Galway Girl

Jericho

Selected O’Connell’s bar on Eyre Square for the first meeting of the trinity,

When she’d introduce Stapes to Scott.

Neither Scott nor Stapes knew Jericho had a lover stashed. When she’d finished with the dim duo, she’d give full attention to the one who mattered, whose heart was as black as Jericho’s own.

She entered O’Connell’s.

Why there of all the pubs in the city?

You’d think with her chaos fixation, her general anarchy, she’d go for a dive, some shady gig near the docks or, at the very least, some yuppie shit hole as an ironic gesture.

No.

O’Connell’s over the past few years had become the in place for

Real estate wankers,

Budding entrepreneurs,

Billionaires on paper and by rumor (usually spread by themselves).

O’Connell’s had once been an old-fashioned, very Galway pub.

Mrs. O’Connell died and financial insanity began.

Valued at eleven million in the heady, utterly mad days of the Tiger.

Get this:

She had left it to

St. Vincent de Paul.

To charity.

Many felt a cats’ shelter would have made some kind of misguided sense.

But a charity?

Uh-oh.

And this was before the charities became as crooked publicly as the banks.

So many,

Many

Legal battles.

Jericho had no doubt that Scott, the cop killer, and Stapes, the burglar, would jell.

Why?

Because she would make it so.

She arrived first, dressed in semi-Goth, death white makeup, the kohl, biker jacket, torn jeans, and Docs.

She brought with it an air of cool that said,

“Hey, I’m out there but, like, you know, hot.”

It worked.

The bar guy wasn’t drooling but close and dared in this Me Too era to risk,

“Get cha, babe?”

Jericho gave him a smile and it was a winner, psycho or no. She’d that kind of smile that told you,

“You, you’re a winner.”

She ordered vodka rocks, slimline tonic.

They both enjoyed the slimline touch.

Scott entered next looking morose and as if he’d strayed into the wrong bar. Every bar was really the wrong one. He was just a miserable git.

Dressed in grunge but not as any statement unless

“I don’t give a fuck”

Says anything at all.

He ordered a pint.

No smiles on either side of the divide.

Jericho gave him a brief nod, the one that implies,

“You have not brightened my day.”

Then

Came

Mr. Bon Jovi, his own shining self.

He had his hair gelled, not overly so but sufficient that gel-less guys thought,

“Mm, maybe?”

He had a long soft leather jacket that he’d stolen and it looked either that or very expensive or, indeed, both.

He was the kind of guy who always knew the barman’s name.

How?

Fuck knows.

Black jeans that clung to his body like a brief love and those trainers never seen much anymore.

Made by Camper.

They had a brief day in the shoe sun when Snow Patrol were hot and got free shoes from said company.

Those were the days of early stardom, when even Ireland was on uppers.

But then the Taylor Swift virus hit.

One of the guys got engaged to one of the Friends stars.

One of the women, I think.

And the lead singer did duets with everybody going the road but especially Ms. Swift. She then moved on from him to destroy all cred that Tom Hiddleston was

Enjoying after The Night Manager.

I am of course ashamed to be a mini version of the National Inquirer with all this utterly useless data but time in the dentist’s office has that effect.

Scott instantly hated Stapes and it got a shade worse when Stapes greeted, effusively,

“Hiya, Sean,”

To Pavlov, the bar guy,

Who was glad of any courtesy from the Irish.

Jericho leaped to hug Stapes, and Scott thought,

“I really

Really

Hate this

Bollix.”

As Jericho continued to engulf Stapes in a hug that verged on the dreaded twerk in reverse, if such a thing is even feasible,

Scott fumed, muttered,

“Get a friggin’ room.”

Jericho disengaged slowly, went,

“Phew-oh, that was intense.”

Stapes put out his hand, greeted,

“You must be the infamous Scott.”

Scott tried to rein in his bile but he was fucked if he’d shake hands. He said,

“You’re the incompetent burglar.”

Lame, right?

Sean/Pavlov, acting on a false sense of civility, brought a creamy pint, put it in Stapes’s hand, said,

“On the house.”

You see how insincerity gets a bad press when it can do all kinds of significant shite. Just ask the pope.

“My man,”

Said Stapes.

Jericho suggested they all sit and get the party cooking.

She began,

“Now we all know each other, let’s plan our first event.”

Scott, still sulking, sneered,

“Why are we trusting this loser, this failed housebreaker? We know nothing about him.”

Jericho leaned over, right in Scott’s face, almost like a caress, sensually whispered,

“Because I am fucking him, like biblically.”

Scott pulled back as if he’d been slapped. Stapes sank most of his pint.

Jericho stood up, ordered Scott,

“Outside, now.”

He slunk after her, torn between raging lust and outright hatred.

On the curb, Jericho produced a pack of Marlboro Red, shook two out, and then handed one to Scott with a slimline Zippo, said,

“Fire us up, love.”

He was shaking from temper, snarled,

“I quit.”

She laughed, asked,

“Smoking or our enterprise? Don’t forget, I have you on video.”

His shoulders sagged and he lit both cigs, offered one. She said,

“Put it in my mouth. You know you want to.”

But a flash of himself shooting Guards jumped into his vision. His battered psyche cooed,

“You’re better than this shite.”

He asked,

“You remember you told me how you and your best bud bonded at that festival and that due to peyote and U2 she called you Jericho?”

She was cautious, not sure if the balance of power was on thin ice, tried a slow,

“Yeah, so?”

He sneered triumphantly, said,

“The Joshua Tree was the album.”

Then, with a sneer, demanded,

“So why didn’t she call you Joshua?”

He wanted to add,

“Yah dumb cunt.”

But, you know, he thought,

Enough already.

Jericho nearly told him about the real reason Em called her Jericho but decided, fuck him.

He was wearing his now customary Barbour coat, one of those so worn that not a trace of wax remained. Much favored by the royals, it suggested that the wearer had good taste to begin with but years of shooting pheasant (or perhaps Guards?) had taken their cultural toll. No question of rewaxing it, as, like, that’s what the poor folk might do.

Jericho suddenly reached out, pulled at the cargo pocket of his right leg, and in an instant grabbed the revolver.

She said, in down-home Brooklynese,

“Yah packing heat, you dumb schmuck.”

She checked the cylinder, said,

“Running a little low there, Rich.”

She pushed the gun into her waistband, said,

“It’s been fun but thirsty work. I could murder a shot.”

She walked rapidly back into the pub, sat, Stapes looking a tad confused. Scott followed, sat in a cloud of unknowing. Stapes said,

“Gee, guys, this little triangle is falling apart. Maybe it’s time to call time.”

Jericho gave them both a long look, then said,

“Let’s get some shots in.”

Stood, walked to the counter, shot Sean/Pavlov in the face, turned to the guys, asked,

“Who’s next?”

   Later, in bed with her lover, Jericho relayed the events, said,

“It was so hot. The two dudes were literally shitting their pants.”

Her lover, keen to get in on the action, asked,

“When do I get to play?”

Jericho smiled, said,

“Lemme just fuck with those two, then we can begin our serious game.”