by Ken Bruen
The band took a break, headed to the bar so I asked,
“Waiting for what?”
Tommy pulled his eyes back to me, was silent, then,
“Godot, fuck’s sakes, you don’t get it, do you?”
“What’s to get?”
He drained the pint, up, swallow, down, one motion, then,
“You need an explanation, it’s gone, forget it.”
End of the evening, the band, finished with Christy Moore’s “Ride On.” The girl sang it with such yearning, such loss that I felt a lump in my throat. We got outside, waiting for a cab, the night air hit us like a banshee, catapulting us into another level of intoxication. I pointed at the coast, said,
“You’re thinking of him, the sentinel, out there.”
And got that look from him, he was five years old again, he said,
“Fuck no, I’m thinking of fish and chips.”
Me, I’m Irish, I love music. I’m a huge fan of Springsteen. “Meeting Across the River,” I played that track for Tommy once, he goes,
“Shit, again.”
Three more times, he’s mouthing the lyrics, then says, his version of the line,
“Could be you’re carrying a mate.”
“. . . There’s a darkness on the edge of town.”
— BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
STAPLETON HAD PROCURED three Irish army uniforms, we were in a rented apartment in Salthill, at the rear of the building. You couldn’t see the bay. I asked Tommy,
“Why’d you get a room without a view, what’s that about?”
Tommy shrugged.
“Fucked if I know.”
Then I heard,
“I don’t do views.”
Stapleton had emerged from a bedroom, a characteristic of his, just appearing suddenly. The original stealth bomber. The uniforms lay on a couch, Stapleton said,
“Try one.”
He was dressed in black T-shirt, black combat trousers, bare feet, his arms were a riot of botched tattoos, as if the ink ran out. Prison jobs. I asked,
“And if it doesn’t fit, I’ll what, get it altered?”
He smiled, like he could be a fun guy, shoot the shit, asked,
“The Free State Army, you hear of them being commended for their tailoring?”
Northerners!
The Republic is always the Free State, lest you ever forget their agenda. I tried on the uniform, the tunic was tight and the trousers too long. He said,
“You’ll be armed, that’s what people focus on.”
I took it off and he added,
“Can’t wait to get out of it, you more comfortable with the British one?”
Tommy intervened:
“Whoa, guys, lighten up, we’ve a lot of stuff to cover.”
And to chill me, adds the line from the Springsteen song, changing it a bit:
“Gotta remember not to smile.”
We didn’t have a lot of stuff to cover, nor did we lighten up. The plan was almost beautiful in its simplicity. After we’d been through it a few times, Tommy asked,
“Seem okay to you, Steve?”
Stapleton said,
“It is okay.”
I looked over at the uniforms, said,
“I see Sergeant’s stripes, let me guess, it’s not Tommy and we can be certain it’s not me.”
Stapleton faced me, asked,
“You have a problem taking orders, son?”
I laughed out loud, echoed,
“Son, Jesus, what are you, my old man? My problem is taking orders from you.”
Tommy again:
“Steve, it’s cool, he’s done it lots of times.”
I waved a hand at him, said,
“Butt out.”
Stapleton began a series of flexing exercises, said,
“You and me, son, this job is done, we’ll have a wee chat, how does that sound?”
“Sounds perfect.”
Tommy produced a six-pack, asked,
“Who’s for a brew?”
No takers, so he had one himself, Stapleton asked,
“You know how to handle a SIG?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you’ll be carrying.”
And he strolled back to the bedroom. Tommy was on his second beer, said,
“He’s not so bad, Steve.”
I let it hover then.
“You really believe that?”
He opened another can, said,
“A few more of these, I’ll believe anything.”
Before I left, he said,
“I was watching The Simpsons last night.”
“So?”
“Bleeding Gums, the musician, was teaching Lisa to play the blues.”
“Wow, Tommy, the shitstorm we’re in, I’m glad you get to relax.”
He ignored my tone, he was talking to himself,
“Lisa says she doesn’t feel any better after playing.”
I was with Lisa on that note and Tommy says,
“Gums explains the blues isn’t about you feeling better, it’s about making others feel worse.”
I waited but that was it. I asked,
“That’s it, that’s the point?”
And he laughed, spluttering suds, goes,
“That’s the beauty, there is no point.”
He was tanked, mutilating the Springsteen line,
“Change your clothes ‘cos we’re like, having us an encounter.”
I slammed the door on my way out.
Walking along the Salthill Promenade, rain was coming in over the bay and I turned my face into it. What was I hoping, some symbolic washing clean? Behind me was my best friend, guzzling beer at 11:30 in the morning, talking shite.
A paramilitary psycho, just itching to take me apart, bogus army uniforms thrown on a sofa.
Jesus.
All the years of laughter with Tommy, all flushed down the toilet. The oddest thing, I remembered what Patrick Moynihan said when John F. Kennedy was killed. A woman had said to him, We’ll never laugh again. He answered, Oh, we’ll laugh again, it’s just we’ll never be young again.
The light rain became a torrent.
Siobhan only ever got one look at Stapleton, said,
“He’s the devil.”
