Dublin Noir

TAKING ON PJBY EOIN COLFER

There were three words that Christy didn’t want to hear.

“He sent PJ,” said Little Mike, pulling his head in the apartment window.

Those were the three words.

“He’s on the way up.”

Those five weren’t great either.

“Shit,” swore Christy. “One bloody can of Fanta. One can.”

Little Mike shrugged. After the high wind, his black hair looked drawn on with a crayon. “It’s the principle with Warren. Steal a little, steal a lot. He don’t care, Christy.”

Christy chewed on a nail. “I was waitin’ and I was thirsty and the fridge was right there. Hummin’. So one bloody can.”

Little Mike tried to flatten his hair. “He does that. It’s like a test. Leave you waiting in his shop, surround you with product, see if you can keep your paws off. Go against your nature. Did you ever hear the story about the fox and the scorpion?”

Christy threw whatever was handy at Little Mike. “Fuck off with your scorpion. The whole world knows that story. Every time the shit hits the fan, some fucking wise man trots out the fox and the bloody scorpion. I am up to here with those two, honest to Jaysus.”

Mike rubbed his crown, where the Fanta can had clipped him. “I was only sayin’,” he said, sulky now.

Christy folded immediately. He had enough enemies, and one of them was on his way up the eight flights.

“Sorry, brother,” he said, knuckling the spot where the can struck. “I’ve a bad case of the freaks. This fucker is an animal. Did you hear what he did to Father Hillary?”

“The Paschal candle thing?”

Christy shuddered. “Jesus Christ. You know how big those things are? Some of ’em have studs too.”

“Hillary was a nice old eejit. I mean, what did he do?”

“Wouldn’t split the Sunday take, I heard. Sixty-forty, Warren says. Hillary says go to hell, so PJ did the job with the candle.” Christy was pacing now. “A priest. A bloody priest. What will he do to me?”

Little Mike wasn’t the best with rhetorical questions. “Jesus, now you’re asking. I’d say he’ll break a few things, make an example of you. Zero tolerance, as he’s always saying.”

“That, and do you like the car’s new bulletproof windows? I mean, they look the very fucking same. What’s to like about them?”

Little Mike cleared his throat. “To get back to PJ. Please God, he’ll stay clear of your mickey. Some of these enforcers are a bit quare, you know. They do stuff to you. I’ve heard stories about PJ. Worse than the Paschal candle.”

Christy sank into the sofa, wiping his mouth over and over. “Maybe if I explain…”

“What? Like, talk to PJ?”

“I’ll tell him. I was there to turn over the bag money. I was just waiting for Mister Warren, and I forgot where I was. Thought I was in a normal shop. Just robbed the can like I generally would. So here’s the euro, no harm done.”

Little Mike hadn’t the strength to laugh. “I hope you lie better than you tell the truth. Jesus, that was shite. He’ll ride the both of us with the leg of the table if you tell him that. I think we better just go.”

Christy had always been the brains of the duo. “Go where? We’re on the top bloody floor. The lift’s knackered. So unless there’s a helio-bloody-copter on the roof, the only way is down.”

Out in the hall, the banisters clanged and vibrated. PJ was battering a tattoo. Jungle drums. Every door in the block would be locked before the rattle faded.

“We’re shagged,” breathed Christy, the mascara running down his cheeks.

“That makeup looks fuckin’ stupid now,” said Little Mike. “You look like a bloody panda or something.”

Christy found a nugget of pride somewhere. “This is cool, right. Yer man from Manic Street Preachers wears this, and yer man from Busted.”

“Mebbe. But they don’t go streaking it by bawling all over their faces, do they?”

Christy’s panda eyes squinted. “Well, PJ is coming up the stairs with God knows what under his coat. Any rock star you care to mention would shit himself.”

“Not Lemmy,” said Little Mike defensively.

“Yes, fucking Lemmy. And Bon Scott.”

Little Mike crossed himself. “Ah, now. That’s a step too far. Don’t talk about Bon.”

Christy could actually hear footsteps on the stairs. Slow and deliberate. PJ was giving him time to jump out the window. Focus, he told himself. Think about what’s actually happening.

“Shut up, Little Mike. I need to think about what’s actu- ally happening, not Bon Scott.”

“That was always your trouble,” said Mike with a few sage nods. “Drifting off. Remember when Miss Doyle asked you Colombia’s main export and you said forty-eight? Sure, that was the day before.”

A soft idea began firming up in Christy’s head. “What if we took PJ on?”

“Coffee,” said Mike. “Any eejit knows that. But it wasn’t that you were stupid, you just never nev…” He stuttered to a halt. “Who? Take what on? Do what?”

Christy jumped to his feet, grabbing his friend by the shoulders, trying to keep the idea going. “Look, PJ’s coming in that door any second. He’s going to break a few bones, and probably do a few deviant things in the riding department. You’re not walking out either. You know what he’s like.”

A tear appeared in the corner of Mike’s eye. “You and yer fuckin’ Fanta.”

“I know. Don’t I know. So why don’t we have a go? There are two of us.”

Little Mike realized that his friend was actually serious. “Two of us? Father Hillary had God Almighty helping out, and look where it got him.”

“I know. But we’re a team. For years, since primary. Batman and Robin.”

“Robin got killed,” said Mike.

Christy was shocked. “He did not, did he? Jesus, I didn’t hear about that.”

“Yeah. It was a big shock. The Joker kilt him.”

“That fuckin’ Joker. I didn’t see that coming.”

Christy shook Batman out of his head, trying to focus.

“So we have a go. You distract him. And I hit him.”

Little Mike had two legitimate questions. “Distract him with what? And hit him with bloody what?”

Christy looked around. There wasn’t much left in the flat other than the bare essentials. A sofa, fridge, widescreen TV, and PlayStation 2.

He ripped the foam on the sofa arm and yanked out a bit of a plank.

“This for the hitting.”

“That?” said Little Mike doubtfully.

“There’s a nail in it.”

“A nail. Are you de-looo-sional, Christy? Two letters for ye.” Little Mike cupped his hands around his mouth. “Pee Jay. We’re fucked. We take the breaks and hope there’s no freaky stuff.”

Christy wouldn’t hear it. “No. He comes in this door here, right?”

“The door, you mean. The one door.”

“So he comes in, and you distract him. Then I fucking whack him straight between the eyes, with the nail. And we’re off on the ferry to England. Or down into the deep country. Waterford or something. I heard they got jungles down there, brother. Local natives that will get up on ye for fifty cent. Like fuckin’ Mexico.”

Little Mike was sucked in by his friend’s enthusiasm. “And just how am I supposed to distract him?”

“You know how,” said Christy meaningfully, nodding in a respectful and non-homosexual way at Little Mike’s bollock area.

“Fuck off,” said Mike, cupping said area.

“The big lad has to come out,” said Christy. “It’s the only extraordinary thing in the flat. It’s all we have.”

“It’s all I have. Fuck off and get yer own.”

