American Skin

I arrived in Tucson at midday and was amazed at how flat it seemed, the small buildings like toytown after New York and Vegas. I had to pull over, ask a guy for directions, he warned,

“Lazy 8? You don’t wanna go there, buddy.”

“Why’s that?”

He gave a low whistle, said,

“Bad hood, bad shit happens there, lots of dope.”

And moved on. Well, trouble was what I’d come for. Found the place and liked the look if it, a dude ranch. Got my bag, went to reception, the oddest thing happened, my accent arrived.

I was speaking like an American, they confirmed my reservation, handed me the parcel of CDs from the village music store. I asked if Siobhan had shown up, not yet.

Not yet.

I clung to that.

Tucson had been Mexican property until the Gadsden Purchase. I noticed the Mexican influence straight away. I didn’t know a whole lot else, save that there was the University of Arizona, the Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Southern Baptists.

On the drive in I spotted mountain flora nestled right up against cacti. And suburbs, jeez, how many were there and, more importantly, did they ever, like, ever end.

Everybody had transport, from old Caddies to state-of-the art Harleys, to beat-up trucks, yeah, with the rifle on the back window. The pedestrians were but briefly out of their vehicles, and the rest, the rest were Mexican.

All I could think about was,

“How would Siobhan respond to it?”

Followed immediately by,

“Would she be here to do so?”

Made myself focus on the vital issue, find Stapleton.

I’d thought of staying elusive, stalk the neighbourhood, get to Stapleton by stealth. Truth was, I was tired, playing hide and seek wasn’t something I could find the energy for. Come evening, I went, had a few drinks, being cautious without being obvious.

The second night, I was coming out of the bar, heard

“Be-jaysus, ’tis himself.”

And got a wallop to the side of my head, followed by a kick to the balls, I was down and hurting, bad.

Stapleton.

He hunkered down, grabbed me by my hair, said “Fooking amateur, I could kill you right now, but thing is, I want me money.”

He stood up, in his left hand was a bowie knife, he said, “On your feet, lad, I need to get you focused, see this knife, I bought it downtown, they have a grand selection in this neck of the woods.”

I managed to get up on one knee and get a good look at him, his body was relaxed, the born fighter, the knife loosely held. He’d done this before, a lot, and more, he relished it. The up-close-and-personal gig, that was where he lived. My own time in the British army was going to have to serve me very well now, I tried to get into that zone they had drilled into us but when you’ve had a kick in the balls, it’s a little hard to concentrate, I croaked,

“Where’s my girl?”

He mimicked me exactly:

“My girl, that’s fooking lovely, warms the cockles of me heart.”

Then his hand moved and the knife opened a gash on my right cheek, from my eye to my mouth. He said,

“I could have taken your eye, and what would you do, beside piss and moan.”

Arizona has lots of dust, gets on your shoes, in your hair, but right now I was glad of it, grabbed a handful and threw it in his eyes, he staggered back and I followed, throwing sucker punches to his kidneys, ribs, and two granite ones to his head. He didn’t go down, the bastard was in terrific shape, the slash from the knife to my face kicked in and combined with the agony in my groin, I faltered, lost my advantage, I’m sure if I’d been able to continue my assault, I’d have killed him there and then with my bare hands.

He used the moment to pull a pistol from his waist, said,

“Whoa, back off, tiger, unless you want the Falls Road special, lose one of your kneecaps.”

We were both breathing heavily and he said,

“We got us a Mexican standoff, you think... so here’s the deal, you bring me the money in twenty-four hours, I’ll tell you where to find the girl.”

I managed to gasp,

“And what, I’m supposed to trust you?”

He gave a sour laugh, said,

“Like you have a choice.”

And he was gone.

I got back to my room, poured whiskey onto the wound and howled, managed to apply a series of Band-Aids to it, took a look at my own self in the mirror. I saw a seriously fucked, desperate face.

Next morning, at breakfast, I’d ordered pancakes, coffee. More caffeine than food. My guts were a knife of tension. A group of Canadians at the next table, I was half listening when I heard,

“Yes, murdered right outside, an Irishman.”

I tried not to react, kept still and listened. What I could gather, was, in the early hours of the morning an Irish male had been robbed, knifed to death, he’d been a guest at the motel. I waited but they’d moved on, were planning a trip to Tombstone, see a reenactment of the OK Corral. I went to reception, got directions to the local newspaper office. A girl in her twenties at the desk there, big smile, my accent was holding as she asked,

“You from New York?”

