Emerald Germs of Ireland

by Patrick McCabe

  “This is a very good joke,” he said. “This is so good a joke I’ve wet my pants. Will I hold the phone down to my pants so you can see how wet they are? Hey, how are you, Ben? How the hell in the futhermugging sugar-shaking world are you fugging doing, huh?”

  Suddenly Mary hit the table a kick.

  “What?” he snapped. “Now, Ben, I don’t like you doing this! I don’t like it when you do this to me! What did you say?”

  He lifted a pink pool ball from the green baize surface where it rested placidly. It thudded against the padded leather of the secret door set into the wall.

  “Well, then get the futhermugger! You hear me? Get the mother-shakin’ thing! Get it!”

  Mary waved an index finger—very tremulously indeed, and drew his breath.

  “Because if you don’t,” he continued, “if you don’t—”

  He broke off.

  “Ben,” he barked down the receiver, “take off your socks.”

  There followed a pause, in which Mary appeared to lose his mind.

  “I said—take off your socks!” he roared.

  A static-filled reply satisfied him.

  “That’s better.”

  Mary coughed politely. He seemed to be considering the reflection of his hair parting in the burnished, stainless steel of a paper knife.

  “Now,” he went on, “how many toes do you see?”

  The reply was indistinct. But seemingly satisfactory.

  “That’s right,” said Mary, soothingly, “and you know what it is about them toes? You already owe me one.”

  The sound of the receiver being slammed down was shattering in the silence. Not unlike a large bear in a cave, Mary paced the office for some moments, considering various objects, assaulting others, before eventually deciding upon a course of action and squeezing the reception buzzer with his thumb.

  “Hi, Mary!”

  “Tell Celia Mary wants him!” he barked.

  “Sure thing, Mary! You got it,” came the receptionist’s reply.

  A thin employee in a silk suit inadvertently caught his employer’s gaze then looked sharply away. A pool ball thudded dully into the wall behind him, narrowly missing his ear.

  “What in the hellin’s name you lookin’ at? You hear me? Get outa here!”

  It was some hours later when the studded leather secret door swung open and through it entered a pair of snakeskin winklepicker boots. Followed by some pink trousers and a leopardskin shirt which belonged to Celia, a six-foot black man now grinning from ear to ear beneath his wide-brimmed floppy hat. He liked jewelry, Celia. Gold, especially. He had lots of rings on either hand. “As black as the riding boots of the Earl of Hell” might have been an apposite way of describing him. Mary smiled as he turned from the window. His eyes met Celia’s.

  “I think we got a problem,” were the words he uttered.

  The family pet had been introduced as Pongo. Celia smiled as he considered anew the tiny shivering terrier. Its fur was literally standing on end as it cowered in a corner behind the washing machine. Babbie Connolly was a quiet woman who had done nothing in her life except collect the pension and mind her own business. Now, inexplicably, she found herself being slammed up against the wall and shouted at for something she hadn’t done, something she couldn’t have done and knew nothing in the world about. But that wasn’t good enough for Celia. He put his muscular arm around her slim neck once more and said, “Now let’s run through this one more time, lady. And this time you’d better get it right because you are puttin’ red pepper on my ass, and if you don’t, I am gonna shove what’s left of you down that fugga-mutha’s barking throat, you hear?”

  Pongo shivered behind a jumper as Babbie Connolly, sweetshop owner (and one of the most popular figures in Gullytown), nodded. Her suede ankle boots hovered two inches from the floor.

  “Please! Whatever you do, don’t hurt him!”

  “Then tell me what you know—and be quick about it!”

  While he was waiting, Celia produced from his pocket a small rectangular cellophane packet which contained white powder, some of which he proceeded to remove and lick from the ends of his fingers.

  As she hobbled away, Babbie Connolly thanked God that her mother wasn’t alive.

  “Please, mister,” she pleaded shakily, “all I know is that that was the man I saw through the window. And there was some kind of argument. I don’t know what it was about—I think it was over money. They were—”

  “Go on!” snapped Celia, interjecting and sniffing some “snow.”

  “No! Don’t hurt me! They were arguing and shouting. And then—one of them pulled a gun!”