Little Mike’s dick was legendary in the flats, in the entire north side. This was mainly due to the fact that Mike himself had spray-painted every hoarding in Dublin with the legend, Little Mike has thirteen inches. Followed by his mobile number. Morning, noon, and night he was on that phone.

“PJ is bad enough without taunting him. If I have the lad out, it’s just rubbing his nose in it. He’ll have to cut the big fella off.”

Christy had it all figured out. “No. He comes in, expecting two fellas to either have a go, or be shitting themselves in the corner. What he doesn’t expect is Mister Thirteen Inches eyeballing him. So for one second, he’s off his stride, then I whack him in the face.”

Little Mike was a sucker for flattery. “You really think the big fella would put a professional like PJ off?”

Christy snorted. “I fucking know it. Jesus Christ, that thing has a shadow longer than the Spire.”

Little Mike was amazed to find himself considering the idea. “Do we have anything? Beer, blow, fucking anything?”

“I think there’s a drop of Fanta in the end of that can.”

“Ah now, if you’re going to start taking the piss, you can show PJ your own langer.”

“Sorry, sorry. We’ve nothing. There’s no time anyway. He’s nearly here.”

It was true. The footsteps were louder now. No echo. PJ would be kicking in the door any second. He was their future and there was no escaping it.

“Over here,” ordered Christy, pulling his friend’s shoulders. “Right in front of the door.”

“And what? Just pull it out through the zip? Or drop the pants altogether.”

“I’d say through the zip, in case you have to run.” That was Christy, always thinking.

The footsteps were not going up anymore, they were going along.

“Nearly there,” said Little Mike. “There’s nothing in the bottom of your pocket. A doobie? A pill?”

“Nothing. Believe me.”

“Shit. Sorry. Just asking.”

Little Mike unzipped, rummaged, and flopped.

Christy had seen it before, but still spared a moment to look.

“Thirteen?”

“Yes, thirteen. Fuck off, begrudger.”

“You know, those school rulers have two sides. Centimeters and inches.”

Little Mike brandished his weapon. “You couldn’t even see the ruler, mate.”

PJ was coming. Each footfall firm and confident. He wanted to be heard. Fed on the fear. His legend grew larger with every step.

“Shit, I dunno, brother,” said Christy, and it was his plan.

Little Mike’s phone rang. He managed to answer without fumbling.

“Yes. This is he… It’s true what it says, amn’t I looking at it…”

“Mike!” hissed Christy, tapping his watch.

“Ah, yeah. Listen, let me get back to you. We’ll have text.” This was Little Mike’s standard hang-up line. He claimed to have thought of it himself.

Mike opened his knees wide, so that his langer would be framed by the gap between his legs. For first impressions a boner would have been good, but not likely.

“Okay, ready?”

Christy raised the piece of wood, making sure the nail was pointing away from him.

“Ready. This fucker’s dead.”

A split second later, PJ kicked in the door. He was mildly surprised to see Little Mike before him with his large langer swinging in the breeze, so he mashed it with his boot. And there was Christy, skinny, red mop, tracksuit, waving a piece of furniture at him. PJ caught the plank and reversed it into yer man’s face. Two down. No sweat. He brushed a section of the sofa with a sticky fabric roller he always carried, and sat to wait for the boys to stop screaming.

Christy was the first to get a grip.

“We’ve no candles.”

PJ toyed with his bleached goatee. “Your mascara’s ruined. You want to get the waterproof kind. My lady says Revlon is the best.”

“Thanks,” said Christy automatically. There was a red circle in his forehead where the head of the nail had hit him. He looked like he’d been shot.

Little Mike was still wailing, trying to massage some life into his penis. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” he sobbed. “You don’t know who this is.”

PJ rolled his eyes, like a culture-vulture faced with atrocious opera. “Well, I’m guessing that’s the legendary thirteen inches I’ve been reading so much about. You sure you weren’t using a metric measuring tape?”

“Might have been,” said Little Mike. That’s what fear does to a person.

PJ linked his fingers, cracking the knuckles. “So, anyway. Christy boy, you stole from Mister Warren.”

Christy tried the tell the truth strategy. “One can of Fanta. I forgot where I was.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. The closed-circuit camera caught you in the act. So I’m here to make you pay.”

“What’s a can of Fanta? About a yo-yo?”

“Exactly right. Plus a million euros robbing tax. So if you can give me one million and one euro in cash, right now, I am going to walk out of here and not cut his mickey off and stuff it down your throat.”

Little Mike started to cry.

“Little Mike?” said PJ, giving Christy a moment to consider the offer. “That’s like an ironic name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” sobbed Mike. “Like Little John in Robin Hood was a huge bastard.”

PJ took a lock knife from his pocket, flicking out the blade with his thumb. “Guess what they’ll be calling you from now on?”

“What?”

“Mike,” said PJ, grinning.

His grin grew to a hearty laugh. This was PJ’s favorite kind of joke, one pertaining to a brutality he was about to inflict.

He raised a meaty hand, slapping it down on the sofa arm. This was unfortunate, as Christy had earlier pulled out the wooden plank under the foam. One nail had come out with the plank, the rest had stayed in because they were faced the other way.

PJ’s arm sank through the slit in the foam and onto half a dozen nails.

The blood drained from his face and began coming out his arm. Orange foam turned red and soggy.

“Heaaaarrgh!” said PJ, who had been trying to say help, then lost the run of his brain.

Little Mike was a nice young fella, really. “Jesus Christ. We’ve got to help him!”

“Blooaaargh!” screamed PJ. More mangled words.

Christy pulled him back. “No. Help him and he’ll kill us. How’s your mickey?”

Mike examined it gingerly. “I need ice. And a splint.”

“There are no bones in your dick.”

“Maybe not in your dick.”

Blood fountained like a fountain of blood. Christy and Mike were showered with sticky droplets. Little Mike picked up an empty cigarette box to reveal a blood-free rectangle below.

“Look,” he said. “Remember blow-painting in school?”

They talked about art for a while to take their minds off PJ’s screaming. The enforcer tried to free his arm from the nails, but he’d waited too long and hadn’t the strength. You could see it in his face, that he didn’t believe what has happening.

“But I’m PJ,” he muttered, when he could get a sentence together. It was all he said before passing out.

Christy poked PJ’s shoulder and got no reaction. “This is worse than the Fanta,” he pronounced.

Little Mike was checking his mickey again. “There’s a Nike swoosh on me lad.”

“I think he’s dead. We killed PJ.”

Little Mike coiled his member and zipped it away. “No, Christy, he killed himself. It was an accident.”

PJ looked dead. His entire shaven head was the color of his bleached goatee, and his tongue lolled out like a movie drunk. Amazing how quickly it could happen. Half a dozen nails in the wrong place.

“Warren will blame us anyway. We’re über-fucked now.”

Über-fucked was one of Christy’s sayings, which he claimed to have made up himself but had actually heard it in a blue movie.