I nodded and she said,

“I want to do a journalism major, I applied to Manhattan, is it like, really exciting?”

I curbed my impatience, said,

“Never sleeps.”

She stared into space, imagining the new life, seeing herself in a loft in Chelsea, bagels and lox for breakfast.

Yeah.

Then she focused, asked,

“Sorry, what was that again?”

I repeated my request for the early morning paper. When she got it, I reached for my wallet, she looked behind her, said,

“No charge.”

I put the stuff under my arm, said,

“See you on Coney Island.”

I read the paper with a sense of shock, relief, agitation, and disappointment. The accounts reported how an Irishman, identified from his wallet as a John A. Stapleton, had been robbed and murdered. Police had been unable to find relatives or family of the deceased. A spokesman for the Tucson cops said they were treating it as mugging gone wrong. Finally, they were pursuing a definite line of inquiry.

Bollocks.

They had nothing.

The next few days I spent in a state of disbelief, couldn’t accept he was dead. Was life so random that he’d run into a mugger and was taken by surprise. ’Course, he would have been less alert than usual, after our encounter. Didn’t think I’d ever have the answer. Frustrated, I rang Mike, who owned the music store I’d worked in. He was amazed to hear me and sounded... cautious? Went,

“Steve, good lord... where are you?”

By rote, I said,

“London.”

Silence and I had to prompt,

“Mike, you still there?”

“Yes, I’m... I don’t know what to say.”

I tried,

“It’s okay, I’m fine.”

“She was a lovely girl, I’m so sorry.”

Oh god, sweet Jesus, I asked,

“What did you say?”

He took a deep breath,

“When she, sorry, Siobhan, when her body washed up on the beach, we were stunned.”

I put the phone against my forehead, needing a moment, cold sweat was popping out in streams, heard Mike go.

“Steve?”

I struggled to keep my voice in check, asked, “Was there an inquest, did it say it was drowning?”

He sounded gutted, went, “The coroner called it ‘death by misadventure.’ ”

What a fucking term, when they don’t know if it’s foul play or suicide, they apply that meaningless description. Like, what? Siobhan’s great adventure went astray? I said,

“Thanks, Mike, sorry to put you through this.”

Concern in his tone, he asked,

“You going to be okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He hesitated, then risked, “It’s just, you have an American accent.”

I could have laughed, finally got under the skin, said, “Talk to you soon.”

Hung up.

They buried Stapleton in the local cemetery, nobody had come forth to claim him. I went to visit, stood over the freshly turned clay, spat on it, said,

“You cheated me.”

I’d wanted the showdown, an old style settling of a blood feud. I’d sworn that the next meeting with him, I’d be ready and one of us was going to die.

I wondered who prayed for Siobhan, it was far too late for my pleas.

Rang Bob, told him my business in Arizona was done, he asked,

“Did you use, the item from Vegas?”

“No, never came to that.”

“Good, you still want to work for me?”

“Sure.”

I heard him rustle some papers, then, “We have a client in New York, he thinks someone is going to kill him”

“Is he right?”

“Well, why you don’t fly up there, ensure it doesn’t happen.”

“Now?”

“Unless you have a reason to stay where you are?”

I thought about it, said,

“No, I’ve no reason to stay.”

I made a call to Mike at the music shop, asked him a large favour, said I’d send the necessary money to cover the request, he said it wouldn’t be easy, they didn’t allow burials outside the city limits, I sealed the discussion by up-ping the amount.

I had a terrible phone call to make, would have put it off if I could have thought of any way out, but it had to be done.

To ring Kaitlin.

I sat on my bed in the motel, arranging the script and it wouldn’t write. My hands were covered in sweat. I’d a fifth of bourbon on the table, poured a double, knocked it back. Didn’t ease the dread. Dialled the number and she answered almost immediately, I said,

“Kaitlin, it’s Steve.”

And oh god, she sounded full of life. Energy and warmth pouring from the phone, saying where the hell were we and why hadn’t Siobhan called her, I stopped her, said,

“I’ve some bad news.”

“Bad, how bad, are you all right?”

Fuck.

I said,

“It’s Siobhan.”

And could hear the instant concern in her tone, she near roared,

“Is she sick, I’ll come, you tell her I’ll—”

“She’s dead, Kaitlin.”

A pause, the longest I’ve ever endured, and then the disbelief...