I warned Tommy,
“You keep him away from Siobhan, away from my home.”
It was two days later and he had his hair cut to the bone, should as the Irish say have taken years off him.
It didn’t.
He said,
“Stapleton gets in your life, he’s all over it, like a virus.”
I moved my hand, grabbed Tommy by the shoulder, said,
“I’m serious, you keep that snake out of my life.”
And more Springsteen, man, was I sorry I’d played him the song.
“Bro, we gotta stay mellow as we’re way out on a limb.”
It annoyed the hell out of me that he never quoted the lines correctly, always bent them to his own tone.
It was four days to the bank job, I’d brought Tommy to my place, tried to get some food into his system. Siobhan had left a pot of stew and I piled a plate with that, added some extra spuds and meat, put it before him, said,
“Yo, partner, time to chow down.”
He brightened for a moment then,
“Partner! You think that, Steve? I’m like your buddy?”
Striving for some semblance of sanity, I’d poured glasses of milk.
Jeez, what was I thinking?
Raised mine, said,
“You need to ask, ‘course you are, always have been, Slainte amach (cheers with good feeling).”
He looked at the milk as if he’d never seen such a product before, asked,
“Got any beer?”
Determined or nuts or both, I said,
“Get that down, you, line your stomach.”
The phone rang and I went to answer it. The music shop, was I coming back to work, like, anytime soon?
Nope.
> I returned to the table and Tommy was putting something in his pocket, saw a glint of silver, for a mad moment I thought he was stealing the cutlery or worse, he was carrying. He gave me a huge smile, said,
“See, Dad, I finished all my milk.”
Later, when I was piling the stuff in the sink, his glass reeked of whiskey.
I wanted to kill him, actually muttered aloud,
“You bollix, I could happily wring your neck.”
That muttering would be just one more thing to lash and lambaste myself with.
That night in bed with Siobhan, she asked,
“What’s happening?”
I didn’t lie much to her as a rule. She’d grown up in an abusive home, had a low threshold for lies. Her father, a wife beater, had shattered most of her illusions. Money to her was the only freedom, you got enough, you got away. If not clean, at least untainted.
I told her.
Her brother had done time for burglary, so I didn’t have any high moral ground to negotiate. She asked,
“How dangerous is it?”
I wanted to believe we’d covered the angles but when weapons are present, scratch that. I said,
“The most dangerous element is Stapleton.”
She’d only seen Tommy twice since his homecoming and he’d been cordial if distant. She said,
“Tommy is the danger, he’s like a junkie with the beginnings of withdrawal.”
I didn’t see a whole lot of mileage in disputing that, said,
“Well, he’s certainly got enough dope to see him through.”
She’d been resting her head on my chest, pulled back, said,
“Not withdrawal from drugs, he’s withdrawing from life, gone but to wash him.”
I hadn’t heard that expression in a long time. A person on their death bed, they receive a final cleansing, the moments before the close. I said,
“I’ll watch his back, don’t worry.”
She turned on her side, fixed the pillow, asked,
“I’m not worried about him. Who’ll watch your back?”
“The first of the gang to die.”
— MORRISSEY
LOATH AS I AM to admit it, Stapleton knew his craft. The bank was in the centre of Shop Street. Four streets converged at its location, he’d planted smoke bombs in five premises nearby, designed to go off with maximum volume. We had three cars for the task. Move and change. Keep moving, keep changing, never let them fix on a definite vehicle. Over and over, like a mantra, he intoned it.
Made sense.
We were sitting in the first car, uncomfortable in the uniforms. Watched as the army stood outside the bank, the bags of money being carried from the trucks. I was in the front with Stapleton, the assault rifle between my knees, barrel to the floor. Stapleton was sliding the rack on a Browning automatic. Tommy, in back, was singing quietly. Stapleton barked,
“Cut that out.”
Tommy nodded and Stapleton added,
“Adjust your beret, soldier, it’s crooked.”
He glanced at me, I asked,
“Getting antsy there, fellah?”
And got the look, he said,
“I don’t get antsy, I get the job done.”
Then the first bomb went, sounding loud and lethal. Tommy moved and Stapleton gritted.
“Steady.”
Then, in rapid succession, three more, the smoke began to cloud the street, Stapleton rooted in a hold-all, took out the canisters, said,
“Let’s roll.”
The soldiers had begun to disperse up the street. We were out and Stapleton lobbed the CS . . . We pulled on the gas masks, chaos on the make. We got into the bank, pulled off the masks, then into the centre. Two soldiers, confused, were standing by the money, Stapleton barked,
“You two, secure the rear.”
They hesitated and I knew he’d take them down, then they registered his stripes and moved off. We lifted the bags and Stapleton shouted at the staff,
“Keep your heads down.”
They did.
I couldn’t believe how smooth it was going. Glanced at Tommy, sweat on his forehead, his eyes dancing in his head, he muttered,
“This fucking rocks.”
He was electric, cranked on the action. We got to the door, a guard there. Stapleton said,
“Officer, ensure the staff remain inside.”
The tone of command, air of authority, it’s awesome.
