuam, the song playing was that mad “Joyce Country Ceili Band.” Kaitlin was like Siobhan, a fine dancer, and went into an impromptu jig followed by a reel. That finished and was followed by “Share the Darkness.” I hoped it wasn’t an omen. Sweat pouring down her face, Kaitlin pulled me close, said,
“Yer wan will kill me.”
Meaning Siobhan. I made some inane comment, trying not to step on her toes. Kaitlin said,
“She’s mad about you.”
How to reply to this, getting gratitude and disbelief into the reply. You go the other way, act like it’s no surprise, and an Irish woman will cut you off at the knees, literally. They don’t do smugness, not well, anyway. I said,
“I’m lucky to have found her.”
I meant it.
Kaitlin took my hand, said,
“Let’s get a jar.”
She had a Harvey Wallbanger and I was drinking Jameson, neat. We clinked glasses, said,
“Slainte.”
The place was packed, I could see Siobhan talking to some people and Kaitlin said,
“You always check to see where she is and believe me, she does the same, that’s fecking mighty, wish I’d a fellah who cared where I was.”
I did what you do, muttered about how anyone would be lucky to have her and of course, she’d definitely find someone, the banalities of social nicety, I’m not good at it and find it rough going but I liked her enough to at least take a shot at it. She laughed, said,
“Jaysus, you’re a terrible liar but thanks for the thought, in New York I’m going to bag me a fireman or a cop, they love Irish girls, don’t they?”
I agreed they did and she was quiet for a second then,
“And they’re used to people with weight.”
Tommy was veering in our direction and Kaitlin went,
“Oh oh, trouble, what do you see in that ejit?”
I told the truth, said,
“He’s my friend.”
She waved that off, said,
“He’s baggage and you’d need to watch yerself, that fellah, he’ll bring the gates of hell wherever he goes.”
She nailed that right.
She grabbed my hand, said,
“Siobhan is very fragile, all that strength she displays, it comes at a cost, she’d take a bullet for you, you need to mind her, won’t you do that, won’t you mind her?”
I swore I would and just as Tommy fell on us, she stood, said,
“My public awaits.”
Tommy was four sheets to the wind, per usual, and glared at Kaitlin, his eyes were out of focus, he had a large whiskey in his fist, larger amounts in his system, he slurred,
“She hates me.”
I don’t know which is worse, the maudlin drunk with the huge dollop of self-pity or the aggressive one. Least the aggressive one, you can give him a slap in the mouth, you wallop the whiner, you prove his point, I snapped,
“Fuck’s sake, everything isn’t about you.”
He grabbed my arm, said,
“You hate me, too.”
Right then, he was correct, I sighed, went,
“She doesn’t even know you, so give it a rest.”
Set him off properly:
“Nobody knows me.”
But god is good, Tommy let his head back, and passed out. The evening was a late one and we parted from Kaitlin with the usual pledges of staying in touch, the desperate hugs, the reluctance to finally say good-bye. That night in bed, I hugged Siobhan close, said,
“I’m going to mind you.”
She laughed, said,
“Just because you promised Kaitlin.”
Women . . . Jesus.
Shook myself, and was back at the bar in New York, thinking, “Christ, gimme a break.”
A shot of bourbon in my hand, did I really want to be hurting?
No.
The booze had lit a fire in my belly, giving me that artificial calm, and I knew how easy I could hammer down a few more. How difficult is it? Lock and load. All the arguments about alcoholism and the question, is it hereditary? The serious drinkers I’ve met—and being Irish, I’ve met a lot, came from parents who put it away big-time. Till it put them away. I was pretty sure I carried the gene. Thus my huge effort always for control. So I pushed my glass away, the bar guy asked,
“You done?”
I nodded and paid
the tab, leaving a hefty tip. He acknowledged it but didn’t like me a whole lot better. I was out of there and figured I’d call it a night. At the hotel, I collected the key, headed for the elevator. The bellboy was passing and avoided my eyes. What was that about? Was I supposed to slip him a ten every time we met? Fuck that. Got to my room, went in, and Sherry was in bed, sitting up, went,
“Nearly started without you.”
