Callous

I was just leaving Garavan’s when the bar guy cautioned,

“Be safe.”

Perhaps because of my brother being shot, or maybe he simply cared.

I pulled up the collar of my Garda coat, turned into Buttermilk Lane when two men fast approached. The first one stopped, hit me in the face with a crowbar.

I fell back against a wall when the second one snarled,

“Keegan said to cut his throat.”

Two thoughts flashed as my face burned in agony:

Who the fuck is Keegan?

But, of more urgency, the statement,

   Cut his throat.

What?

My throat?

The first guy pinned me to the ground and the second guy produced a long machete (they had machetes in Galway?).

He was in mid-swing when something crashed into his skull. The second guy went,

“What the fuck?”

The same object walloped him in the throat and then his knees. He was out of the game.

A skinhead stood over me, brandishing said object, a hurley. He put a hand out, said,

“We better skedaddle.”

Who says that outside of a Mickey Spillane novel?

I got to my feet and the skinhead gave me a supporting arm. I asked,

“They have skinheads in Galway?”

If I know anything about skinheads, and I knew precious little, it is that the shoelaces on their Doc Martens signify something.

If they had red laces, they had killed somebody.

I managed to look down despite the nausea caused by my for-sure-broken nose, saw,

Red laces.

He said,

“I’ve a van at the end of the lane.”

Sure enough, a white van (aren’t they always white vans?). Despite the agony of my face, on the side I could read,

temp

   deliveries.

I asked,

“Is it stolen?”

He nearly let go of my shoulder, indignation writ large, said,

“It’s mine. I paid good cash money for that.”

I was too weary to apologize, gave him directions to my new apartment, and he got me lying down in the back of the van and we took off.

We got there and he helped me into my living room. The apartment was small: one sitting room, kitchenette, and a bathroom you could barely swing a skinhead in. A bookcase with three books, a sofa, and two hardback chairs; a beer case served as a table.

He asked,

“You’re poor?”

With bewildered tone, he asked,

“You’re poor?”

“No.”

I sighed,

“It’s Zen.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh, said,

“I know poor, and this is poverty.”

Maybe.

My clerical training kicked into mock whisper:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

Fuck that.

I managed to get to the sofa, sit, and commended him.

“There’s brandy in the press. Fill a glass and, when I faint, bring it to me.”

He was worried, tried,

“You’re faint?”

How big a surprise could that be? A crowbar had been smashed into my face.

I said,

“I’m going to fix my nose and, believe me, the maneuver will knock me on my ass.”

Nervous, he got the brandy and I did admire him for sneak-slugging a healthy shot. He waited as I put my hands to my nose, one to the side where it was out of line, the other I slammed into the first one and fell of the sofa in utter agony.

“The brandy,”

I croaked.

He knelt, gave me the bottle, and I hit that pain with a dose of brandy, nearly threw up, but, within minutes, the worst pain had eased and I was able to crawl back to the sofa, sit half up. He stared at me in wonder, asked,

“Where did you learn that?”

“On the beat on a Saturday night in Williamsburg.”

He moved back, intimidated, asked,

“You were a cop?”

I nodded, sending pain right up to my brain. He said,

“I heard you were a priest.”

“That too.”

I had to know, asked,

“How come you were in an alleyway, brandishing a hurley? I am not complaining. Those fuckers were going to kill me and I heard one of them mention Keegan, whoever the fuck he is.”

The skinhead, when you saw him properly, and when the brandy was coursing its magic in your blood, you realized how short he was, like five-two.

That is a fine height for a woman but a man, not so much.

He had a lot of ink, tattoos, and with the

Docs, red laces,

The ink,

His shaved head,

The suspenders holding up his too-short jeans,

He was like a gnome or a leprechaun gone Rambo.

He said,

“When your brother was shot, the killer shot a young boy too.”

He wiped his nose of sniffles, his eyes welling up. I waited, then,

“That wee lad was my kid brother.”

Blame the brandy, the crowbar in my face, but him calling anyone wee seemed absurd but, thank Christ, my face didn’t display that thought.

I said, very quietly,

“I’m deeply sorry.”

He acknowledged that by taking the brandy bottle and chugging it by the neck, got it down, burped, gasped,

“That’s mighty.”

“Why we drink it,”

I said.

He explained he was following me to see if the guy who shot my brother might have a go at me.

I guessed I owed him my life.

He said,

“You owe me your life.”

As if he took the thought right out of mind. I asked,

“Who are you?”

He gave a bitter laugh, said,

“I’m a small man with a big hurley.”

Indeed.

I gingerly touched my nose. It roared with pain, but it was reset.

God forbid, I am not gorgeous.

I asked,

“You know anything about baseball?”

He considered this, said,

“I love the Yankees.”

