American Skin

Stapleton had procured three Irish army uniforms, we were in a rented apartment in Salthill, at the rear of the building. You couldn’t see the bay. I asked Tommy,

“Why’d you get a room without a view, what’s that about?”

Tommy shrugged.

“Fucked if I know.”

Then I heard,

“I don’t do views.”

Stapleton had emerged from a bedroom, a characteristic of his, just appearing suddenly. The original stealth bomber. The uniforms lay on a couch, Stapleton said,

“Try one.”

He was dressed in black T-shirt, black combat trousers, bare feet, his arms were a riot of botched tattoos, as if the ink ran out. Prison jobs. I asked,

“And if it doesn’t fit, I’ll what, get it altered?”

He smiled, like he could be a fun guy, shoot the shit, asked,

“The Free State Army, you hear of them being commended for their tailoring?”

Northerners!

The Republic is always the Free State, lest you ever forget their agenda. I tried on the uniform, the tunic was tight and the trousers too long. He said,

“You’ll be armed, that’s what people focus on.”

I took it off and he added,

“Can’t wait to get out of it, you more comfortable with the British one?”

Tommy intervened:

“Whoa, guys, lighten up, we’ve a lot of stuff to cover.”

And to chill me, adds the line from the Springsteen song, changing it a bit:

“Gotta remember not to smile.”

We didn’t have a lot of stuff to cover, nor did we lighten up. The plan was almost beautiful in its simplicity. After we’d been through it a few times, Tommy asked,

“Seem okay to you, Steve?”

Stapleton said,

“It is okay.”

I looked over at the uniforms, said,

“I see Sergeant’s stripes, let me guess, it’s not Tommy and we can be certain it’s not me.”

Stapleton faced me, asked,

“You have a problem taking orders, son?”

I laughed out loud, echoed,

“Son, Jesus, what are you, my old man? My problem is taking orders from you.”

Tommy again:

“Steve, it’s cool, he’s done it lots of times.”

I waved a hand at him, said,

“Butt out.”

Stapleton began a series of flexing exercises, said,

“You and me, son, this job is done, we’ll have a wee chat, how does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Tommy produced a six-pack, asked,

“Who’s for a brew?”

No takers, so he had one himself, Stapleton asked,

“You know how to handle a SIG?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what you’ll be carrying.”

And he strolled back to the bedroom. Tommy was on his second beer, said,

“He’s not so bad, Steve.”

I let it hover then.

“You really believe that?”

He opened another can, said,

“A few more of these, I’ll believe anything.”

Before I left, he said,

“I was watching The Simpsons last night.”

“So?”

“Bleeding Gums, the musician, was teaching Lisa to play the blues.”

“Wow, Tommy, the shitstorm we’re in, I’m glad you get to relax.”

He ignored my tone, he was talking to himself,

“Lisa says she doesn’t feel any better after playing.”

I was with Lisa on that note and Tommy says,

“Gums explains the blues isn’t about you feeling better, it’s about making others feel worse.”

I waited but that was it. I asked,

“That’s it, that’s the point?”

And he laughed, spluttering suds, goes,

“That’s the beauty, there is no point.”

He was tanked, mutilating the Springsteen line,

“Change your clothes ’cos we’re like, having us an encounter.”

I slammed the door on my way out.

Walking along the Salthill Promenade, rain was coming in over the bay and I turned my face into it. What was I hoping, some symbolic washing clean? Behind me was my best friend, guzzling beer at 11:30 in the morning, talking shite.

A paramilitary psycho, just itching to take me apart, bogus army uniforms thrown on a sofa.

Jesus.

All the years of laughter with Tommy, all flushed down the toilet. The oddest thing, I remembered what Patrick Moynihan said when John F. Kennedy was killed. A woman had said to him, We’ll never laugh again. He answered, Oh, we’ll laugh again, it’s just we’ll never be young again.

The light rain became a torrent.

Siobhan only ever got one look at Stapleton, said,

“He’s the devil.”

I warned Tommy,

“You keep him away from Siobhan, away from my home.”

It was two days later and he had his hair cut to the bone, should as the Irish say have taken years off him.

It didn’t.

He said,

“Stapleton gets in your life, he’s all over it, like a virus.”

I moved my hand, grabbed Tommy by the shoulder, said,

“I’m serious, you keep that snake out of my life.”

And more Springsteen, man, was I sorry I’d played him the song.

“Bro, we gotta stay mellow as we’re way out on a limb.”

It annoyed the hell out of me that he never quoted the lines correctly, always bent them to his own tone.

It was four days to the bank job, I’d brought Tommy to my place, tried to get some food into his system. Siobhan had left a pot of stew and I piled a plate with that, added some extra spuds and meat, put it before him, said,

“Yo, partner, time to chow down.”

He brightened for a moment then,

“Partner! You think that, Steve? I’m like your buddy?”

Striving for some semblance of sanity, I’d poured glasses of milk.

Jeez, what was I thinking?

Raised mine, said,

“You need to ask, ’course you are, always have been, Slainte amach (cheers with good feeling).”

He looked at the milk as if he’d never seen such a product before, asked,

“Got any beer?”

Determined or nuts or both, I said,

“Get that down, you, line your stomach.”

The phone rang and I went to answer it. The music shop, was I coming back to work, like, anytime soon?

Nope.

I returned to the table and Tommy was putting something in his pocket, saw a glint of silver, for a mad moment I thought he was stealing the cutlery or worse, he was carrying. He gave me a huge smile, said,

“See, Dad, I finished all my milk.”

Later, when I was piling the stuff in the sink, his glass reeked of whiskey.

I wanted to kill him, actually muttered aloud,

“You bollix, I could happily wring your neck.”

That muttering would be just one more thing to lash and lambaste myself with.

That night in bed with Siobhan, she asked,

“What’s happening?”

I didn’t lie much to her as a rule. She’d grown up in an abusive home, had a low threshold for lies. Her father, a wife beater, had shattered most of her illusions. Money to her was the only freedom, you got enough, you got away. If not clean, at least untainted.

I told her.

Her brother had done time for burglary, so I didn’t have any high moral ground to negotiate. She asked,

“How dangerous is it?”

I wanted to believe we’d covered the angles but when weapons are present, scratch that. I said,

“The most dangerous element is Stapleton.”

She’d only seen Tommy twice since his homecoming and he’d been cordial if distant. She said,

“Tommy is the danger, he’s like a junkie with the beginnings of withdrawal.”

I didn’t see a whole lot of mileage in disputing that, said,

“Well, he’s certainly got enough dope to see him through.”

She’d been resting her head on my chest, pulled back, said,

“Not withdrawal from drugs, he’s withdrawing from life, gone but to wash him.”

I hadn’t heard that expression in a long time. A person on their death bed, they receive a final cleansing, the moments before the close. I said,

“I’ll watch his back, don’t worry.”

She turned on her side, fixed the pillow, asked,

“I’m not worried about him. Who’ll watch your back?”