Jesus, what if Juan had been with me? I kept my voice neutral.
“How’d you get in?”
“The bellboy.”
“What, you palm him twenty bucks?”
She gave me a look of pure scorn, went,
“I don’t give men bribes, least not in cash.”
“So, you gave him some story, that it?”
She tapped the space beside her, said,
“Come on lover, I’m dying here.”
When I didn’t move, she said,
“I promised him a blow job, he near shot his wad right there.”
I wish I could say I threw her out. But she’d gotten under my skin. I knew little about love but plenty about heat and she was it. Later, dressing, she asked,
“You’re like outta here, am I right?”
“What?”
“You’re blowing New York, I can tell.”
I was tempted to say she was the expert on blowing but let it slide, too easy, said,
“No, I like it here.”
She was dressed now, her hand on the door, said,
“We call it Two-son.”
“What?”
“Where you’re headed, know why, no building over two stories, it’s a cowboy town, think you can handle that?”
Yet again I cursed the brochures on Tucson I’d left lying around. To distract her, I offered,
“Let me spring for cab fare.”
Implying a warmth I didn’t feel. She produced a hundred dollar bill, said,
“You already did.”
Not sure what this meant but fairly certain it meant only one thing, and not wanting confirmation, I stared at her. She said,
“I went through your wallet, who’s the babe?”
A photo of Siobhan, from a day on the beach at Spiddal, another lifetime, Sherry had the door opened, parted with,
“You go to Tucson cowboy, I’ll follow you.”
And was gone.
So was the photo of Siobhan.
Five hundred bucks, too. The term “bunny boiler” rose alarmingly in my mind, remembering Glen Close’s scorned, “don’t-fuck-with-her” character in Fatal Attraction. I went to the bathroom. In the toilet bowl were fragments of the photo. No two ways about it, I’d bought myself a shitpile of trouble.
In the corridor, late afternoon, I met the bellboy, stopped, said,
“You let anyone in my room again, I’ll throw you out the window.”
He looked round, as if for help, said,
“She said she was like, you know, your wife.”
He’d a whine in his voice, the eternal “blame it on the other guy scenario,” and I asked,
“We clear?”
He nodded. I got in the elevator, thought,
“Nice work, Steve, intimidating the help.”
New York was slipping away from me. The control I prized was frayed in all directions. As I got to the street, a limo pulled up, the driver leaned out, said,
“Yo, mister, Juan says I’m to drive you, wherever you wish.”
“Fuck off.”
Time to phone Siobhan. We’d agreed I’d wait a few days, let me get settled. Yeah, like I was already settled now. Bought a prepaid card and now, all I had to do was find a phone that worked. Third attempt, got one. Punched in the digits, waited, then heard the Irish lilt,
“Yes?”
Lit me up. I near gagged at how much I loved her. Guilt over Sherry was nagging away. I said,
“Hi, hon.”
“Stephen, are you okay?”
Lie, lie a lot, Tommy’s theme. I said,
“I’m fine but I miss you.”
Which I did and I’d spent my whole life guarding against such a vulnerability. You were vulnerable, they ate you up, spat you out. She sounded hesitant, something in her voice, and I asked,
“Hon, anything wrong?”
“No, it’s probably, I’m just being silly but,”
I locked on the money, thinking fuck, thinking it’s got to go through, asked,
“The transfers?”
“No, no, that’s fine, you know how good I am at my job.”
She was a financial whiz kid. When I’d told her the amount I needed “laundered,” she’d frowned and I figured she couldn’t do it till she laughed, said,
“This is so exciting.”
Now she paused, then,
“I saw Stapleton.”
I tried,
“Maybe you were mistaken.”
She considered and I could see her, the small frown she got when something was wrong, something her fiscal talent couldn’t fix, then,
“Yeah, maybe.”
Stapleton wasn’t really the kind of guy who looked like anyone else. He didn’t stand out in a crowd, he was too clever for that. You saw him, it was for one reason, he wanted it, I asked,
“We could move up the timetable, get you over sooner.”