Surprise and dismay seemed to halo this kid. I said,

“Shouldn’t you be carrying a Louisville Slugger rather than a hurley?”

He gave a big smile and it transformed him from a somewhat surly, small man to a person of genuine warmth. There wasn’t nastiness in him, a rare to rarest bonus.

He asked,

“What do I call you?”

“Mitch,”

I said.

“Most call me Mitch.”

“Cool name, like you just have the one handle, like Madonna, Prince.”

I almost said (blame the baseball reference), I almost said,

Call you shortstop?

Instead, I asked,

“What’s your handle, pilgrim?”

He looked down at his Docs, long pause, then,

“Leeds.”

I thought I misheard, which, when you’ve been battered by a crowbar and brandy, is not surprising. I thought he said,

“Leads.”

As in horse to water,

Or,

Leads the field,

Or,

The UK word for a leash.

But no, he explained with a hint of shame, said,

“My dad was a Leeds supporter.”

OK.

I said,

“That kind of means jack shit to me.”

He smiled, said,

“I love how you Yanks talk.”

“Really?”

He gave a huge grin, said,

“Oh yeah, like,

“Muthah-fuckah!

“And you gave us all the coolest stuff, like

“Zippos,

“Johnny Cash,

“Elvis,

“Coca-Cola,

“Milkshakes,

“ZZ Top!”

Fuck, we got the blame for ZZ Top?

He continued,

“Leeds were once the best, and I mean the absolute biz, the finest football team to come out of England and, under Don Revie, they were seriously legend. Alas, with a new manager, Brian Clough, not so shiny. They made a movie with Clough played by Michael Sheen.”

This was a whole lot more info than I wanted or ever might get to use, so I lamely said,

“Leeds, hey, that’s not such a bad name; got a ring to it.”

He grimaced.

“Not if you grow up in Millwall.”

I actually knew that name, because their supporters were infamous for their violence, giving a whole new glow to the term hooligan.

I was still feeling the effects of the crowbar to my head, said,

“I’m gonna brew some joe. Want some?”

He beamed, said,

“There you go. American language. I love it!”

I had the coffee simmering and Leeds was scanning my bookshelf, my meager one. He said,

“You have three books?”

They were:

Gerard Manley Hopkins,

Paulo Coelho,

Love in the Time of Cholera,

Oh, and a King James Bible.

Go figure.

He asked,

“Who is the Hopkins dude?”

How I’d have loved to see the faces of the literati if they heard Hopkins called dude.

I only ever had one item of value, not in the financial sense but in the form of an object that made me feel...

Pause.

Valued?

My first parish was in Williamsburg, a dangerous gig as the area was lethal then. My superior, name of Father Murphy helped me in so many ways. He liked to play up the image of the lovable, roguish Irish priest.

He was born in the Bronx; he was always astonished that a cop became a priest.

Not as amazed as my mother, but in there.

He liked to say,

“You’re on the ecclesiastical beat now, Mitch.”

Anyhow, on the eve of my departure from the parish, he came to my room, holding a leather book, worn, and well thumbed.

I said, bitterly,

“I’m all shot of Bibles, Father.”

He laughed, said,

“Aren’t you the bitter pill, lad.”

Lad?

Part of his blarney schtick.

He said,

“I was going to give you The Hound of Heaven, but I think you already fled that beast so here is my own version of despair.”

It was

The Wreck of the Deutschland

By

Gerard Manley Hopkins.

I read/studied it so many times, the leather was as worn as long-forgotten prayer.

I looked at Leeds, said,

“You can borrow it if you like.”

And I was just about to launch into a long spiel on the poem, the poet, my interpretation, when he said,

“Naw.”

Even now, all these deaths later, that moment still rankles. I wanted to shout,

You fucking ignorant punk!

But didn’t.

I asked,

“Who are you, a skinhead who saved my ass, but what’s your history?”

He drank some coffee, made slurping noises like they do in movies to demonstrate a villain, said,

“My old man was a Protestant, married a Catholic girl from Galway, and bingo, here I am.”

I waited.

He said,

“They were not good parents: booze and beatings.”

He looked at his hands, almost surprised to see,

  Love

   Hate

On his knuckles.

He continued,

“I was into hate, big-time hatred, joined a group who screamed White Supremacy, and they took me in, like fucked-up family, but I knew that gig.”

He took out a pack of Old Virginia tobacco, some papers, looked at me, asked,

“Mind if I roll one?”

I said,

“Roll two.”

He did so with a speed, ease, and expertise you could only have learned in prison.

He produced a silver Zippo, fired us up.

Nirvana.

I asked,

“What/who are you now?”

He gave a reluctant smile, said,

“I’m going to be your wingman for when we go hunting.”

I nearly laughed, asked,

“Who are we hunting?”

He said,

“Keegan.”