The Bloomsday Dead

9: HADES (BELFAST-JUNE 16, 7:45 P. M.)

The day has shed its skeleton and the dark is finding corners all over the city. It has taken until this time for the sun to finally dip behind the surrounding hills. A night of smothering blackness and a yellow moon. Stars beginning to show between the clouds.

Dusk is when Belfast really clicks. Fights. Murders. Burglary. A thousand calls about someone we’re doing over. Someone we’re lifting. Sober men rubbing their hands and performing with clear consciences wee jobs and the breaking of bones.

Not that it bothers me. I’m impervious. My story is that of the escape artist, the killer. It’s taken me a while but now I have momentum.

Children in front of me throwing footballs at one another across the street. Not much younger than Bridget’s child. That poor lost girl.

“My turn, mine.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

I give the ball to the nearest kid, a redhead whose face is one big freckle.

“It’s her turn,” I insist.

The girls look up from their game and their dirty summer clothes. Glad that an adult has restored order.

“And can somebody please tell me where Brazil Street is?”

“Down there on the left. Are you looking for the Dove?” Red says.

“Aye.”

“It’s right in the middle of the street, the steps that go down,” her friend explains.

I thank the kids and reach the corner. I’m ready. I see a board above a small entryway with an arrow pointing to the basement. A neon sign that says “The Dove.”

I cross the street, walk down the steps, and knock the door. A big metal job that can sustain a petrol bomb attack or a police battering ram.

A man opens it a crack. A sleekit character with a reconstructed nose, no hair, paramilitary tattoos. Bouncer type.

“What do you want?”

“Here for the fight,” I say.

“What fight?”

“Henry Joy McCracken.”

“Why didn’t you say so, come on in.”

I hear a heavy chain being unhooked and the door swings open.

“Two-pound cover,” the bouncer says.

“Ok,” I say, and give him a two-pound coin.

“Down the bottom,” he says, and goes back to reading The Bridges of Madison County.

Murk. A stink. A creaky set of wooden stairs.

“Down these steps?” I ask.

“Aye, watch you don’t break your neck,” he says without looking up.

Carefully I walk down the steep staircase.

A lot of noise coming from behind a metal door. I push on it, go in.

A wall of cigarette smoke. Screaming, shouting, yelping. The aroma of defecation, blood, spilled beer, and sweat. A gloomy room with an arc light swaying from a concrete beam. From the noise, the fight must have already begun. A ring of about thirty men. I walk closer. A barrier of sandbags, sawdust on the floor, and two pit bull terriers tearing the hell out of each other. A brown one and a black one. Both dogs are caked with gore, the brown one’s ear has been ripped off, the other’s eyes are filled with blood. They’re tired and snapping at each other with desperate weary lunges. But it’s clear that no one is going to stop it. This is a fight to the death. I watch for a moment and then head farther into the crowd. Don’t want to stand out. Maybe all these men know one another.

A bookie comes over to me. Skinny character in a suit, tie, and chestnut wig. You can tell he’s a bookie even without the chits he’s carrying, because he has that wiry bookie energy and a hungry look.

“Wager?” he asks.

“It’s all over by the looks of it,” I say.

He gazes back at the fight.

“Give you two to one on Danielle,” he says.

“Which one is Danielle?”

“The bay,” he says.

There’s no point on getting on the wrong side of him, and bookies love marks more than anything in the world. I give him a tenner and he gives me a paper chit.

“Listen, it’s my first time here. Supposed to meet a mate of mine, Gusty McKeown, you know Gusty? Bit of a joker. Where-abouts is he?”

“Gusty’s right over there,” he says, pointing to a tall, spiderlike man with a black bowl haircut and hollow eyes.

Just then the black dog falls on the brown one, sinks its teeth into its throat, and begins biting through its windpipe. It’s something I’ve seen lions attempt on TV but never witnessed a dog do. It’s awful. The brown dog’s howls are silenced and it slowly suffocates.

“You can’t win them all, sorry,” the bookie says.

“Should have offered me ten to one,” I tell him, to keep him sweet.

He smiles.

I edge around the ring of perspiring, heaving low-lifes and find Gusty yelling as the brown dog expires in a blood-curdling spasm. When the cheering dies, a man comes in with a snow shovel and scoops up the dead dog. Another man muzzles the winner and leads it off. A third man throws more sawdust on the floor. The crowd is buzzing with cathartic release and expectation about the next bout on the card. Mixed crowd of Prod and Catholic paramilitaries together- you can tell because of the tattoos. Maybe underground dog fighting is one of those cross-community schemes everyone is always trying to encourage.

The bookie, who seems also to be master of ceremonies, walks into the center of the ring and begins a spiel about the next two unfortunates.

“Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed our pedigree tussle. Quite a performance. Now it’s a mongrel battle. Sparky is a wee fighter from Doagh, this is his first time in a formal competition, but let me tell you, I have seen this dog go on mutts twice his size…”

“Gusty… Gusty,” I whisper in the big lad’s ear.

He turns and looks at me.

“Who the fuck are-”

I get real close, lift his T-shirt, and put the snub of the.38 against his belly fat. I grin at him for show and pat him on the back like we’re old mates. But I’m angry now. Those kids outside, all this, what’s happening to Siobhan, it’s finally getting to me.

“Gusty, listen to me, me old china plate, this is a fucking.38-caliber revolver and I’m going to blow your guts apart if you don’t tell me what happened to Siobhan Callaghan,” I say quietly.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

I push the revolver tight into his stomach so hard that it’s bound to be hurting.

