he’d fallen the previous Friday. Their foreman, a Comanche, how do I know,
because he told me every fooking time he could, asked
‘Whitey, you think you can handle the clouds.’
I gave him the Galway granite stare, said
‘Let’s see.’
I had a flair for it as I didn’t care. Since I lost my wife and daughter, I really
didn’t give much of a fook for anything. It didn’t make me reckless, just less
pressurized about where I landed. You have a guy who lost everything, what the
Sweet Jesus is going to scare him.
Apart from clowns?
End of the day, the foreman offered me to come have some brews with his crew.
Sure.
A tavern on the lower East Side. Drinking with a bunch of Indians, I thought
‘Yah never know.’
The foreman, named, I kid thee not, Crow, bought me a Lone Star longneck,
cracked his bottle against mine, said
‘You did good, real good.’
I said
‘I like the heights.’
He liked that, pushed
‘Why?’
Told the truth
‘It’s clean.’
He took a long chug from his brew, said
‘It’s serious money doing this kind of work, you could be very rich in a short
time………………….if you don’t…………fall.’
I savored my own brew, said
‘I don’t fall.’
He was intrigued, asked
‘What makes you so sure?’
I looked right into his dark eyes, said
‘Back home, the tinkers, told me, I’d die in the water, didn’t see any water where
we’re working.’
He bought me another brew, said
‘Come, I’d like you meet someone.’
Led me over to table, awash in long necks, packs of cigs, and in the middle, one
of the most striking women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Crow said
‘This is my sister Shona.’
He clapped his hands and all the crew at the table fooked off, leaving me with
Shona. My brain went into meltdown, I had nothing. She said
‘Sit down and stop drooling.’
I sat down, the drooling, well, I was working on it. She said
‘The crazy Mick who walks the high rise like an Indian.’
Lamely I ventured
‘That’s me.’
She smiled, showing beautiful teeth, said
‘Don’t the Irish have a way with words.’
I muttered
‘So I’ve heard.’
And she laughed. I stood, said
‘It’s been…………..fraught, you’ve taken the piss, see you around.’
She grabbed my arm.
Nobody puts a hand on me, without lethal due cause. She said
‘I’m hungry, you want to go grab a bite?’
I still couldn’t get me fecking brain in gear and she said
‘Ok, just follow me, you can do that, right?’
I could, badly.
And we were outa there.
The large man had watched Ryan on the girders. Fuck, he was agile, like a
frigging Indian.
Now Merrick he could handle. Ex cops were so predictable but this guy, anyone
who could fly across the sky like that?
You had to wonder?
But the woman, now that more like it, let her get in the picture and he could write
the scene any way but loose and even then.
Only two ways to fuck the Irish, booze and that they did just fine them selves
and………a woman. They were suckers for the ladies.
Went to Tad’s Steak House. She choose it. I asked
‘You eat meat?’
Got the look, then
‘You think I’m vegan?’
We were just being seated and I said
‘Tell you the truth, you’re a pain in the arse.’
She laughed out loud. The kind of laugh you’d marry a woman for, no worries
about her mascara or how she looks, just out and plain merriment.
We got some brews in, and yes, she drank from the bottle, like I said, the type you
should marry. My ex drank sherry and was…………vegan.
We ordered the porterhouse steaks, mashed potatoes, no starter. Sat back and
surveyed each other.
She was still amused, then
‘What do you know about Indians?’
She was fucking with me…….ok, I could do that, said
‘John Wayne killed a shit load of them.’
She looked like she could kill me.
Said
‘And you love the stereo- type, what a dick.’
I took a sip from my brew, said
‘And you’re so fooking judgmental, my favorite movies are
Thunderheart
Chato’s land
Ulzana’s Raid
Dances with Wolves.
She went to say something and I snapped
‘Did I say I was finished? You might be a noble Indian but you could learn some
fooking manners, I read ‘Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, love Graham
Greene, the Indian actor, not the writer and lest you forget, I’m Irish, we had
some shite come down the pike on us over the years so don’t go Whining Indian
on me.’
She leaned over, took my hand, said
‘See, I knew you could talk.’
You just couldn’t fooking win with her, I stopped trying, the food came, giving
me a respite.
She ate without inhibition and that was a joy to behold. She stopped mid bite,
asked
‘Why are you staring at me?’
I was going to bullshit but changed to
‘I like watching your face.’
She wiped her mouth, said
‘Good, then you have a shot.’
‘What?’
‘At getting me in the sack.’
I was signaling for more brews, paused, said
‘Jaysus, you’re awfully fooking sure of yer own self.’
She leaned over, took some of mashed potato, a very intimate act if you’re Irish,
she said
‘I’ve been a long…………..long time alone, The Shaman told me a man from
over the Atlantic would steal my heart.’
‘What, you think it’s me?’
Now she gave me the full intensity of those brown eyes, said
‘You should be so lucky.’
GACY’S JOURNAL.
At last.
Worthy opponents.
I couldn’t have wished for a more delicious scenario.
A Jew!
Failed cop, half assed PI, bar owner and an overpowering sense of his own
strength.
And true icing on the cake.
A Mick.
Now if he could just get his supplier to calm down, he was mouthing off about
low profile’s, beneath radar!
As if
As if genius could be hidden?
The Irish…….ah……….
Fresh off the boat, gung ho, full of all the low cunning of his race.
And richness indeed, The Gods of Boy love truly smile on me, the dumb Irish
hooked up with a Red Indian.
………………………how sweet it is.
How blind these Guardians of morals are. All they need to do, is look a little
further, and there I be, in translucence.
I throw them a morsel, the loser Gacy, and oh boredom, they go off on a serial
killer quest. But I’ll keep them a time longer on this track, for utter amusement.
Keeping it local as it were, Noo Yawk, let’s give them a good ol boy from the
town they prowl.
I reached out and touched the dumb Mick, time to ration the load, throw a scare
into the kike.
Something to keep him………………barking.