Merrick

‘’I HAVE PERSONAL PROBLEMS.’

SAID BOBBY FISCHER, AS HE SCORED

CHECKMATE.

Merrick picked me up the next morning, just after ten, Shona was still sleeping, and I’d

time to pick up coffee’s from the Deli on the corner.

They were getting to know me there, called me Irish. That we don’t mind, it’s what we

are but Paddy, you’re fooked and gone. Merrick had a stripped down Chevy, looked old,

looked like him. I got in, handed over the coffee and he went

‘What, no Danish?’

I said

‘Yeah, you’re welcome.’

He sipped it, said

‘Black and sweet.’

‘Like your soul.’

I said,

asked

‘What’s with the Chevy?’

‘Belongs to my boy, he’s at Art College, it needed a tune up so I took care of that.’

Night before, just as Shona was about to drift off, she asked

‘What do you guys talk about?’

The correct answer, or the one you give if you want to keep her is

‘You sweetheart.’

Women have deep, lay it all out there sharing. Guys?

like fook.

We talk sports

And

Sports.

Mostly.

We don’t EVER, use words like

Share

Bonding

And

Dr Phil

Is the great white dope.

Spain had taken The World Cup during the summer and I said to Merrick that the USA

were definitely getting their act together with soccer, their goalie, Howard had even been

with Man United. Serious fooking kudos. Merrick said

‘You guys are really into soccer, right?’

‘Shite yeah, I’d a few Euro on Argentina but they phoned in their crucial game.’

Then, Jesus, I was off and running, rapping intense about the beauty of Barcelona,

Torres

………when he cut me off

‘’Whoa buddy, I said I was mildly interested but a lecture, did I sign on?’

I did what any decent Irish guy would so

Sulked.

It was quite a drive to Queens so he glanced at me, said

‘Jeez, Ryan, come on, I didn’t mean that, tell me about Mara donna, wasn’t he the

manager of Argentina.?

I finished my coffee, thinking a Danish would have been good, but a smoke, that would

have been classic, like after love making but smoke in an American’s car?

Get outa here.

I said

‘He’s a flawed genius who has now become a genius who is flawed.’

Merrick laughed, said

‘Like I’ve one freaking notion what that means.’

Well, I tried and sometimes, trying is ultimately, trying.

That I kept to me own self.

I asked

‘So this guy?’

Merrick was watching of the exit, said

‘James P. Malone, an accountant, and like I said, no priors, no wife, no nada.’

He added

‘He lives and works in Ditmars Boulevard, it’s a predominantly Greek outpost and if

you’re real good this time out, I’ll treat you to Baklava and an espresso at Karyotins,

worth

the trip to Queens alone.’

We were cruising through Steinway, East of Astoria. I asked

‘Steinway, like in piano?’

‘Yup, he bought up the district for homes for his workers.’

He took his right hand off the wheel, pointed towards the bay, said

‘Off shore is Rikers, the most overcrowded joint in the city.’

We pulled up on 31^st St, just a spit from Malone’s place. Merrick was about to launch, I

said

‘I got it, shut the fook up.’

He nearly smiled.

Malone’s building was neat, clean, discrete. A small wooden shingle advertising his

accountancy business.

We went in, a large open space, almost ten people working at PC.s, and a sing that led to

reception. This was a different set up to our Tribeca gig, the woman here was close to

seventy, no Lindsay Logan. I kind of liked the Tribeca mode. She looked up, rasped,

testifying to a life of nicotine,

‘Help you?’

Her tone, weary, like she gave a rat’s ass if she could or not, help us that is. She’d seen

some crap, and didn’t look like she was expecting to win the numbers anytime soon.

Her name plate read, M.Trenton.

Merrick said

‘Madam, we’ve an appointment with Mr. Malone.’

She looked up, Madam?……….took a moment, then

‘Oh the cop, yeah, go right in?’

We were about to when she asked

‘And who’s the hot babe with you?’

I loved her already.

Merrick, not so much..