“It’s important... I’ll buy you drink.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere you like.”
“Brennan’s Yard?”
Hesitation, then,
“Isn’t that dear?”
“You mean expensive? Yeah... so I hear.”
“All right... tomorrow night... half eight?”
“I’ll be there.”
“I better go. I don’t want to be seen talking to you.”
She turned to go, and I said,
“Ridge!”
“Yes?”
“Don’t wear the uniform.”
I was watching the England — Greece World Cup qualifier. Beckham as captain had just scored the most amazing goal. With Schole’s previous one, it was a Greek goodbye. The English commentator had gone ballistic. Even the Mohawk hair-style of Beckham was nearly forgiven. The phone rang. I said,
“Yeah.”
One eye on the television.
“Hey, big boy.”
“Hello, Kirsten.”
“What are you doing?”
“Watching football.”
“Want to play with me?”
I sighed. Not in my mother’s class but heartfelt, said,
“Not really.”
“Aw, come on, Jack, you’re no fun.”
“I am invited to a party though.”
“Oh, I do love to party.”
“Meet you here in an hour.”
“I’m counting the minutes.”
Click.
Turned the telly off. Had a tepid shower, did some ‘ludes and surveyed my vast wardrobe. Figured white shirt, jeans and sweater; maybe wear the sweater over my shoulder, hanging loose. If I’d shades, I could perch them on my head and be the total asshole. No, the forecast was rain... a real surprise... so dug out my garda all-weather coat. Unlike me, it improved with age. Turned the collar up... get that edge. Checked the mirror and realized, I’d become my father.
When did that happen?
I took out the Heckler & Koch and smelled the barrel. You’d know it had been fired recently. I wrapped it in oilcloth, got on my knees and stashed it between the springs of the mat-tress. If Janet got round to that level of cleaning, she’d get the land of her life.
Back to the wardrobe, I took out the GHB, the liquid E I’d got from Stewart, the drug dealer. He’d been adamant about the correct dosage. If your evening includes a possible husband killer and a gay party, then you need all the help available. I put it in my pocket.
Took the stairs and hung around the lobby.
A yellow Datsun pulled up, the door opened, and I saw a long nyloned leg. If Kirsten had a shorter skirt, she’d have been arrested. It was made of shiny PVC, and she’d a sleeveless halter top. In red. Her hair was tousled. I’m fond of that word. Suggests bed and heavy to heavier sex. Mrs Bailey was at reception. She said,
“The word hussy springs to mind.”
That is not a word I’m fond of. I stepped outside, and Kirsten did a pirouette, asked,
“Like it?”
“It’s hard to miss.”
Two young lads passing went,
“Jesus.”
She gave them a huge smile. I said,
“I’m not travelling in a yellow car.”
“Is it too much?”
“Doesn’t accessorise.”
“It’s a rental. We’ll walk.”
She linked my arm, and her perfume did giddy things to my head. She said,
“Paris.”
“What?”
“My scent.”
“You’re a mind-reader now?”
“Only the dirty ones.”
As we drew near Terence’s place, she stopped, said,
“Hold on a goddamn minute.”
“Yeah?”
“Terence lives this way”
“It’s his party, he’ll cry if he wants to.”
She glared, said,
“You’re bringing me to a party given by that Nancy boy?”
“He said it was a seventies theme. You seem a seventies kind of girl. Was I wrong?”
She examined me closely, asked,
“What are you on?”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on, Taylor, I know the score. It’s not coke; you don’t have the motor mouth. Something softer... double valium?”
“Quaaludes.”
She was delighted, near screamed,
“They’re still making them! Shit, where’s my Eagles albums?”
We had reached Terry’s place on Merchant’s Road, another dead-end street of my youth, now a line of flash apartments and businesses like cosmetic surgery. His building was constructed from that fine Connemara granite. Hewn out of the stubborn ground to become a facade for the new rich. I rang the bell and we were buzzed through. Kirsten said,
“I can’t believe I’m going to this little prick’s party.”
“I didn’t think women used that word.”
“How else do you think we stay amused?”
The party had spilled out into the corridor, and yes, that seventies theme was evident. Flares, nay elephant flares, stacked heels, crushed velvet jackets and big hair. On both sexes. The music sounded suspiciously like “Ballroom Blitz”.
I wish I didn’t know that.
Pushed our way through as Kirsten said,
“Your era evidently.”
Someone handed me a joint and I took a hit, offered it to Kirsten, who said,
“I don’t do strange spittle, at least not with an audience.”
Terence appeared. Tight yellow shirt and skintight yellow flares with a wide red belt. I said,
“He matches your car.”
Sweat was pouring from his headband. Big smile till he saw my “date”, then,
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I offered the spliff, said,
“Chill, man.”
A Spaniard in his twenties, impossibly good looking, came up, took Terence’s hand, said,
“I am Geraldo.”
“Like Gerald?”
“Sí.”
I think he’d served me coffee on Quay Street. He was wearing a black silk shirt and pants to match and a huge gold chain round his neck. Now that you could have taken to the pawn, got them excited.
Gerald extended his arms, said,
“The wet bar is in the corner.”
Terence stomped off, saying,
“I’ll see you later, Taylor.”
I turned to Kirsten, said,
“He didn’t call you Mum.”
The barman I recognised from O’Neachtain’s. He leaned over, whispered,
“I’m not gay.”
“Did I say a word?”
“No... but...”
He indicated the same sex couples, already partying down, said,
“I wouldn’t want you to think...”
“I think we’d like a drink.”
“Gotcha... for the lady?”
“Scotch rocks. Make it two.”
He did.
The music was now Gary Glitter: “Do You Want to Be in My Gang?”
Kirsten said,
“They play Village People and I’m, like, outa here.”
I laughed, and she said,
“A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fish, rooms, instruments, stars, horses and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.”
She stopped, knocked back the scotch like a docker. Having seen a lot of the docks recently, I knew. I said,
“Impressive.”
“It’s by Jorge Luis Borges... El Hacedor.”
“You should run it by Geraldo.”
“Please, he couldn’t spell dick, no pun intended.”
I thought of Jeff and his Dylan piece and wondered why people were memorising such odd stuff, asked,
“And what, you learnt that piece by heart? Why?”
“No choice.”
“They’re teaching Borges now?”