  “And—?”

  “Then all I remember—I heard shooting. And when I looked again—they were all dead. That was when the other man appeared.”

  “Other man?” shouted Celia, a small cloud of white dust ghostily ascending between them. “What in the hell are you talking about? What did he look like? Who was he with? What was he wearing? What did he say? How long did he stay? What was his name?”

  Babbie Connolly covered her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffled.

  “As God is my judge, mister, I don’t know,” she pleaded. “I’m only telling you what I know. That I saw the man and he took the money and ran away with it.”

  Celia smashed his fist into the wall.

  “What did he look like? How did he speak? What did he wear?”

  Babbie Connolly’s cry was a heartrending plea from the pit.

  “I don’t know, God help me! All I know is—he was wearing a big long coat!”

  “Coat? What color was it?”

  “Black. Like yourself,” replied Babbie.

  Celia released her and retreated slightly. The kitchen seemed full of his breathing.

  “You’d better be right, pussyface,” he said, “because if you’re not—”

  He kissed the butt of his Walther PPK. Babbie Connolly recoiled in horror, the eyes of her trusted pet seeming to transmit coded signals which sheepishly declared, “If only I was bigger and could help.”

  The small cottage rocked to its foundations as the door slammed behind the cold-blooded, ring-wearing Gun for Hire.

  The following day was the hottest for months. There was no indication of any letup. “Torrential rainstorms are expected for the next three weeks,” the radio had said. Parked in a lay-by, Celia watched as his windscreen wipers swept back and forth in a sickening watery dance of tedium. To top it all, the only tape in the car was Sergio Mendes—Brasil 66, Greatest Hits Compilation.

  “How the muggafuggin’ fug did that get here?” he growled, tossing it out into the driving rain. He tapped the walnut-paneled dash with his amethyst ring. How he wished he was back in Detroit. With a long cool drink in front of him and Quincy Jones on the hi-fi. “Damn!” he repeated. “Fuggamuthin’ damn!”

  The old man with the umbrella and the tan raincoat shook his head emphatically.

  “No!” he repeated irksomely. “You’re way off! You’ll have to go back the way you came!”

  Celia swore as he spun the steering wheel and negotiated the coupé backward along the erratic necklace of potholes and puddles.

  “You’re not on Route 66 now! I suppose that’s what you’re thinkin’!” called the pensioner after him. “Aye! Well, you’re not!”

  His thin, ungenerous face confused Celia. How he would have loved to reach in his pocket and—but no. He wasn’t worth it, the piece of—

  A huge swoosh of dirty brown water engulfed the pensioner as the coupé swept by.

  “You effing bastard!” he shouted, umbrella-stabbing the air wildly. “Look at me, you big black miserable string of misery! Come back here and I’ll run Route 66 right up your hole!”

  It was clear there was going to be some fun in Sullivan’s whenever Pat would arrive in for his nightly drink. As he did now, dressed up to the nines in his swanky paisley shirt and matching de, not to mention a beige safari jacket absolutely guaranteed to stop the
street in its tracks. Timmy was the first to speak, spreading his hands on the marble counter and marveling: “Well, Pat! You’re the man that’s looking well tonight! I suppose you’re for the dance, eh?”

  Pat smiled as he settled himself on the high stool.

  “Maybe, Timmy. Just maybe,” he replied, rubbing his hands as he surveyed the multicolored xylophone of upended bottles before him.

  “Right so, Pat,” continued Timmy. “Now what’ll it be? A pint, I suppose, as usual?”

  Pat pursed his lips and considered thoughtfully. He stroked his chin and said, “No, Timmy. Something tells me I’m going to have a martini tonight.”

  Timmy drummed his fingers on the surface of the counter and said, “God bless us I don’t know what’s come over you this past while at all, Pat. Still, I suppose you could do worse.”

  The barman smiled and began to sing softly, and very tunefully, the familiar melody, “It’s the right one, it’s the bright one—”

  As Pat, with a sunny grin, joined in enthusiastically, “That’s martini!”

  “It is indeed,” laughed Timmy Sullivan, “it is indeed, Pat. And it’s coming right up!”

