I’m hiding out in an apartment in Salthill. Yeah, yeah, you’re thinking… but isn’t that, like, in Galway, Ireland? I like a challenge.
Phew-oh, I got me one right here. If only I hadn’t shot that Polack, but he got right in my face, you hear what I’m saying? So he wasn’t Polish, but I want to accustom myself to speaking American and if I don’t practice, I’m going to be in some Italian joint and sounding Mick. How the hell can you ask for linguini, fried calamari, cut spaghetti alla chitarra, ravioli, scallops with a heavy sauce, and my absolute favorite in terms of pronunciation, fresh gnocchi, in any accent other than Brooklyn? It wouldn’t fly. The apartment is real fine, huge window looking out over Galway Bay, a storm is coming in from the east, and the waves are lashing over the prom. I love that ferocity, makes me yearn, makes me feel like I’m a player. I don’t know how long this place is safe, Sean is due to call and put the heart crossways in me. I have the cell close by. We call them mobiles — doesn’t, if you’ll pardon the pun, have the same ring. And the Sig Sauer, nine mil, holds fifteen rounds. I jacked a fresh one in there first thing this morning and racked the slide, sounds like reassurance. I’m cranked, ready to rock ‘n’ roll. Sean is a header, a real headbanger. He’s from South Armagh, they grow up shooting at helicopters, bandit country, and those fuckers are afraid of nothing. I mean, if you have the British Army kicking in your door at 4 in the morning and calling you a Fenian bastard, you grow up fast and you grow up fierce.
I was doing a stretch in Portlaoise, where they keep the Republican guys. They are seriously chilled. Even the wardens give them space. And, of course, most of the wardens, they have Republican sympathies. I got to hang with them as I had a rep for armed robbery, not a very impressive rep or I wouldn’t have been doing bird. Sean and I got tight and after release, he came to Galway for a break and he’s been here two years. He is one crazy gumba. We had a sweetheart deal, no big design — like they say in twelve-step programs, we kept it simple. Post offices, that’s what we hit. Not the major ones but the small outfits on the outskirts of towns. Forget banks, they’ve got CCTV and worse, the army does guard detail. Who needs that heat?
Like this.
We’d drive to a village, put on the balaclavas, get the shooters out, and go in loud and lethal, shouting, “Get the fuck down, this is a robbery, give us the fucking money!”
I let Sean do the shouting, as his Northern accent sent its own message. We’d be out of there in three minutes, tops. We never hit the payload, just nice, respectable, tidy sums, but you do enough of them, it begins to mount. We didn’t flash the proceeds, kept a low profile. I was saving for Brooklyn, my new life, and Sean, well, he had commitments up north. I’d figured on another five jobs, I was outa there. Had my new ID secured, the money deposited in an English bank, and was working on my American.
Sean didn’t get it, would say, “I don’t get it.”
He meant my whole American love affair. Especially Brooklyn. We’d been downing creamy pints one night, followed by shots of Bushmills, feeling mellow, and I told him of my grand design. We were in Oranmore, a small village outside Galway, lovely old pub, log fire and traditional music from a band in the corner, bodhrans, accordions, tin whistles, spoons and they were doing a set of jigs and reels that would put fire in the belly of a corpse. I’d a nice buzz building, we’d done a job three days before and it netted a solid result. I sank half my pint, wiped the froth off my lip, and said, “Ah, man, Fulton Ferry District, the Brooklyn Bridge, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, Park Slope, Bed-Stuy, Bensonhurst, Bay Ridge, Coney Island.”
These names were like a mantra to me, prayers I never tired of uttering, and I got carried away, let the sheer exuberance show. Big mistake, never let your wants out, especially to a Northerner, those mothers thrive on knowing where you’re at. I should have heeded the signs — he’d gone quiet, and a quiet psycho is a fearsome animal. On I went like a dizzy teenager, saying, “I figure I’ll get me a place on Atlantic Avenue and you know, blend.”
I was flying, seeing the dream, high on it, and he leaned over, said in a whisper, “I never heard such bollixs in me life.”
Like slapping me in the tush, cold water in my face. I knew he was heavy, meaning he was carrying, probably a Browning, his gun of choice, and that occurred to me as I registered the mania in his eyes. ’Course, Sean was always packing — when you were as paranoid as him, it came with the territory. He’d always said, “I ain’t doing no more time, the cunts will have to take me down.”
I believed him.
The band were doing that beautiful piece, “O’Carolan’s Lament”… the saddest music I know, and it seemed appropriate as he rubbished my dream, when he said, “Cop on, see that band over there, that’s your heritage, not some Yank bullshit. You can’t turn your back on your birthright. I’d see you dead first, and hey, what’s with this fucking Yank accent you trot out sometimes?”
I knew I’d probably have to kill the cocksucker, and the way I was feeling, it would be a goddamm pleasure.
Clip
Whack
Pop
Burn
All the great terms the Americans have for putting your lights out.
Sean ordered a fresh batch of drinks, pints and chasers, and the barman, bringing them over, said, “A grand night for it.”
I thought, little do you know.
Sean, raising his glass, clinked mine, said, “Forget that nonsense, we have a lot of work to do. There’s going to be an escalation in our operation.”
I touched his glass, walloped in the Bush, felt it burn my stomach, and wanted to say, “Boilermakers, that’s what they call it. You get your shot, sink the glass in the beer, and put a Lucky in your mouth, crank it with a Zippo, one that has the logo, ‘First Airborne.’”
What I said was, “God bless the work.”
And got the look from him, supposed to strike fear in my gut. He asked, “You fucking with me, son?”
Son… the condescending prick, I was five years older, more probably. I raised my hands, palms out, said, “Would I do that? I mean, come on.”
Sean had the appearance of a starved greyhound, all sinewy and furtive. He didn’t take drugs, as the Organization frowned on it, but man, he was wired, fueled on a mix of hatred and ferocity. He belonged to the darkness and had lived there so long, he didn’t even know light existed anymore. He was the personification of the maxim, retaliate first, always on the alert. His eyes bored into mine and he said, “Just you remember that.”
Then he was up, asking the band for a request. I was pretty sure I could take him, as long as his back was turned and preferably if he was asleep. You don’t ever want the likes of those to know you’re coming. They live with the expectation of somebody coming every day, so I’d act the dumb fuck he was treating me as. The band launched into “The Men Behind the Wire.” Sean came back, a shit-eating grin in place, and as the opening lines began, “Armored cars and tanks and guns…” he joined with, “Came to take away our sons…” Leaned over, punched my shoulder, said, “Come on, join me.”
I did, sounding almost like I meant it.
Maybe he’s found out by now dat he’ll neveh live long enough to know duh whole of Brooklyn. It’d take a life-time to know Brooklyn t’roo an’ t’roo. An’ even den, yuh wouldn’t know it at all