Little Mike experimented with walking, cowboy style.

“Okay, so let’s get the hell out of here, before the next wave.”

Christy straightened his tracksuit, which was his equivalent of packing.

“Okay. We might have a few hours before Warren susses anything. Maybe we could get out on the ring road and hitch a lift to Waterford.”

Mike grinned through his pain. “Chill with the señoritas.”

“Sí, muchacho.”

Christy was smiling a bit wide, so Mike said, “I’m grinning through my pain here, so don’t get too fucking happy.”

“Sorry, brother.”

PJ’s phone rang. It was a customized tone to the tune of Chas ’n’ Dave’s “Rabbit.”

“Warren!” said Christy and Little Mike simultaneously.

Christy followed the ring to PJ’s jacket pocket and pulled out the phone.

“The new Nokia,” said Mike admiringly. “Nice one.”

“I gotta answer it,” said Christy. “If I don’t, Warren will shoot some other wanker over here.” He danced around with the phone, as though it were on fire. “I’ll pretend I’m PJ. I have a deep voice like him.”

“My arse.”

“You do it.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say. I’m no good under pressure.”

Christy slapped his own forehead to get the ideas flowing. “Okay. Start screaming!”

“What?”

“Look!” shouted Christy. “PJ’s alive!”

Little Mike screamed. Christy answered the phone.

“Y’ello.”

Warren sounded pissed off. “What the fuck’s going on up there, PJ? Haven’t you finished with those two muppets yet?”

Mike screamed again, getting the idea. Camouflage.

“Two minutes, Mister Warren!” shouted Christy.

“Yer not, like, doing anything, are ye? You know, ’cause if you are, make sure to video it, son.”

“Will do, Mister Warren.”

“Jesus, that fucker can scream. Is that the one with the makeup?”

Christy was wounded. “Shut up, you ugly motherfucking wankstain! Not you, obviously, Mister Warren.”

“Obviously.”

“No, it’s the other one. The one with the big cock.”

“Yeah, whatever, just hurry it up. I’m a bit jumpy down here with the night safe bag. You know what the urchins around here are like. No fucking respect.”

“On my way, Mister Warren.”

Warren hung up, so he could hold onto his money with two hands. Christy dropped PJ’s phone back into the dead enforcer’s pocket.

“Cheers, brother,” he said automatically.

Little Mike took deep whooping breaths. “Jesus. Screaming’s not easy.”

Christy peered out the flat window. “Warren is below in the car, on his own. With the day’s money. Imagine the time we could have in Waterford with that.”

Little Mike knew the look on his friend’s face. “You’re not planning something, are you? Because you know how your plans turn out.”

“PJ’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I hope that’s not the case for the defense, because he killed himself. Nothing to do with you. Dumb fucking luck.”

“Myaark,” said PJ, falling forward from the sofa. His arm came free with a sound like an oyster being sucked out of a shell.

Christy and Little Mike screamed like school girls and ran straight out the door.

“Arm, fuckaaark!” moaned PJ behind them. A bit less dead than previously believed.

In the corridor Christy was blessed with an idea. Rather than go through the usual discussion rigmarole with Little Mike, he decided to act on his own initiative. After all, Batman occasionally decided to go on missions without Robin. Or he used to, until that bastard Joker came along. Now he had no choice in the matter. Christy pulled out his phone, composing a text on the run. He sent it to every runner in the building who had made drops for him over the past months.

Bllx n BMW sez Man UTD r shite, read the message.

In seconds doors were whipped open and enraged Manchester United fans spilled onto the balconies. They howled like hyenas, pouring down the stairwells. Twenty fearless, immortal little fuckers headed straight for Warren’s car door.

Christy waved his phone. “I got it too. Some fucker in a BMW hates Man United. Out the front. Big fatheaded cunt.”

Little Mike copped on for once, but felt he was being left out. “He said that Andioni fucks pigs. And, eh, sucks shit through straws.”

One urchin stopped. He was wearing an Andioni jersey. “I heard about the shit thing. It’s homeopathic, for the squirts. It’s not his own shit.”

Little Mike faltered, then came back with: “Yer man in the BMW says it is his own shit.”

“Cunt!” spat the urchin, disappearing down the stairwell in a red-and-white flash.

Christy and Little Mike held back, allowing the sea of miniature hooligans to flow around them. Several hands dipped into their pockets, but came out empty. It was like a couple of sharks being nibbled by cleaner fish. If the sharks were scared shitless.

It took a couple of minutes to make it down to the surface, and by then Warren’s Beamer was being pelted with everything light enough to throw. A couple of boys had kicked over a few wheelie bins and were firing rotten vegetables.

Warren was not taking it well. He opened the window a crack.

“Fuck off home, ye blackguards!” he roared through the gap, his comb-over separating from his skull. “Don’t you know who I am?”

The boy in the Andioni jersey hopped up on his bonnet. “Yeah, Mister. You’re the cunt who sucks shit through straws. Your own shit.”

The boy apparently could not produce a shit on command, but he could certainly have a slash. He undid his fly and pissed in lazy arcs across Warren’s windscreen. The wipers sloshing most of it back onto his own trainers did not seem to put him off.

Little Mike and Christy were circling around the back, giggling.

“Warren will do his nut. He’s not used to this kind of abuse.”

“Serves him right. Him and his fucking tests.”

Warren, as predicted, did his nut. He struggled from the passenger seat, waving a large pistol.

“Now who sucks shit? You fucking cockroach.”

A few warning shots, thought the drugs-and-porn video baron, just to send these monkeys back to their tree. The reports echoed off the apartment block walls, scattering boys like frightened birds. Except unlike frightened birds, they only scattered as far as the nearest cover, then peeked over for a look at the gun.

Warren, with his flapping hair and Louis Copeland suit, mistook this curiosity for newfound respect.

“That’s more like it!” he shouted, waving the pistol. “Now you’re getting the idea. Nobody fucks with me on my own doorstep.”

One boy yawned. Several more hooted. These were old lines. Rendered impotent by dozens of straight-to-video films.

Christy and Little Mike were thrilled with all this lack of respect. They would have been joining in themselves if they hadn’t been sneaking up behind the car.

“He’s going to see us,” hissed Mike. “We need a distraction. Will I get me lad out again?”

Christy pointed across at the flats. “No. I think we’re all right for a distraction.”

PJ was stumbling out the door like a zombie, swinging his knife before him like a blind man’s cane. His bad arm looked like it had been dipped in crimson paint.

“Mistaaaark,” he groaned.

Warren was shocked. “Fuckin’ hell, PJ. You didn’t go and shove your entire arm up someone’s arse, did you?”

Christy and Little Mike didn’t hear the reply to this unusual question, because they were in the BMW and reversing across the car park. Warren-fair play to him-reacted quickly enough, putting several rounds into the windscreen.

Mike stuck his head out the side window. “Bullet-proof glass, asshole. Yer always going on about it.” He then withdrew his head sharpish as another bullet whistled past his ear.