  Pat smiled happily to himself as his drink arrived, complete with a large cherry on a stick. He found its many-hued colors reassuring.

  “You know, Timmy,” he said, “you know, I think I might just have an old Cuban cigar to keep me company with this!”

  Timmy inserted his litde finger into his ear and rotated it abstractedly for a moment.

  “Cripes, Pat,” he said good-naturedly, “you know, sometimes I think it’s worse you’re getting.”

  “Cheers,” laughed Pat as he raised his terrifically decorated drink to his lips.

  It was some hours later and there were approximately eleven empty martini glasses arranged before Pat on the marble-topped counter. Although his large-knotted de could be considered a litde askew, Pat was still reasonably well preserved, and thought himself so as he closed one eye and gazed at his reflection in the mirror opposite (his line of vision somewhat obscured by the now slightly irregular array of inverted receptacles), smiling as directly behind him he perceived the satin-clad hourglass figure of Winnie McAdam, doused from head to toe in a sweet-smelling perfume, smoothing back her Farrah Fawcett-Majors—style hair as she elegantly draped herself across the high stool directly beside his and scratched her right eyelid (daubed in bright green eye shadow) with her litde fingernail as she exclaimed, “Hiya, Pat! Are you going to the disco tonight, I wonder?”

  Pat raised his right eyebrow and (without realizing it) adjusted his tie as he said, “Begod now and do you know what—that mightn’t be such a bad idea at all!”

  Winnie smiled and looked down at her handbag. It was a small clutch one with a gold clasp. “Pat,” she said then, touching him ever so lightly on the sleeve of his safari jacket, “did you have a litde bit of luck with the Lotto recently or what?”

  This took Pat a litde by surprise and he looked at her and said, “What? What makes you say that, Winnie?”

  Winnie’s lips met and she paused for a moment. Then she pointed and said, “Well—your clothes, for a start. And Timmy tells me you’re drinking martinis!”

  Pat nodded enthusiastically and slipped ever so slightly off the stool as he said, “I am, Winnie! And I’ll drink a lot more of it before the night’s out!”

  The large Havana seemed to appear from within his inside pocket as if by magic. “Have a cigar,” he cried, grinning broadly.

  Winnie chuckled and squeezed the clasp on her clutch bag.

  “Pat! You’re mad, do you know that!” she laughed. “Girls don’t smoke cigars!”

  “That’s right!” said Pat—and now he was chuckling. “And they don’t light them with pound notes either!”

  Within seconds, Pat held a flaming banknote in his hand and puffed away merrily as the tip of his cigar began to glow warmly, enveloping its owner in clouds of sweet-smelling blue smoke.

  “Come on now, folks, ladies and gents—please!” called Timmy, snapping his cloth. “Come on now, folks, it’s long past time!” as Winnie put her two hands up to her mouth, mirthfully watching Pat—Pat McNab the famous smoker, that is!

  When it was time to go, Winnie assisted Pat with his overcoat, stroking him gently on the back as she said, “Still the same old topcoat anyway, Pat! No sign of that changing!”

  Pat tossed his head back nonchalantly. “Oh now!” he laughed, knocking his leg accidentally against the door. “It’d take a lot of money to part me from that, Winnie!”

  Winnie slanted her fingers and ran them slowly along Pat’s right lapel.

  “Pat,” she said (although “cooed” might be more exact), “were you ever in Barbados at all?”

  For a moment, Pat’s eyes seemed to move very close together as Winnie continued, “What’s it like, do you think?”

  There was nothing spectacular happening in Harry Carney’s drapery the following day when the wheel of a car spun momentarily in the gravel, making a crunching sound and subsequently grinding to a halt. This was no longer true, however, some moments later when a tall Negro with seemingly polished skin entered the premises and dragged the startled owner across the counter by his de, shouting into his face, “I got no time for pussyfooting around! I need a face! I need a name! I wanna know who comes in here! Who buys this shit!”

  With bewildering speed, a long line of coats was swept to the floor (and some jackets) as Celia swept his forearm in a wide, uncompromising arc.

  Harry Carney paled. He was a seemingly meek, mild-mannered man in his forties.

