Merrick

The day of the hurling match, I was alight. Going to show me mate our National

Game. Jaysus, I felt fierce proud. Us Irish don’t really do pride, not so you’d

notice and you’d say, fook all to be proud of. But whatever morsel we had, the

Brits kicked the living shit out of it. So a chance to show my friend one of our

rare achievements, It felt good.

And Galway playing mayo, old rivalries, no matter what continent it was on. Met

Merrick at The Stadium, he was dressed in chino’s, a T-shirt that read

……….Fifth of………….

The rest was washed away. He had Ray bans so I couldn’t see his eyes but he

wasn’t as the yuppies say, a happy camper. I could sense it. When you feel good your

own self, you are especially attuned to the nuances of discontent. I asked

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing, looking forward to the game is all.’

Right.

I said

‘Got a small surprise.’

He could give a fook, his whole body language screamed,…enough with

surprises. He tried though, said

‘Great.’

Meaning, I’d rather shove hot pokers up me arse.

I took him inside the stadium, flashed my laminated pass, led him down into the

bowels of the stadium, to the dressing rooms. Knocked on a door, opened by the

manager of The Galway Team, who said

‘Jesus, Ryan, they let you out.’

I introduced him to the team, and the captain, one of the best around, handed

Merrick a hurley, said

‘Take a swing of that big fellow.’

He did, liked it and had the flow.

He was handing it back when the captain said

‘Turn it over.’

On the other side was the signatures of the team.

He was moved, said

‘Thank you, I’m…..moved.’

Being Galwegian, the captain, said

‘You might want to give it back it they hammer the be-Jaysus out of us.’

And we had the best seats too.

I put my holdall at our feet, unzipped it, took out two cold one’s

‘Slainte.’

He was looking at me with a new eye, asked

‘How’d you pull that off?’

I said

‘I got some moves.’

He whistled, said

‘Ain’t that the truth.’

The game was one of the great one’s, sometimes you get lucky. Merrick was stunned by

the sheer speed of the game and the skill necessary to run up a field, the ball, balanced

precariously on the tip of the hurley, he asked

‘The fuck do they do that?’

I said

‘Practice.’

He was fascinated by the shape of the ball, I said

‘It’s a sliothar.’

There is no real translation for that, save a baseball that has lost the run of it’s self.

Galway won by two points but it was close, so tight that Merrick was up and screaming

‘Pass the fucking ball Cunningham.’

I think he got the gist of the game.

After, we headed for Frankie and Johnny’s, the steak place by Penn Station. Yeah, the

one used in the movie. Merrick was aflame, said

‘Jesus buddy, I loved that, got me an appetite too and hey, this is on me, capiche?’

Sure.

We ordered some Philly steak sandwiches, like I knew what the fook they were, and got

the brews while we waited for the grub.

Merrick had pushed the shades atop of his bald dome, sighed, said

‘Some shit came down the pike buddy.’

Told me.

I let it sink in, then said

‘Son of Sam.’

‘What?’

‘This lunatic is playing with serial killer references, Son Of Sam, he said his dog told him

to kill people.’

Merrick thought about it, said

‘Fuck, you might be right, how’d you know about Son Of Sam?’

‘Movies, most all I know is from them, Summer of Sam, Spike lee?’

Our food arrived and Merrick asked

‘You’re all lit up buddy, gotta be more than the game?’

I paused then figured, why not, told him of Shona.

He put down his fork, raised his bottle touched mine said

‘L’chaim.’

After the meal, we sat back, sipping on expresso with a hint of cognac in there.

Merrick said

‘I have two leads.’

I said

‘Ok.’

He reached in his chino’s, took out a slim notebook, flicked through it, then

‘The first, James P. Mallin, an accountant, single, aged forty, no priors, lives in Queen’s.

Moe had put a star beside his name, meaning he was due to interview the guy. Second up, is

Bob Temar, a dentist, again, single and no priors, aged forty five, lives in Tribeca,

business must be good I’m guessing.’

I said

‘Marathon Man’

I’d lost him, he said

‘You’ve lost me.’

’William Goldman, made into a movie with Hoffman, Laurence Oliver.’

He was surprised, said

‘I thought you didn’t read.’

I don’t, my ex was a huge fan of mystery, I suppose no bigger mystery to her than why

she married me.’

I let the bitterness leak all over my tone.

Merrick ambushed me, asked

‘What was her name?’

‘Why?’

“Because it’s important to you.’

Fook.

I said

‘Roisin.’

‘And your daughter?

I needed a smoke, said

‘Got to make a piss.’

Got outside, fumbled for my cigs, my Zippo, my throat choked. Jesus, I had as they say,

compartmentalized

My feelings, especially about Siobhan, that’s Joan in English and in the heart, all the woe

I know. She was six now, six years without her Dad. My last call to Roisin, to see if they

needed any money, she’d told me Sioban called the new husband……….Dad.

I bit down and swallowed hard.

Crushed the cig under my converse sneaker, turned to see Merrick, he touched my

shoulder, said

‘The tab is paid, wanna grab a night cap.’

I did.

He took me to The Mansefield Hotel, up on 54^th, across the road from The Algonquin.

Even I’d heard of Dorothy Parker. The bar there was lined with books and we ordered

some Sam Adams, I said

‘Flash place.’

He smiled, said

‘You believe it, an Irish guy introduced this place to me.’

So you have to ask

‘A friend?’

He shook his head, said

‘The guy was a writer, they don’t really do friends I hear.’

Thought about it, said

‘Writers are no mystery if you know you are just part of the plot.’

Too deep for me. I raised the beer, asked

‘This is good, right?’

He nodded, said

‘They might have cursed us with The Red Sox but they make decent beer.’