Before they pulled onto the road, Christy saw Warren hurl his empty gun in their direction. Not wise. The urchins were on him in under a second, stripping him like piranas on flesh. PJ didn’t fare much better. He got a swift kick in the bollocks and his wallet lifted.

“Ah, Jaysus,” said Christy regretfully. “We forgot PJ’s wallet.”

Mike had the night safe bag open on his lap. It was filled with wedges of banded notes.

“We’re made, Mike,” hooted Christy when he saw the cash. “There must be thirty grand in here. Maybe forty. We can live like kings on this in Waterford. Those señoritas love fellas from the big city. We’ll be like Bono and the Edge, brother.”

They pulled away from the flats, flashing everyone they thought they might know. In minutes, they were on the motorway heading south.

Christy was already lost in the dream. “Come tomorrow and we’ll be topless by the pool. Sipping cocktails in the sunny southeast, a girl on either side and one in the middle.”

Little Mike’s phone rang.

“Hello. Mike here.” He winked at Christy. Another thirteen-inch call. “Yep, it’s true. I have it right here before me. Could use a little TLC, as it happens… Uhuh… Really? Well, I’m sure we could work something out.”

Mike covered the mouthpiece with a hand.

“Any chance we could make a stopover in Castledermot?”

BLACK STUFFBY KEN BRUEN

ART: skill; human skill or workmanship.

Then you got a whole page of crap on:

Art

Form

Paper

Nouveau

– ful

Like I’ve got the interest.

Jesus.

I was in the bookshop, killing time, saw the manager give me the look. That’s why I picked up a book, a goddamn dictionary, weighing like a ton, opened it to the bit on art. Glanced up, the manager is having a word with the security schmuck.

Yeah, guys, I’m going to steal the heaviest tome in the shop.

Check my watch, Timex piece of shit, but it’s getting late. Tell you one thing, after the job, first item, a gold Rolex. The imitations are everywhere but the real deal… ah, slide that sucker on your wrist, dude, you are home.

Cost a bundle, right?

The whole point, right?

On my way out, I touch the manager’s arm, the wanker jumps. I go, “Whoa… bit nervous there, pal? Could you help me?”

He has bad teeth, yellow with flecks of green, a little like the Irish flag. He stammered: “How, I mean… am… what? ”

“Dictionary for Dummies, you got that?”

His body language is assessing me and wanting to roar, “Nigger!”

Man, I know it, you grow up black in a town like Dublin, you know.

He pulls himself together, those assertive training sessions weren’t blown, he gets a prissy clipped tone, asks, “And who would that help, might I inquire?”

“You, buddy, you’d really benefit. See, next time a non-Caucasian comes in, you can grab your dummy dictionary, look up… discretion … and if that helps, go for it, check out assumptions, too, you’ll be a whole new man.” I patted his cheek, added: “You might also search for dentistry, Yellow Pages your best bet there.”

I was in the snug in Mulligans, few punters around.

A guy comes in, orders a drink, American accent but off, as if he’d learned it, says to Jeff, “Gordon’s on the rocks, splash of tonic.”

Then: “Bud back.”

Jeff gives him a look and the guy offers a hearty chuckle, explains, “I mean, as well as, guess you folk say… with it… or in addition to?” Was he going to give the whole nine?

He got the drinks, walked over, sat at my table, asked, “How you doing?”

Like every night in the city, some asshole does the same Joey Tribiani tired rap. I didn’t answer. Instead, I peeled a piece of skin on my thumb. He said, “You don’t wanna inflame that, buddy.”

Wanna?

So I asked, “You a doctor?”

He was delighted, countered, feigning surprise, “You’re Irish?” Not believing it, like I’m black, so come on. I nod and he takes a hefty slug of the gin, grimaces, then: “How’d that happen?”

I still don’t know why but I told him the truth. Usually, who gives a fuck?

Sean Connery said, tell them the truth, then it’s their problem. My mother was from Ballymun, yeah, Ireland’s most notorious housing estate. Fuck, there’s a cliché: She’d a one night stand with a sailor.

How feckin sad is that?

And not a white guy.

He asked, “So, was it, like… tough, am…?”

I let that hover, let him taste it, then did the Irish gig, a question with a question. “Being black, or being fatherless?”

He went, “Uh huh.”

Noncommital or what?

I said, “Dublin wasn’t a city, it was still a town, and a small one, till the tiger roared.”

He interrupted: “You’re talking the Celtic Tiger, am I right?”

I nodded, continued, “So I was fourteen before I knew I was black, different.”

He didn’t believe it, asked, “But the kids at school, they had to be on your ass. I mean, gimme a break, buddy.”

His glass was empty. I said, “They were on my ass because I was shit at hurling.”

He stared at his glass, like… where’s that go? Echoed, “Hurling, that’s the national game, yeah?”

I said, “Cross between hockey and murder.”

He stood, asked, “Get you a refill there?”

I decided to fuck with him a little, he said, “Large Jameson, Guinness back.”

The boilermaker threw him, but he rallied, said, “Me too.”

Got those squared away, raised the amber, clinked my glass, and you guessed it, said, “Here’s looking at you, pal.”

Fuck on a bike.

The other side of the whiskey, I climbed down a notch, eased, but not totally.

He was assessing me, covertly, then: “Got some pecs on you there, fella. Hitting the gym, huh?”

He was right. Punishing program, keep the snakes from spitting, the ones in my head, the shrink had said. “You take your meds, the snakes won’t go away-we’re scientists, not shamans- but they will be quieter.”

Shrink humor?

I quit the meds. Sure, they hushed the reptiles, but as barter, took my edge. I’d done some steroids, got those abs swollen, but fuck, it’s true, they cut your dick in half. And a black guy with shrinkage?… Depths of absurdity.

I was supping the Guinness, few better blends than the slow wash over Jameson. I said, “Yeah, I work out.”

He produced a soft pack of Camels, gold Zippo, then frowned, asked, “You guys got the no-smoking bug?… It’s illegal in here?” Like he didn’t know already. Then reached out his hand, said, “I’m Bowman, Charlie, my buddies call me Bow.”

I’m thinking, Call you arsehole.

And he waits till I extend my hand, the two fingers visibly crushed. He clocks them, I say, “Phil.”

He shakes my hand, careful of the ruined fingers, goes for levity, asks, “Phil, that it, no surname? C’mon buddy, we’re like bonding, am I right? How can I put it, Phil me in?” He laughed, expecting me to join.

I didn’t.

I said, “For Phil Lynott, Thin Lizzy. You heard Lynott speak, his Dublin accent was near incomprehensible, but when he sang, pure rock. Geldof said Phil was the total rock star, went to bed in the leather trousers.”

Bow’s mouth was turned down. He said, “My taste runs more to Van Morrison.”

Figured.

He spotted the book on the seat beside me, Bukowski, asked, “That’s yours, you’re into… Buk?”

Buk?

