He took a sip of the vodka, grimaced, said,
“And you can drink... what... like every day?”
“It’s my duty.”
He let that go, rubbed his hands, said,
“OK, this is very promising. You think the bitch will go down?”
I nodded solemnly.
He reached in his jacket, his very expensive jacket, took out his chequebook, said,
“A further two weeks’ retainer sufficient to nail the cunt?”
I nearly gasped. The word hits me like a gossip in heat. Felt my fists clench but went for economic damage, said,
“To wrap it clean, let’s say a month.”
He wrote the cheque. I noticed the pen, a beautiful piece of work. I was schooled the old way Hammered knuckles over wooden desks to perfect our penmanship. We got stinging fingers but legible handwriting. About as useful as a reference from Fianna Fail. He caught the stare, said,
“It’s a Mont Blanc, the Agatha Christie limited edition. Want to hold it?”
“I don’t know? I might not want to give it back.”
He offered. Felt the weight immediately, examined it slow. True artistry, made me long for things I didn’t need. He took it back, said,
“Out of your league, Pops.”
“Terence, you’re really going to have to mind your language.”
His expression now was rampant with the New Ireland, smug, greedy, knowing. He said,
“I have a set of these, cost more than you’d earn in your whole miserable life.”
I decided he was too stupid for a slap in the mouth. I could wait. Jeff moved out from the bar, began to sweep the floor. I had never seen him do that. Terry didn’t notice; the hired help was of no consequence. He said,
“Are you free tonight?”
“You’re what? Asking me for a date?”
He gave a small titter. I wish I could call it a laugh, even settle for its relation, the giggle... but no... it was rough. He said,
“Geraldo and I are holding a soiree in my pad.”
“Pad! And who’s Geraldo?”
He gave the first real smile I’d seen, said,
“My significant other. It’s our anniversary.”
I lit another cig, drew deep. He continued,
“We’ve been an item for twelve months.”
“And this, it’s for gays only I suppose.”
“Ah, Jack... you don’t mind if I call you that?... we have friends in every walk of life.”
“And you want me to come... why? Bit of rough trade?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jack. You have a certain primitive allure. My address is on the card I gave you. It’ll be a fun thing.”
Then he was up, saying,
“Eight-thirty onwards, dress seventies.”
“I thought I already did.”
At the door, he collided with the sweeping Jeff. Neither apologised. He moved to Jeff’s right and was gone. A few minutes later, Jeff started back for the counter, dropped something on my table. The Mont Blanc.
I said,
“Jeez, Jeff.”
“Teach him some manners.”
“But you’re a musician; where did you learn that stunt?”
“It’s called improvisation. Wouldn’t be much of an artist without that.”
“He’ll know... Jeff, he’ll know you took it.”
“I’m seriously hoping you’re right.”
“She had a stuffed animal collection. I was pretty sure. Her Corolla
had either a smiley face or afesusfish affixed to the bumper. She read
John Grisham novels, listened to soft rock, loved going to bridal showers
and had never seen a Spike Lee movie.”
As best as I could, I avoided the Claddagh. Not that I disliked the area. On the contrary, it used to be part of my heritage. The whole deaclass="underline" feed the swans, walk to Grattan Road, make wishes from the end of Nimmo’s Pier.
But it sure held bad karma.
These days, now that the depression was in chemical abeyance, I was suffused with memory. Veered from the bitter-sweet to crucifixion. Did books save my sanity? You bet your ass.
On any given day, I’d have a volume in my jacket, read, read, read.
As if I meant it.
Most times I did.
Walking down Quay Street, now being touted as the Temple Bar of Galway, I noticed the remnants of the English stag parties. Truly a blight on any landscape. The street ablaze with coffee shops, pizzerias, bistros, all staffed with non-Irish. You’d be lucky to hear English, never mind a hint of a brogue. Holding some sort of anchor was McDonagh’s, the place for fish and chips. Always packed. Get a hint of sun and people would be sprawled as far as Jury’s. If I want real fish and chips, I go to Conlon’s, handily situated opposite Keohane’s bookshop. Another family business. Take a window seat in Conlon’s, order up a mess of chowder, watch the books across the way. Last time I was in, Martin Sheen was tucking into cod and chips. Nobody paid him a blind bit of notice. Despite The West Wing being de rigueur viewing for most of the city and all the young girls with renewed crushes on Rob Lowe.
Me, I liked Toby, the intense Jewish worrier. Stands to reason. When God was bestowing “Lighten Up “ on babies, he skipped me. Probably knew I was destined for the guards.
For the Spanish Arch, I strapped on the Walkman; Bono launched into “One”. Wanted to roar along with him. If U2 have had their day, where does that leave me?
The copy of Tales of Ordinary Madness was published by City Lights and beautifully produced. The feel, bind, print are all part of the value. Magical photo of Bukowski on the cover, smoking a cheroot, his face looking destroyed, but in an interesting fashion. You don’t think ruined; you think lived to the burn. I got an espresso takeaway and sat on the steps, a Thai restaurant to my rear. How Irish is that?
Began to read. Bono had given way to Johnny Duhan’s Flame, his most intense, personal album. Not easy listening.
I glanced back at Quay Street. Teeming with tourists and not noon yet. How the city had changed. When I was a child, this was one of the most depressed and depressive areas. Renowned for two things: a pawnshop and the Kasbah.
A man went drinking on Saturday, in his best suit; Monday, the suit went into the pawn. Depending on the rent man, it stayed a few days or a month.
The Kasbah had its own glory. Beyond a dive, it was run by Nora Crubs, and you did not fuck with her.
Ever.
When the pubs closed, you knocked at the Kasbah. Admittance depended purely on whim. Once inside, you could have a drink, the whole point of the exercise. What you also got was a plate of pigs’ trotters, the aforementioned “Crubeens”. The taste was primarily of salt. There’s a lot to be said for salt.
It was a favourite spot of the guards, big country lads who always called for seconds. In these days of multicultural population, I don’t think the non-Europeans would have appreciated the menu.
A shadow fell. I looked up to see a ban garda. She said,
“You’ll have to move along, sir.”
Before I could protest, she broke into a smile. I recognised the girl from our encounter in McSwiggan’s. Reached for the name, said,
“Ridge... right?”
Sigh, then,
“I told you, it’s Nic an lomaire. We don’t do English.”
“Like I give a fuck.”
The expletive rocked her. She rallied, said,
“I could do you for offensive language.”
“Go for it.”
She looked round, then,
“I need to talk to you.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want to talk to you, Ridge.”