“Dead, how can she be dead, not Siobhan, Sweet Jesus, tell me it’s not true.”

I could hear the sobbing, the rising hysteria in her, said, “I wish it weren’t true, Kaitlin, I’m so sorry.”

Could hear the repeated flick of a lighter and she wailed,

“Why can’t I light this bloody cigarette?”

I suggested she get a drink, and on the spur she asked, “You having one?”

Like we were in a bar, buying rounds, like it was normal, caught unawares, I said,

“I’ve a large bourbon in my hand.”

She screamed,

“A drink, like that’s going to help, tell me what happened!”

I tried to choose my words, said,

“They said that—”

And she roared,

“They... who the fuck is they, isn’t she with you... God almighty, wasn’t, wasn’t she with you?”

“No, it happened in Ireland.”

Her breathing sounded raw, ragged, and she said,

“Just tell me.”

“They... I mean... am... she drowned, an accident, I’m sure.”

Enraged her, she went,

“You’re not even sure of what happened, what’s wrong with you?”

Good question. I said,

“I’m sure she’s dead.”

“You promised to mind her, you promised me, you gave me your fucking word, didn’t you, didn’t you promise?”

Her weeping was horrendous, I said,

“Yes, I promised, I’m so sorry.”

She let loose a torrent of abuse, recrimination, interspersed with sighs of such pain that I felt as if she were physically assaulting me, that would have been preferable to what I was hearing. I was holding the phone so tightly that it cut into my palm. In my torment I said,

“If there’s anything I can do?”

Christ, talk about the wrong selection of words...

Ice in her tone now, she mimicked,

“Do? Maybe you could give me your word, but there is one thing you can do.”

I grasped at it like a slim prayer, said,

“Anything.”

“You can roast in hell.”

Banged the phone down.

My whole body was shaking and I thought, “Oh yes, that I can do, I’m already most of the way there.”

An odd encounter after I checked out of the Lazy 8. I was waiting for a cab to take me to the airport. A pickup stopped, the engine still running, a guy hopped out, swinging the door carelessly, if I hadn’t stepped back, it would have hit me. I said,

“Jaysus, take it easy, you nearly whacked me.”

He stared at me, a curious expression flitted over his face, he scratched a scar shaped like a sheet of lightning on his cheek.

He stared at the Band-Aids clustered on my cheek, then he shook his head, said,

“My mistake, partner.”

He walked towards the rear of the motel, his boots clacking against the concrete, the heels in need of repair.

He reminded me of someone, I was in the cab when I got it, Christopher Walken... then I forgot about him.

Dade was on his second beer when he realised what was niggling at him. The dude, outside the Lazy 8, his accent, was there a trace of Irish in it? He shrugged it off, thinking,

“Two Irishmen at the Lazy 8, naw, couldn’t be.”

But it wouldn’t go away, so he stalked the motel again, got himself another bellboy, laid out the bucks and discovered yes, the second guy had an Irish passport though he spoke like a New Yorker. Got the dude’s name, Stephen Blake, mail to be forwarded to the Milford Plaza, New York. And yes, he had had a package of CDs sent from New York. An old song by Tammy, “Please Come to Boston,” began to unreel in his head.

He changed Boston to New York, began to hum that.

My second day back in New York, darkness had such a hold on me, I thought I’d never see the light again. I’d made contact with the businessman who felt his life was in danger, was due to meet him later in the day. Agitated, broken, I was walking, found myself on the bridge over the Hudson, the thought of suicide was strong, join Siobhan. Almost automatically, I reached to my neck, unclasped the chain and fingered the gold Miraculous Medal, as if somehow it would connect me to the spirit of Siobhan.

Then I raised it in my fist, hurled it high, it glittered for one brief, fiery moment, then dropped into the water.

It was such a tiny thing, I didn’t really expect it to make a splash, but I waited, then turned and began to stride away, the sound of my new Arizona boots cracking on the asphalt... the whisper on the Manhattan wind... dead man walking.

On a small hillside, a half hour’s drive from Galway City, overlooking the bay, there is a granite headstone, it overlooks the spot where Tommy’s body stands sentinel against the cold Atlantic. Takes a lot of juice to have a burial there, for juice, translate as money, lot of it.

The headstone is new and catches the light as the sun dips from the west. Lights up the few lines inscribed there:

“Mind her well.”

If you were of a dark frame of mind, you’d almost think it’s irony.

It’s certainly a knife in the heart.