Fucksakes.

My mother, broke, impoverished, sullen, ill, had instilled: “Never, and I mean never, let them know how smart you are.”

Took me a long time to assimilate that, too long. The days after her funeral, I’d a few quid from the horses, got a mason to carve:

I

DIDN’T

LET

THEM

KNOW

Like that.

The mason, puzzled, asked, “The hell does that mean?” I gave him the ice eyes, he muttered, “Jeez, what’s wrong with Rest in peace?” I said, “That’s what it means, just another form.” He scratched his arse, said, “Means shite, you ask me.” He said this after I paid him.

So I threw a glance at the Bukowki. Denied him, going, “Not mine. I need books with, like, pictures.”

Bow and I began to meet, few times a week, no biggie, but it grew. Me, careful to play the dumbass, let him cream on his superiority. He paid the freight, I could mostly listen.

A month in, he asked, “You hurting there, Phil?”

I was mid-swallow, my second pint. I stopped, put the glass down, asked, “What?”

His eyes were granite, said, “Bit short on the readies… Hey, I’m not bitching.”

… (Oh yeah?)

“But there’s no free lunch. You familiar with that turn of phrase, black guy? When we freed your asses, we figured you might be self-sufficient. Maybe spring for the odd drink?”

I was thinking of how my mother would love this prick. He tapped his empty glass twice, then, “You’re good company, Phil, not the brightest tool in the box. This ride’s, like, coming to a halt.”

I was trying to rein it in, not let the snakes push the glass into his supercilious mouth, especially when he added: “You getting this? Earth to Leroy, like… hello?”

I was massaging my ruined fingers, remembering… One of the first jobs I did, driver for a post office stunt. I was younger, and dare I say… greener?

The outfit were northeners, had lost their driver at the last minute. How I got drafted.

They came out of the post office in Malahide, more a suburb of Dublin now, guns above their heads, screaming like banshees, piled into the back. The motor stalled. Only two minutes, but it was a long 120 seconds. By the Grand Canal, the effluent from the Liffey smelling to high heaven. Changing cars, they held me down, crushed my fingers, using the butt of a shotgun, the Belfast guy going, “Two minutes you lost, two fingers you blow.”

I stared at Bow, asked, “You have something in mind?”

The Zippo was flat on the table, I could see a logo: Focus.

He indicated it, said, “That’s the key. I’m thinking you could do with a wedge, a healthy slab of tax-free euros.”

Jeez, he was some pain in the arse, but I stayed… focused? … below radar, asked, “Who doesn’t?”

Looked like he might applaud, then, “I’m taking a shot here, but I’m figuring you know zilch about art.”

I stayed in role, asked, “Art who?”

Didn’t like it, I noticed. When he was bothered as he was now, the accent dipped. I smiled, thinking, Not so focused now, and certainly not American.

He gritted his teeth, grunted, “Art is… everything. All the rest is… a support system.”

I leaned on the needle, said, “You like art, yeah?”

Thought he might come across the table, but he reined in, took a breath, a drink, said in a patient clipped tone, “Lesson one, you don’t like art, you appreciate it.”

I kept my eyes dull, and that’s an art.

He snapped, “You want to pay attention, fella, maybe you can learn something. I’m going to tell you about one of the very finest, Whistler.”

I resisted the impulse to put my lips together and like… blow.

He began: “There is a portrait by him, a ‘painted tribute to a gentle old lady.’ The lady looks old, but that’s because he was old when he did it. A time, 1871, when the railroads were about to replace the covered wagons. You see a white light wall, then…

“Straight curtain…

“Straight baseboard…

“Chair, footrest… straight …

“Everything is straightened out, the only roundness is her face. He titled it, Arrangement in Gray and Black. Moving along, you’ll see a silk curtain, in Japanese style, with a butterfly as decoration-his tribute to a country he admired. There’s a picture on the wall, and this is significant, as it’s the brightest white spot in the painting. The woman’s hands are white, her handkerchief is white, contrasting the black dress. Her bonnet has different shades to make her face benign, kindly. The entire ensemble is an homage to this lady, his mother, whom he adored.”

He waffled on for maybe another ten minutes, then finally stopped. Looked at me. I was going to go, I’m straight, but instead asked, “I need to know this… why?”

Now he smiled, said, “Because you and me, buddy, we’re going to steal it.”

The Musée d’Orsay had loaned it to the city of Dublin for six months. Had been on display for three now… in Merrion Square, the posh area of the city-a detail of Army and Gardaí were keeping tabs. Once the initial flush of interest and fanfare died down, the crowds dropped off. More important events like the hurling final, race meetings, took precedence. Security, though in evidence, was more for show than intent. An indication of the public losing interest, the picture had been moved to Parnell Square, the other side of the Liffey, damnation in itself.

Bow said, “Lazy fuckers, last week they didn’t even bother to load the CCTV.”

“How do you know?” I asked. And got the frost smile, superior and not a mile from aggressive.

He used his index finger to tap his nose, said, “A guy on the museum staff? He’s got himself a little problem.”

Did he mean cocaine or curiosity?

He continued: “I’ve helped him… get connected… and he’s grateful… and now he’s vulnerable. In ten days there will be a window in the security-the patrol is to be switched, the CCTV is to be revamped, there’ll only be two guys on actual watch. Can you fucking believe it?”

We hadn’t had a drink for over half an hour, the lecture was lengthy, so I injected a touch of steel, asked, “And the two, the ones keeping guard, they’re going to what, give it to us?”

Now he laughed, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse. “How fucking stupid are you?” Shaking his head, like good help was hard to find, he said, “We’re going to give them the gas.”

That’s what we did.

Dream job-in, out. No frills, no flak.

… Unless you count the dead guy.

We’d donned cleaner’s gear, always wanted to don something, gives that hint of gravitas. Bow said, “Help us blend.”

Especially in my case, sign of the new Ireland, black guy riding a mop, no one blinked an eye.

We’d become America.

Them janitor blues, pushing dee broom, miming dee black and sullen-translate: invisible.

The guards, one in mid-yawn. We hit them fast, tied them up, tops, four minutes. I didn’t glance at the painting, was fearful it might remind me of my mother. Bow did, I heard the catch in his breathing. Then we were almost done, reached the back door, when a soldier came out of nowhere, a pistol in his hand, roared, “Hold on just a bloody minute!”

Bow shot him in the gut. I’d been going for the gas. I stared at Bow, whined, “No need for that.”

The smirk, his mouth curled down, he put two more rounds in the guy, asked, “Who’s talking about need?”

The heat came down

Hard

Relentless

Like the Dublin drizzle, rain that drove Joyce to Switzerland

With

… Malice aforethought.

We kept a low-to-lowest profile. A whole month before we met for the split, the rendezvous in an apartment on Pembroke Road, not far from the American embassy, an area I’d have little business in. Bow had rented the bottom floor, wide spacious affair, marred by filth, empty takeaway cartons, dirty plates in the sink, clothes strewn on the floor, the coffee table a riot of booze. He was dressed, I kid you not, in a smoking jacket, like some Agatha Christie major. Not even David Niven could pull that gig off.

