I ever killed, he didn’t even look remotely like him but something in
his gestures, I dunno. A Mexican, named José, he’d tried to stiff me
on a deal and it was the first time I got to use a knife. I wasn’t very
adept then and it was messy, stuck him in the throat first and of
course, geyser of blood, been a time since then but they say, you
never forget your first. He sometimes came in my dreams, a gouging
spilling hole in his brown neck. I’d kinda liked old Jose, made me
laugh.
The porter was showing me the amenities and I slipped him ten euro,
got rid of him. I unpacked my holdall, one white shirt, black Levis,
and my Converse. Picked up the phone, got room service, ordered
a bottle of Jameson, club sandwich, ice and they said it would be
along in jig time.
I was in the shower when it came and I shouted,
“Kick ten bucks on for your tip.”
Heard warm appreciation.
Clean, change of clothes, and double Jameson over ice, I let my breath
out, said,
“Good to go.”
Had me a warm-up jacket from the Yankees and slipped that on,
checked my reflection in the full-length mirror. Tousled blond hair,
even features, bordering on bland and tallish. My beer gut holding,
barely. Crinkled my eyes, gave me that warm look, your regular affluent
but not showy guy.
Next three days, I hit the shops, hit them hard. Galway’s a walking
town and suited me. Lots of quaint pubs, some cobbled streets, and
a definite carnival buzz. It was May, summer walking point.
Brown Thomas, a department store, with prices to rival Fifth Avenue,
took care of my wardrobe. The American gig was gold, I’d go,
“Charge?”
Flash the plastic and they even delivered the shit to my hotel. Got me
all the GQ designer crap, and what the hell, a pair of Ray-Bans.
Through the shades, I stared at Hartmann’s, an old-time family jewelers
with a sign to light me up
EXCLUSIVE ROLEX DEALERS
I like a touch of tradition
The cops, called guards, were unarmed
I fucking loved Ireland
Third night, I was in the pub, one of the ones advertising the craic. Not the dope, the Irish term for a good time, party on. I had a table by
the wall, tipped the waitress and she protested, placing a pint of
black and Jameson back before me,
“You don’t need to do that.”
Dragging up that boyish smile, I said,
“But I want to.”
Bitch lapped it up
She wasn’t bad looking, had that Irish colleen vibe going. Good legs,
good breasts, and nice pert arse … shit … ass … gotta focus. Her
age, late twenties I’d hazard.
She’d do
Her name was Aine, pronounced, you ready for this, Awn-neh … Jesus,
I thought maybe she was Hebrew. I’ve no beef with them, you understand.
I asked her what it meant, like I gave a fuck, she said,
“’Tis Irish for Ann.”
Nearly fucked up by asking,
“So I can call you Ann then?”
Got the look and,
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
Why indeed-y?
You throw the green around, let that “gee shucks” mojo out there and the
predators gather, chum in the water. Near closing when a skel made
his strike. Slipped into the chair beside me, like a quiet virus, said,
“Welcome to Ireland.”
Different country, same species, bottom-feeder. He was late thirties
and most of them bad, worse teeth and a worn combat jacket. His
hair was in full recession, the eyes, cold and cash-registered.
I put out my hand, said,
“Thanks buddy, I’m Teddy.”
Yeah
His handshake was the cold fish school. He said,
“Ah, shure we still love Ted, with all his crosses.”
I offered him a drink and he allowed he might try a small brandy,
Martell if they had it. Aine brought it and I caught the rapid look
between them, double act, just the way I liked it.
Ever catch that Mamet movie … House of Games?
Man, I studied it, the line … and two to take ’em, carved on my heart.
I put a fifty on her tray, said,
“One for you, hon.”
She gave a radiant smile, not a bad-looking babe after all and gushed, “Aren’t you the terrible man?”
She had no fucking idea.
That Kraut poet, Rilke, got himself a line, Each angel is terrible . . .
meant me.
The shark gave his name as Seamas. I didn’t ask for translation, I knew
that was Jim. He worked in communications and I wanted to go,
“You’re a natural.”
Second brandy in, my shout of course, he made the pitch,
“Well now, Teddy, cara, they treating you all right over in that Great
Southern Hotel?”
He leaned a little on the Great.
Fun guy
I hadn’t mentioned where I was staying
Game on
A time, they had me in that secure facility, yeah, the madhouse, the home for the bewildered, and the shrink, he’s giving me all these tests, leaned back, said,
“You show latent sociopathetic tendencies.”
The shite these guys talk
So I went with, asked,
“Gimme fifty bucks.”
“Excuse me?”
“Give me fifty bucks or I’ll slice your jugular.”
The alarm bell right there on his desk, his hand hovering and he
asked,
“Are you serious?”