  “Now you’ve done it. You’ve really done it now, mister!”

  There was an impressive firmness in his voice. Which went unnoticed by Celia, whose only response was to say, “Ha ha!” Incredibly, the hired assassin was still laughing as Harry raised the baseball bat above his head and stood beside him. The short fat draper’s composure was unique.

  “What do you think?” he said to Celia, smiling. “You think perhaps you’re dealing with some jick jack mother-shaggin’ puke-gutting albino white-ass pant girl who’s just gonna let you take his place apart? Apart his place to take, come right in like some flat-assed mouse-man show he runs, well that is where you are wrong, mister! For this ass mother— Harry Carney!—was shakin’ shook in Brooklyn when you was knee-high to a culpepper coolshank! You hear?”

  Before Celia had a chance to respond, the wooden implement caught him behind the left ear and Harry Carney continued to rain down blows upon the large Negro as he crumpled to the floor like a Kleenex tissue, his oddly flat—almost monotonous—monologue condnuing as he did. “Honky hinny big-bobbed babe comes into my shop shaking the coat shit down, no sir! That is where you are wrong, very wrong, you big hat-wearing sugar sandwich beat up my ass you gangster pop why somehow I don’t think so perhaps you got views, Mr. Mother-shoodn’ Coat-wreckin’ Ass! Huh! Take that!”

  It was only by sheer force of will and the momentary distraction afforded by a pedestrian passing on the street that Celia succeeded in raising himself to his feet, struggling to find his “piece.” Which he eventually did, stumbling backward over a mound of coats and—absurdly!—a wedding dress, as he leveled it at the short fat, baseball-bat-wielding draper.

  “Back off!” he growled. “Back off, you crazy mother! You hear me now?”

  Harry Carney smiled, with an acidic wryness.

  “Sure I do,” he said coolly. “Sure I do, big beat ‘em up boy! But you shoulda done some shiggy shunky before you came into my shop! Open up, you great big popcorn kernel!”

  “Stay back!” warned Celia, leveling the pistol.

  But it was already too late and the rotund salesman was already hurtling toward him, rudimentary weapon aloft once more.

  “I told you to stay—” cried Celia.

  Before he had finished the sentence, his piece spat fire and Harry Carney lay dying beside a tattered windcheater. Despite himself, the ring-clad mercenary (for was that not
what he was?) fell to one knee beside the gasping tradesman.

  “Jesus! Jesus, I’m sorry!” he apologized.

  There was a strange, almost contented light in Harry Carney’s eyes as he died now. He seemed about to say something as he touched the Negro’s arm, but the approaching sound of police sirens effectively ended the sentence before it had the chance to begin.

  “I’m sorry, man!” cried Celia. “I swear to God I’m sorry!”

  The Negro grabbed a green anorak and made a pillow for the dying man’s head. The sound of the draper’s gurgling filled the entire shop as Celia leaped in behind the counter stuffing any bills or receipts he could find into the large, deep pockets of his maxilength ermine coat He froze as he felt the clutches of the dying man’s hand on his right leg.

  “Shit, man!” he cried, in a voice that was surprisingly almost falsetto. “Let me go! It’s the fuzz!”

  “They’re gonna put you away for a long time, you shick shack furtootin’ man!”

  There was nothing for it—although a part of him regreted it—but to kick the expiring shopkeeper in the face. There was something poignant about the flapping glass door and the squeaky sound it made as the wheels of the large blue coupé spun and roared off into the distance.

  Winnie crinkled up her nose and picked a tiny piece of dust off the left lens of Pat’s wraparound glasses, plucked another grape from her large bunch and pressed it to her lips. She drew a long, deep breath and continued, “But just saying we were there—in Barbados—what would we do? Pat—what would we do?” Pat laced his fingers and made a cradle of his hands as he lay back on the “chaise longue” sofa. A long low whistle glided across the room as he clacked his tongue against his upper teeth and said, “Sit by the pool, I guess. Have ourselves a long cool drink, maybe. And in the evening—take a helicopter out to the mountains.”

  Winnie touched his chest with the flat of her hand as her eyes widened.