Worse: on the pocket, the letter… B.

For… Bollocks?

He was wearing unironed tan cords and flip-flops, the sound slapping against the bare floor. I was wearing a T, jeans, Nike trainers with the cushion sole. A logo on my T… Point Blankers.

Near the window was the painting, dropped like an afterthought. I took my first real appraisal. The old lady did indeed look… old. She was nothing like my mother-my mother had never sat down in her wretched life.

I heard the unmistakable rack of a weapon and turned to see Bow holding a pistol. He said, “Excuse the mess, but decent help, man, it’s impossible to find.”

I stared at the gun, asked, “You’re not American, right?”

Winded him, came at him from left field, I added: “You’re good most of the time, you’ve it down and tight, almost pull it off but it slips, couple of words blow the act.”

His eyes gone feral, he moved the weapon, pointing at the center of my chest, asked, “What fucking words?”

I sighed theatrically (is there any other way?), said, “Okay, you say… mighty, fierce…”

He put up his left hand. Not going to concede easy, protested, “Could have picked them up, been here a time.”

I nodded, then, “But you use fierce in both senses, like terrific, and like woesome-gotta be Irish to instinctively get that. You can learn the sense of it, but never the full usage.”

He went to interrupt but I shouted, “Hey, I’m not done! The real giveaway, apart from calling a pint a pint of stout, is me fags … Americans are never going to be able to call cigarettes gay.”

He shrugged, let it go, said, “Had you going for a while, yeah?”

I could give him that, allowed, “Sure, you’re as good as the real thing.”

Used the gun to scratch his belly, said, “Long as we’re confronting, you’re not Homer Simpson either, not the dumb schmuck you peddle. The Bukowski, it was yours, and the way you didn’t look at the painting, you’d have to be real smart not to show curiosity.”

I reached in my pocket, registered his alarm, soothed, “It’s a book, see…” Took out the Bukowski, Ham on Rye, flipped it on the floor, said, “A going-away present, because we’re done, right?”

As if I hadn’t noticed the weapon. His grip on the butt had eased, not a lot but a little. He said, “In the bedroom I got near thirty large, you believe that, nigger?”

No matter how many times I hear the word, and I hear it plenty, it is always a lash coming out of a white mouth, an obscenity. He let it saturate, then added, “I got enough nose candy to light up O’Connell Street for months, soon as I deliver the painting and get the rest of the cash. A serious amount, but guess what, I’m a greedy bastard, I don’t really share.” Pause, then, “And share with a darkie?… Get real. Gotta tell you, I’m a supporter of the Klan-did you know they were founded by a John Kennedy? How’s that for blarney?”

I lowered my head, said, “Never let the left hand see what-”

Shot him in the face, the gun in my right hand, almost hidden by the crushed fingers. The second tore through his chest. I said, Brooklyn inflection, “Duh, you gotta… focus.”

Got the cash, put the portrait under my coat, didn’t look back. Near Stephen’s Green a wino was sprawled beside a litter bin. I gave him some notes and stuffed the Whistler in the bin. He croaked, “No good, huh?”

I said, “It’s a question of appreciation.”

TRIBUNALBY PAT MULLAN

There’s a buzz about the place. Sure as hell wasn’t here when I left fifteen years ago. He remembered Dublin as the pits then. Dark, priest-ridden, can’t-do culture, living on government handouts and money from the emigrants. A Godforsaken hole of a place. For himself, anyway. Edmund Burke. Yeah, that’s me. My old man had delusions. Thought if he named me after the great Irish statesman that the name would overcome the bad genes and the lousy upbringing. Willie Burke had been a failure, failed at every no-risk job he ever attempted, and the old man had ended his days earning a mere pittance as a salesman in a tailoring shop that had seen its best days in the last century. Mass on Sunday was the highlight of his mother’s week, a timid woman from the west of Ireland who’d never felt at home in the big city. An only child, Edmund had been conceived just as his mother’s biological clock was about to stop ticking. She was forty-two when she had him.

All these things flooded his mind as he jumped into the taxi at Dublin Airport and told the driver to take him to Ballsbridge. He’d survived. Succeeded because his father’s failure terrified him. Got into Trinity, earned a law degree, headed for England, stayed a year in a boring clerk job at a London legal firm as resident Paddy. Luck intervened. His mother’s uncle in Boston sponsored him to the States. Decided that he’d go by sea instead of air. Took a 28,000-ton liner out of Liverpool. Gave him a sense of being a pilgrim setting out for the New World.

Now he was back. Why. The Celtic Tiger! That’s why. Well, one of the reasons. He was running away again. But that’s another story. Taking a year off from his New York law firm. Had just about enough of his mob clients. As well as his ex who wanted to rob him blind. Oh yeah, he’d stashed away a few dollars, but still hadn’t made that million. Maybe Dublin’s the place to be these days. Everybody’s here. All these faces in Dublin on a Tuesday and you see them again in New York or L.A. on the weekend. Aidan Quinn. Gabriel Byrne. Liam Neeson. Colin Farrell. Michael Flatley now a household name with Riverdance conquering the world. And Michael O’Leary and Ryanair conquering the skies. The priests are scarce on the ground these days. Divorce is legal. The Bishop of Galway has a love child with an American lover, and the President of Ireland has crossed the religious divide to take communion in a Protestant cathedral. The IRA is about to call it quits and the border separating the Republic from Northern Ireland is gradually becoming an imaginary line. Money talks. And money goes where it’s well treated. And the Celtic Tiger is treating it well.

Money! That’s really why I’m here, he reminded himself. Not here to feel sentimental. Still, the old city looks good, he thought. New roads, new houses, construction cranes everywhere. Plenty of Mercs and BMWs. They’re not taking the Liverpool boat anymore. No! They’re in investment banking, working for McKinsey and Microsoft. Turning Ireland into the largest exporter of computer software outside of the United States.

At Ballsbridge, Burke paid the taxi fare and walked up Shelbourne Road. Dublin 4. The most sought after neighborhood in the city. Bright skies and the early morning briskness countered his lack of sleep. Old stately homes lined the streets. Surrounded by sturdy stone walls, they exuded wealth and power. As a kid this would have been an alien place to him. Still is, he thought, as he reached a modern four-story apartment block in Ballsbridge Gardens. He already had a key, mailed to him in New York before he’d left.

Once inside, he realized that he could be anywhere. Luxury that would be right at home on Fifth Avenue. He dropped his bags, started the coffee machine, and minutes later sat in the large Jacuzzi bathtub watching the bubbles welcome him to Dublin.

Refreshed and dressed, he arrived at Lillie’s Bordello at 6:00. The most elite club in Dublin. Had he been here a few nights ago, after the Irish Film and Television Awards, he could have joined Pierce Brosnan and James Nesbitt as they sang “Danny Boy” at the piano in the VIP room.