I stared at his hand, said,
“Depends on how latent those tendencies are.”
Ah, for the good times
Seamas was waiting for my answer. I peered at his combat jacket, First
Airborne and Paratroopers insignia. I needled a tad, let his balance
stay precarious, asked,
“You were in the service?”
Nailed the fuck but he rallied, said,
“My, am … own small tribute to the boys doing their bit.”
The sarcasm leaking all over the words
Good, I like a player.
Was going to run with
“The grunts in Baghdad, the nineteen-year-olds from Idaho and Montana,
I’m sure it helps, knowing you’re sitting there, slurping cognac,
talking garbage.”
But I needed him
He was on the same hymn sheet, went for flattery, smiled, glanced at
my feet, his teeth accessorising his jacket, green in neon, said,
“I like your trainers.”
I’d briefly zoned
Happens
I go away sometimes, like a white blankness, a space apart, with some
episode from the past narrating on the side.
A college broad I was fleecing, trust-fund mama, met her on that
spring break gig they do. I was in my professor year-out sabbatical,
writing the novel shtick, right down to the leather patches on my
corduroy jacket.
Easy role
Crib some Updike, Cheever, sprinkle with Blake, it’s a lock
Blake I learned from Thomas Harris, Red Dragon
Go figure
Blake is a shoo-in, they suck that right up
Took her nine large but it went south
Had to drown the bitch and in the shower, you think that’s easy, damn
soap makes every
thing slippery and you’re a bit woozy after the sex.
The upside, it’s a clean kill.
My own reading stretched to Julia Philips, You’ll Never Eat Lunch in
This Town Again. She has a story in there, hanging with Coppola,
him doing forty shots of espresso daily … the fuck kind of jones
is that?
I snapped back, levelled my eyes on Seamas, said,
“Converse Originals, Chuck Taylor endorsed.”
They were
He went,
“Who?”
“Never mind, my hotel is good, they’re treating me real fine.”
He finished the brandy, relaxed, said,
“You need anything, anything at all, I’m yer man.”
The hook
Before I could launch, he said,
“In Ireland, we speak Irish English, like the Brit version but loaded,
you with me?”
How complicated was it? I nodded and he continued,
“For example, we say ‘They say you coming,’ means, you’re ripe to be
ripped off. Now I wouldn’t want that to happen to a nice fella like
yer own self.”
I said,
“I’m here to spearhead a major distribution deal in …”
I gave him the full look, ribbed my nose with my index finger
He nodded, he was a clued-in guy and I continued,
“And … we need some people we can rely on. We ask them to front a
small amount of cash, say two large, and entrust them with a sizable
package to see how they manage. The profits are enormous … .”
I rubbed my eyes, getting that sincerity in there, then,
“The people I select need to prove their worth so we ask them to come
up with the cash in twenty-four hours … most don’t, or can’t, and
we know from the off, they’re not the people we need.”
I let him digest this. The guy hadn’t seen two large in one place in his
whole lousy life. He asked,
“What’s to stop you taking off with the cash, if I could produce the
readies?”
I smiled
“See, you’re the kind of guy I feel I’m seeking. You’re thinking outside
the box. As a sign of my good faith, I’ll let you hold my passport
and driver’s license. Where am I going to go without them?”
I ordered a last round of drinks, let him see a mess of credit cards and
a thick wedge of notes. He gulped his drink, then,
“Twenty-four hours, Jesus, hard to come by two large in that time.”
I raised my glass, said,
“Well, we move on, you’ve had a nice evening, we say good luck and I
move on.”
His hand was up and he protested,
“No, no, I’m in, I’ll get it.”
I indicated Aine and said,
“If she can raise similar, you’re in for twice the payoff.”
Now he smiled, asked,
“What makes you think I know her that well?”
“It’s my speciality to know people.”
He was impressed.
One, as they say … jarring note. Apart from the zoning out that happens
to me, I’m pretty much on top of my game, I’ve been doing this shit a
long time and am, very, like, very good at it. As Seamas and I finished
off our drinks, a guy who’d had one too many nearly smashed into
our table. He had that highly concentrated drunk walk of watching
every step and then it suddenly gets away from you and you’re doing
a reel and a hornpipe. He hit the table hard and as he was that rarity,
a good-natured souse, he was all apologies and he’d buy us fresh
drinks, the whole pathetic nine and, being caught unprepared, I said,
“No sweat, guv, don’t worry about it, mate.”
In full glorious Brit/London voice
Fuck
What it sounded most like was natural, like my real tone
I laughed it off as I got an odd look from Seamas. I said,
“I do a lousy Brit accent, you think buddy?”
A heartbeat, then he said,
“Don’t we all.”
It nagged at me but then I reasoned, Seamas was a dumb schmuck,
why I picked him.