The guard near ran to his assignment, I swear I saw a tiny smile light the corner of Stapleton’s mouth. We were down the street, that close to a clean job when it fell apart. Threw the money in the boot and heard,
“Don’t move.”
A young soldier, his rifle cocked, had approached from nowhere, Tommy panicked, lifted his weapon, and the soldier let off a burst, more from nerves than intent. His face shocked as the rounds tore into Tommy’s chest. Stapleton turned, shot the soldier in the head, said,
“Go, go, go!”
Pulled Tommy in the back, Stapleton jumped in beside him. I got behind the wheel, reversed, got out into Mary Street, pulled off my tunic and cap, a shirt and tie beneath.
Citizen.
Drove to the Square. Despite all my inclinations, I kept to the speed limit. Stapleton was lying over Tommy, you couldn’t see them from outside, I asked,
“How’s he doing?
“Shut up, drive.”
At Salthill, I pulled in behind the large, empty ballroom, our second car was there. Transferred Tommy to that, he looked bad. Three minutes, I was driving along the promenade, driving slowly, I could hear sirens all the way. They wouldn’t be looking for a single man, in a suit, driving leisurely by the bay. The third car was outside Spiddal, down a boreen. This is Irish for a road that defies description. I pulled up, got out carefully, a deep ridge on my left, almost a precipice. We’d selected it to dump the uniforms. Stapleton got out, said,
“He’s not going to make it.”
“The fuck you know, we’ve got to get help.”
He was shaking his head, said,
“I’ve seen gunshot wounds, there’s no return from this one, and if he recovered, what, the rest of his life in jail?”
Before I could answer, he turned, put two bullets in Tommy’s face, then the gun moving up. I had the rifle, slammed him between the eyes with the stock. He gave a tiny o, then fell backwards, crashed down the precipice, was lost from view. I should have followed, put one in the back of his skull.
“Once you get a feeling for handling nitroglycerine
fuses, you never lose it.”
– HUNTER s. THOMPSON, “Kingdom of Fear”
I WAS IN A CAB, had told the driver to take me to the East Village, and as it did, the vision rose up before my eyes:
Tommy’s broken body, his ruined face. I’d carried him to the water’s edge, fucking tears coursing down my cheeks, muttering,
“I’m not going to weep.”
Weighed him with stones, their weight as heavy as the lash upon my heart. Then, barely able to hold him, laden with the rocks, I waded into the water. The current pulled at us and the cold, my body going numb. Got as far as chest level, then let him go, said,
“Join your sentinel, mi amigo.”
In Irish, there is a lament, torn from centuries of poverty, oppression, violence. It goes . . .
“Och ocon.”
Hard to render the exact meaning, but woe is me comes close. Or, fuck this.
We Irish have the lock on melancholy, never happier than when we’re sad, rising to our finest moments on prayers of lamentation. Our best music, best writing has at its core a profound sense of grief. We’ve never been short of reasons why and the rain doesn’t help.
Bronach.
I love that word, the sound of it, literally it’s sadness but a step beyond, the place where you are broken. I shook myself, had to move out of the shadows, rid myself of spectres. If Galway had been absolute sadness, then let New York be about survival. I rolled the window down
, let the sound of the city drown out the Irish echoes.
The cabbie asked,
“What about them Cubs?”
Treating me like I’d know, I wasn’t going to blow it, said,
“Man, isn’t that something?”
He bought it, energised, continued:
“The goddamn play-offs, first time in eighty-seven years, what a blast.”
He went into a long rap about the history and I finally gathered they came out of Chicago, am I quick or what? Tommy those last days, said,
“Tell you what, Steve, when I tire of New York, I’m getting my ass up to the Windy City.”
I was surprised, Irish people, eager to escape the damp, don’t plan on moving from one city of harsh winter to one that’s even worse; I asked,
“Don’t you want sun, to never see rain again?”
With the drugs, booze, Stapleton, the impending robbery, we hadn’t been easy with each other. For that brief interlude, our friendship was restored and he was animated, said in a near perfect American tone,
“Chicago is the hog butcher, it’s the American city. New York is like Hong Kong, limey and chink but then really neither. What I’m going to do, bro—”
He hadn’t called me that in a long time, it gave me the most treacherous of feelings, it gave me hope, he continued:
“—is get us into a really good hotel in Lincoln Park. We don’t want to be downtown, fuck that, we’re not tourists, you ever read anything about the city?”
I hadn’t.
“I’ll take you on a tour of the real Chicago. Forget Michigan Avenue, the shops and shit, we’re going to party, I’ll buy you a beer in Algren’s Rainbow Club at Damen and Division, I’ll show you county jail . . .”
He paused, sparks in his eyes, seeing it, seeing us, free and coasting. The buddy system in extremis. More . . .
“We’ll smoke a joint by Chicago’s PD and yes, we cannot forget a cappuccino on Tiger Street, in memory of Sam Giacana and Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo. Then up to Grand Avenue for an Italian beef at Salerno’s so we can talk to the ghosts of the Spilottro brothers. Hey, jeez, if the Bulls are in town, we might catch a game, what do you say, Steve, sound like something you can get your head round?”
What it sounded was great, I could almost see it, too, asked,