This was Murphy’s idea. Drop him into the deep end. Meet who’s who in Dublin society. Hit the ground running! That’s always been Murphy’s modus operandi. Murphy was his old law school buddy at Trinity and the reason he’d returned to Dublin. Murphy had built a successful legal business, rich from tribunal money and litigation. Now, with more business than he could handle, he’d developed a distrust for his partners.

It didn’t take much persuasion to tempt Ed Burke back to Dublin. His mob clients were a little annoyed at the moment. One with a bullet behind his ear in a ditch in Westchester. Another behind bars on a federal indictment for corruption.

Jesus Christ! I really could be in New York or L.A.! The same confidence. The same body movements. Damn it. Even the accents are mid-Atlantic.

All the right people at tonight’s reception for a noble cause. Charity. Aid for Africa. Medicine for Chernoble. Sexy stuff. Good publicity for the rich and powerful.

He felt a finger trace its way up his spine, lingered to enjoy, then turned slowly and came face-to-face with her.

“Edmund,” she said, moving to within inches. No one else except his mother called him Edmund.

Just then Murphy arrived with drinks. “Ah, a reunion, you two… okay! Okay!” he protested their stares, then handed Burke his drink and moved on. But the spell had been broken.

“Pia, it’s been a long time,” said Ed, looking at the woman who had broken his heart. Days and nights of endless lovemaking when they both attended Trinity. Summers in Donegal. Running naked into the sea on the Fanad beach at midnight. Dark, Latin beauty, born in Barcelona, Irish father, Spanish mother. Something Irish flashing through, the same way you see the Irish in Anthony Quinn’s Mexican face.

“Twenty years, Edmund. You’re looking well. If I’d known you were going to be such a success…” She let the sentence hang in the air.

Ed wanted to hold her, kiss her, take her to that Fanad beach again. His mind spoke to him: Oh, Pia, I loved you so much. And you left me for that geek. Now he’s one of the top Ministers in the government. Being touted as a future Taoiseach.Speak of the devil. The man himself approached.

“Ed, I see you’re back. Good. We need your talent here. Building a great country these days.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it, Minister. Had things looked like this twenty years ago, I might never have left.”

“Well, you’re back. That’s what matters.”

Looking at his wife, he said, “Pia, you and Ed are old friends. Introduce him around. New blood he should meet here.” And with that he was gone. Working the audience. Consolidating his mandate.

Ed Burke knew that it was a mistake. But he was addicted. Always had been. In the days that followed, he and Pia threw caution to the wind. They were inseparable and indiscrete. Glued together in cozy corners in the best pubs and clubs, unabashedly naked in private saunas. It seemed their passion had only been fueled by the passing of time.

Just three weeks after his arrival, Ed Burke found himself “in at the deep end,” defending Dan Mortimer, one of Dublin’s elite, against a class action suit brought by a rabble of welfare-dependent inner-city denizens. As Murphy had said, “Good way to announce your presence to the world. This is a case you can’t lose. And making an ally out of Mortimer will seal your career. Besides, it’ll be great PR for our firm.”

Some said that Mortimer was the public face of the Celtic Tiger. A good quarter of the construction cranes crisscrossing the Dublin skyline bore the Mortimer name in huge capital letters. The new dockland development had Mortimer stamped all over it. But this case had aroused the emotions of the people. The class action suit claimed that Mortimer had illegally acquired derelict inner-city land that should have been used for the community, and had then used his influence to have it rezoned for commercial purposes. Site development had commenced, excessive noise polluted the air, cracks had appeared in the foundation of adjacent houses. The suit also claimed that Mortimer had used aggressive tactics to persuade local homeowners to sell and leave so that he could demolish their homes and make way for further commercial usage. Two hungry young lawyers represented the claimants. Just like me twenty years ago, thought Burke, idealistic and naïve. They could not support their case with solid evidence. They promised to produce a witness who would testify that Mortimer had made illegal payments to someone in government to get the land rezoned. But the witness did not show up in court. The judge gave them a second chance. Produce the witness within one week, otherwise the court finds the claim unsubstantiated.

A late-evening wind blew the rain into Burke’s face as he stood on the corner awaiting the taxi he’d ordered. It had been a long day in court and he felt uneasy about the whole business. New York was different. There, he knew the good guys from the bad guys. Everything was direct. In your face. Here, nothing resembled that. Too much gray, too little black and white. This country thrived on ambivalence.

An elderly man approached him. Something familiar searched his brain for a memory, a connection.

“Hello, Eddie.”

The Eddie completed the circuit in his brain. He hadn’t been called Eddie since he was a little boy. Marty, Marty Rainey. Age now hid the vitality he remembered. Marty had been almost a surrogate father. Often there for him when his own father was down in the pub in the evening.

“Marty! Is it you?”

“’Tis indeed. Not as supple as you remember. But the old head still works.”

“Marty, it’s just great seeing you again.”

“Eddie, I need to talk to you. It’s life or death for me.”

Saying it so matter-of-factly took the surprise out of it. The taxi pulled up, saving Ed from looking lost. He insisted on taking Marty home.

As the taxi pulled out into rush hour traffic, Marty said: “I’m your witness.”

For a moment Ed Burke was mystified. Then it struck him that Marty’s telling him that he’s the missing witness at the trial. Ed gripped Marty’s arm and looked at him. Marty continued: “I couldn’t show up. They threatened me. Told me that I’d wind up in the Liffey. They meant it, Eddie. I suppose I’m a coward.”

“Who threatened you, Marty?”

“Thugs! That’s who. You don’t think they do their own dirty work, do you? No, they hired a bunch of thugs who don’t give a shite. They’d kill me as easily as look at me.”

“Who ordered it, Marty?”

“Come on, you know who. You’re defending one of them in court. I suppose you’re gettin’ well paid for that. But you’ve forgotten where you came from, Eddie.”

“Damn it, Marty! Don’t fucking lecture me. If you’re telling me the truth, then you were the bagman for these bastards for years. Selling your own people down the drain.”

“You’re right. I was stupid. Gambling, bookies, the horses. I owed too much and they paid it off. But believe me, Eddie, I never thought they’d turn our own people out of their homes. I didn’t know. Now I want to get them. The bastards. They destroyed me and I want to destroy them.”

He reached inside his coat and pulled out a large bulky envelope.

“Everything’s in here. All the evidence. Record of payoffs- who, where, and when. Bank account statements showing how the money was laundered. There’s enough here to start a dozen tribunals. It’ll destroy Mortimer and bring down the Minister. He’s a corrupt bastard! The word around is that you’re pretty close with his missus. Watch yourself.”

Ed Burke sat in silence, holding the envelope as though it was a bomb. Which, in a sense, it was.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the taxi stopped outside Marty’s front door in Harold’s Cross. Marty gripped his hand, said, “Do the right thing, Eddie,” and left.