I knew she wouldn’t go for that. She said,
“And screw up the transfer, I’ve worked hard on this, it’s going exactly as I planned. I leave it now, it could blow up. I need to be here, ensure I’m the one overseeing the deal.”
She was right, someone else might look a little too closely at the amount of money and worse, where the hell it came from. The whole delicate process rested on Siobhan being in charge. I said,
“You see him again . . .”
“I’m not sure it was him.”
“You haul ass.”
She laughed and I asked what was funny. She said,
“You’re doing it, talking American.”
“Yeah, it’s getting there.”
She laughed again, coquettish now, asked,
“Here’s one I learned, getting your ashes hauled, you miss that?”
“Do I ever.”
The credit was running low and I said,
“Gra go mor.” (huge love)
“Leat fein.” (you too)
Click.
Holding the dead phone, I had a moment of forlornness. Washed over me like the Galway rain when you’re least prepared. A guy waiting, went,
“You going to hog that all day, buddy?”
Automatically I said,
“Sorry.”
And he grabbed the phone, said,
“Yeah, everybody’s goddamn sorry.”
I moved away lest the temptation to make him eat it proved too attractive, stopped at a diner, grabbed a booth, and the waitress goes,
“How are you today, young man?”
A winner, right?
I granted I was good, ordered hash browns, eggs over easy, bagel, the ubiquitous coffee.
While I waited, a story came into my head, one Tommy had told me over hot toddies one evening. We’d gone to Furbo to hear a band, renowned for their mix of rock and traditional. Into the heart of Connemara, a turf fire in the lounge and a window overlooking the bay. Fields of granite and hardship in all directions, the band was hot, the bass guitar blending with the bodhran, a girl in her twenties belting out “She Moves Through the Fair” and the whole evening jelled. Tommy, the other side of three hot ones, asked,
“You hear about the guy who walked.”
He indicated the ocean, added,
“Out there.”
I was mellow, a nice buzz building, the music, the fire. Giving me the illusion of peace, I asked,
“This like a true story?”
“You care, the fuck it matters?”
He had a point, I didn’t care, this stage of the evening, it was a time for tales. Veracity didn’t register on the radar. A little testy, he went,
&nb
sp; “You want to hear it or not?”
“Go for it.”
He knocked back most of his hot one, a clove caught in his tooth, he said,
“Fucking things, ruin a decent whiskey.”
Then,
“Some guy, who lived near here, single, with lots of land, the ceili on a Saturday night.”
I said,
“Living it large.”
“Shut up. Seems he had inoperable cancer, so he goes down to the beach.”
Tommy looked out at the wild horizon, pointed,
“Over there a ways. Wearing his best suit and get this . . . Wellingtons.”
I couldn’t help it, said,
“No outfit complete without them.”
Tommy signalled for another round, the band had launched into “I Never Will Marry” as if they knew the story. One of those odd moments of serendipity. Tommy said,
“There’s a point here and I’ll eventually make it. The guy, he loads his pockets with stones and the Wellingtons.”
Tommy’s on his feet now, moving his legs sluggishly, attempting to walk, the stones weighing him down, continues,
“The guy can hardly move but he manages to wade in the water, fighting the current, the fucker is determined, these Connemara men, they’re warriors, bro, and eventually, gets to where he’s under the water. Can you see it, Steve?”
“Jesus, not sure I want to.”
The drinks came, clouds rising from the hot glasses, brown sugar melting on the bottoms, black pints riding point. I gave the guy a bunch of notes, he’s staring at Tommy, who’s gasping for breath, the water in his mouth, strangling his lungs, his eyes closed, he says,
“And he’s standing on the bottom, weighed down but upright because of the stones and he drowns, facing out.”
Tommy opened his eyes, sweat on his forehead and I go,
“Some story.”
He selects a fresh pint, inspects the head, then takes a sip, says,
“He left a note.”
“Aw, come on!”
Tommy looks offended, then,
“It was in the paper. The guy said he wanted to be a sentinel, standing there forever, facing America.”
My mood was ebbing so I tried,
“Well, god knows, he was dressed for it.”
Tommy was staring at the ocean, said,
“He’s out there, looking to America, waiting.”