We agreed to meet the following evening. I’d bring the product and
he and Aine, they’d bring whatever cash they raised.
He said he had a van and would pick me up on Shop Street around
seven, we could do our business without prying eyes.
I clinked my glass against his, said,
“Here’s to the Galway connection.”
And he said,
“God bless the work.”
My basic scam is hit a place, select some skels, lay a line of patter, offer
a slice of the large pie, let ’em in for two, three Gs and five times
out of ten, I hook. Mainly, I get about half what I asked and four
towns later, I’m usually ten to the good.
The beauty is … who they gonna call?
Sure it’s fraught but I relish the edge, love the mind fuck.
Women are best, get a few of ’em, get a bitch-fest brewing
Next day was R-day, Rolex time. My mouth was dry, I was hitting the
precipice, going out on the wing, not entirely sure if the plastic
would take the weight.
But, it went like, dare I say … clockwork
Walked outa the jewelers, the gold Rolex on my wrist and Mont Blanc
in my jacket.
I’d pushed it, got cocky, adrenaline roaring in my ears, blinding me to
the risk. And, too, I was fucking dazzled by the watch. You’d shit a
brick to hear the price. Lemme say, a town’s worth of scam.
Sitting in a coffee shop after, wolfing a Danish, double espresso to
chase, I eased a notch. I was going to have to split sooner than
planned. The credit card would be flagged. I’d, maybe, forty-eight
hours to the good.
Maybe
For the rendezvous, I dressed to impress, my new leather Boss jacket,
Tommy Hilfiger chinos and soft tan loafers, Italian of course.
That afternoon, I’d arranged some protection, level the playing field.
I’m not too big on trust.
There’s a lot of shysters out there
Got me a knife
I had a younger brother, Darren, snivelling little bastard, always in my
face and worse, getting the shine from my folks. Back then, their attention
seemed worthy of merit.
So, I drowned him
Doesn’t take long, you do it right, even looks like you tried to save
them, like you were trying to help.
Tragic accident
Golly gosh, gee whiz.
Backfired
After, the old man got sucked into the bottle and never came back. His belt began to appear and my mom, she found mother’s little
helpers and that’s all she wrote. I think of cute Darren sometimes,
the look in his eyes, those moments before the close. I learned
then, a plea is a piece of shit.
Wished he could have seen the Rolex though
Shop Street, the main pedestrian gig in Galway, they have a camping
store. Got me a fine blade, hand-tooled and the guy asked,
“You backpacking?”
I’m wearing a fucking Rolex, was he blind? I said,
“Packing all right.”
If Seamas had any other alternative, I’d gut him like a Galway salmon.
Learnt the finer points in Brixton, have a scar on my abdomen to
prove it.
Hit real low, rip up, fast, steady and then, buddy, pull way the fuck
back. Those entrails are going to splash
And Aine, who knew?
This were a novel, the critics would say … the female character is only
a cipher … are they kidding, aren’t all women? What’s to describe?
They nag, end of story.
I could ball her, have me some Irish but it wasn’t a priority. She got
lippy, well, I’d use my hands, watch the Rolex catch the light as I
squeezed.
As you can see, I was primed
They picked me up off Shop Street, in a van that needed a major overhaul,
not to mention a decent wash, fucking nowhere people.
Seamas, in the driver’s seat, and I squeezed in beside Aine, got a little
hip action grinding, she was hot
Aine said,
“Looks like rain.”
The micks and the forecasts.
Seamas said,
“We’ll drive out a ways, no need for prying eyes.”
We pulled up on the outskirts of the city, Galway Bay spread before us.
Seamas produced a flask, said,
“’Tis poteen, we call it uisce beatha, holy water and it’s a miraculous
bevy all right.”
He offered me the flask and seeing my hesitation, Aine whined,
“You won’t drink with us?”
What the hell, I grabbed it, took a healthy wallop and it kicked. I
gasped, asked,
“That’s what, like Irish moonshine?”
Aine gave me a glorious smile, said,
“More like good night.”
Came to with my head on fire, throbbing like a bastard and then the
cold, my whole body frozen.
My naked body
I sat up and pebbles embedded in my ass. I was on a beach, not a shred
of clothing and checked my wrist
No Rolex
Dawn was breaking, the light creeping over the bay. I began to get
slowly to my feet, dizziness and nausea hitting in waves, saw the
note, wedged under a stone. I grabbed it, read,
Teddy, mate, guv
We saw you coming. We’re Irish but
Not green …
And that knife …
Not nice
We confiscated it, lest you hurt yerself. Now, that would be no way to treat a Brit, would it?
You better get your arse in gear, rain is forecast.
I crumpled it and said aloud,
“Always with the bloody weather talk.”
Slice of Pie
by Bill Cameron