And Ed Burke did the right thing. He met next day with Murphy and told him that he could not defend Mortimer, told him about Marty Rainey’s evidence, told him that they’d have to meet with the judge and turn this evidence over to the court. Murphy reluctantly agreed and insisted that Burke secure the envelope with the firm for safekeeping until they could take it to court. Burke considered this advice sensible and lodged the envelope in the firm’s safe. Had he examined the evidence more thoroughly before he handed it over, he would have seen that Murphy’s “fingerprints” were all over the money-laundering operation, tying him directly to the illegal lodgement of these monies offshore in the Ansbacher Cayman accounts.

That same night, the jarring ringing of his phone brought Ed Burke out of a deep slumber. He growled: “Yeah?”

“Ed Burke? Is this Ed Burke?”

“What do you want? Do you know what time it is?”

“This is the emergency call service. We have an alert on Martin Rainey. We think he has fallen in his home and can’t get up. He needs help. Can you go there now?”

“But I’m not on any alert system.”

“You’re on it, Mr. Burke. Mr. Rainey insisted that we call you if he needed help.”

Ed Burke decided that he had no choice. Marty Rainey wouldn’t have put him on the alert list without a good reason. He confirmed Marty’s address with the emergency service, dressed, and called a taxi.

At 3 a.m. with no traffic on the streets, the taxi reached Harold’s Cross in fifteen minutes and dropped Burke at the end of Marty’s street. A neat row of red brick houses wound in an arc ahead of him; houses that cost a few thousand only fifteen years ago now ran into hundreds of thousands. A cat scurried across the street in front of him, breaking the silence of the night.

He found number 27 and rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang it again, holding down the buzzer. Still no answer. Now he stood contemplating what he should do. He knew that he must get inside. Further down the street he saw a break in the pattern of the houses and what seemed to be a large commercial doorway. Counting the houses he reached it and got lucky. A smaller door stood closed but unlocked. He took out his flashlight, opened the door, and passed through a dry stone wall, finding himself in an open grassy space at the rear of the houses. Counting back he reached Marty’s house. The dry stone wall at the back provided a natural foothold. He climbed up. Marty’s house, probably his kitchen, had been extended and took up the small backyard. Its flat roof backed up against the wall. Burke simply stepped onto it, reached up, and leveraged himself on a ledge outside the window on the second floor. His luck held. The window stood slightly ajar. He squeezed inside, shined his flashlight around, and saw that he stood on a landing at the head of the stairs.

Calling out Marty’s name, he inched his way down the stairs to the living room, found the light switch, and turned it on. He saw the blood first. Pooled around Marty’s head where he lay on his side in the middle of the room. A huge open gash crossed his forehead. Burke knelt down and took his pulse. No sign of life. He turned him over to try CPR, and that’s when he found that this had been no accident. Marty’s throat had been cut.

Burke waited till the ambulance and the Gardaí arrived and sealed off the house. As it was a crime scene, Marty would stay right where he lay until the state pathologist arrived. The Gardaí took a statement from Burke and he left.

Burke made it back to his apartment by 4:30 a.m. Too wired to sleep, he headed for the whiskey. Half a bottle later, he sank into a deep stupor.

Pia! Pia! Ed Burke agonized about what to do. In days the scandal would break. The Minister’s career would crash. In public. And Pia would crash too. Every tabloid would exploit the story. Exploit her!

Thoughts bounced wildly around his head: I’ve got to do something. Got to protect her. But how? I could leave again. Go back to the States. Take her with me. Start a new life with her.Agh, wishful thinking! It’s too late for us. Pia won’t leave Dublin.It’s the center of her world. All the world comes to Dublin now.So what’s the incentive to leave? Why should I leave again? Got to brave this thing out.

Still, Pia had to be warned. He had to tell her what was coming. Get her to leave the Minister. Get out first. Make the first move. Yes, that’s what she had to do. And he’d help her. Once he had decided, Burke took action. Dialed her mobile. She picked up immediately.

“Edmund, it’s only 9 a.m.”

“Pia, let’s run away together. Now.”

“Oh, Edmund. How I wish.”

“Look, it’s Friday. I’m off today. Let’s go somewhere. Get away from it all. Can you break all your social commitments?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Okay, great. I’ll make the arrangements. Pick you up by noon.”

Murphy met the Minister in Buswells Bar, where all the members of the Dail went for their regular tipple. The Minister asked, “What’ll it be, the usual?” and ordered two Jamesons with water chasers.

No preamble for the Minister, he went right for the jugular: “If he brings me down, you go too.”

Murphy said nothing.

“Did you hear me? You go too.”

“Goddamnit, he’s my friend. Isn’t there any other way? We could persuade him to lay off.”

“Persuade, my ass. Do you realize he’s been fucking Pia since he got back?”

“I hate to say it, but…”

“Yeah, do you think I’m dumb? I know she’s been screwing the world for the past five years. Well, it’s over. She won’t be making a fool of me anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Killing two birds with one stone. That’s what I mean.”

“Jesus, you’re crazy. I want no part of it.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound. You knew that. Do you really want to lose the mansion in Howth, the little hideaway in Shady Lane where you entertain your Caribbean beauties, your yacht and your membership in the Royal Cork…? Fuck no, you don’t want to lose any of it. And you don’t want a tribunal looking into everything while you rot your arse in Mountjoy.”

Murphy shut up and gulped down his Jameson. Just as quickly another, a double, appeared in front of him. He had to admit to himself that there was no way out. Ed Burke was an investment that he couldn’t afford.

Burke chose well. Get the hell out of Dublin-the first command he issued to himself. Go west, young man, said Horace Greeley in America. And that’s what Burke did. Go west to Galway. He knew exactly where. St. Cleran’s. Once the Galway home of film director John Huston, the place where Angelica spent her childhood. Been turned into a most exclusive guesthouse by another famous Irish-American, Merv Griffin. Just the place for them, away from their Dublin 4 crowd. Time to tell Pia, time to hold her, time to decide.

At St. Cleran’s Ed told Pia about the scandal that would break in the days ahead. He teased out all their options, all their choices. And Pia agreed to leave the Minister as soon as they returned to Dublin. Brave out the turbulence ahead. They retired early, Pia reminding him that they had run away together.

Much later they noticed the bottle of Chablis, sitting invitingly in a crystal cooler. Into their second glass, Ed began to feel drowsy and saw that Pia had already closed her eyes and sunk into the pillow beside him. Moments later, he followed her.

Burke’s eyes hurt. Bad. His head hurt too. Worse. He tried to open his eyes. Couldn’t. Sunlight grilled him through the open blinds. Eyes closed, fighting to stay awake, he slid out of bed, stood up, and felt his way to the window. Gripping the blinds, he yanked them closed and then risked opening his eyes. They still hurt but he could see. Turning around, he stopped dead, halfway between the window and the bed. Pia lay there, naked, one leg dangling on the floor, a trickle of blood from her lips forming a small red pond between her breasts.