“Gusty, I’m serious here,” I say.

The arc light swaying on the crossbeam swings above our heads and the bookie ringmaster catches my eye. The bottom halves of our bodies are blocked from him by the people in front, so he can’t see the gun, but Gusty has turned several degrees paler and it doesn’t look so good.

“Another wager, stranger?” he shouts over. A few men turn to give me the once-over. Have to reply fast.

“Aye, twenty quid on that thing on your head against any dogs you got back there,” I shout back and keep the revolver tight on Gusty’s belly button so he won’t try anything heroic. The crowd hoots with laughter and the bookie gives me a black look and goes back to his spiel.

I pull Gusty’s hand behind his back and twist it hard. Gusty winces. The bookie gives me another suspicious glance. That son of a bitch doesn’t like the look of me one bit, but he’s immediately caught up in a dozen wagers; while he writes them down, two unfortunate terrier mixes are led out on ropes.

“Who took Siobhan, Gusty? Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll kill you right now, Gusty. I don’t give a shit what happens to you or me; tell me where Siobhan is and you’ll live, don’t tell me and I swear to God I’ll fucking plug you in two seconds,” I say, looking him square in his dilating pupils-attempting in that look to convey what a badass motherfucker I am, how little Gusty’s life means to me, and how easy it would be to let him die.

Gusty gets some of it but not enough. He’s still more afeared of them than he is of me.

“Gusty, I know you murdered Barry on the Ginger Bap. I know you’re working for the kidnappers. Tell me where she is,” I say.

The dogs begin ripping each other to shreds.

The room. The sweat. The stink. The bookie yelling. Me pushing. Gusty trembling.

And then just like that, a tidal wave of exhaustion ripples through me. It’s hard to keep this up. Hard to go at it hour after hour, day after day. Tired of all of it. This sordid wee place. People like Gusty. This whole town, in fact. Belfast with its surface changes. But these generations of old blue-white fat men have to die first for real change. Gusty’d be a good start.

“Ok, mate, you’re done, I’ve had it,” I say and make the mental decision to kill him just to see what happens. I squeeze the trigger.

Luckily, in a piece of telepathy or empathy, he sees exactly what I’m thinking and starts begging for his life.

“Please don’t. I don’t know where you get your fucking information, but really I don’t know a thing about that wee missing girl,” he says rapidly.

Make the present terror more incipient with a countdown, I tell myself.

“Ok, Gusty, it’s an old saw, but I’ll give you five seconds and then I’m going to shoot you in the kidney. One-”

Gusty’s no Braveheart. No one who goes to a dogfight is a bloody Braveheart.

“Ok, ok, fucking Jesus. Don’t shoot me, I’ll tell you everything. Don’t shoot me for fucksake, my wife just had a bairn.”

“I don’t give a damn if she gave birth to the bloody Messiah, now talk.”

“Ok, ok, ok, I’ll tell you everything I know, which isn’t fucking much,” he says.

To show that there’s a bit of quid pro quo in the transaction, I remove the gun from his gut but I keep my hand as close to his belly as if it were J.Lo’s arse.

Time must have passed because two more dogs begin ripping each other to shreds and it occurs to me that we seem a wee bit suspicious standing here stock-still, whispering.

“Go on, my son,” I yell when one of the dogs bites the other on the bridge of the skull.

“Cheer the dog,” I tell Gusty.

“Kill the fucker,” he yells.

“Ok now, Gusty, you better talk; I’m like Doctor Kevorkian, no fucking patients left,” I say.

“Ok, yeah, I helped top the kids. It was ugly. I didn’t do the actual killing. A boy from County Down did it. Bangor, I think. I didn’t know him. He was working for an outfit from out of town. I swear I didn’t kill them boys.”

“I don’t give a shit; what was your partner’s name and who was he working for?”

“All I have is the name, that’s all I know, I wasn’t involved. I swear it.”

“Give it.”

“Slider McFerrin.”

“Address?”

Sweat on his forehead. His eyes darting from side to side.

“I don’t know. He’s from Bangor. I didn’t know he was a player. I had no idea it was to do with Bridget Callaghan’s daughter.”

“There was no girl on the Ginger Bap?”

“Fuck no, I would have told Seamus if I’d thought there was more to it than a wee hit.”

A fake smile of reassurance over his pallid face.

“What exactly did Slider say to you?” I ask him.

“First of all, Slider heard about me as a man who could get him guns. He needed guns. He said he was working for a serious hardmen outfit from over the water and he was coming into a big score on June sixteenth and I’d get a cut of it if I could get him all the weapons he needed.”

“And?”

“I said no problem, for the right dough I could get him anything.”

“Where did the kids come in?”

“Well, after I said I could get him the guns, he wanted to know if I’d be willing to help take care of one of his boss’s enemies. Kid called Barry, who was a drug dealer working for Seamus Deasey.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him it would be tough, you’d have to sweeten Seamus; and Slider says, there’s ten gees to kill Barry, ten gees for the guns, ten gees to sweeten Seamus, and ten gees for me to keep my mouth shut.”

“You couldn’t say no to that, could you?”

“No.”

“What next?”

He gulps, tilts his head to the side, takes a breath.

“I got the guns from Seamus; they wanted Pechenegs, big Russian jobs, handguns, silencers, the works. I paid Seamus off, had to tell him about Barry, but he knew to keep mum; it was a big score for him and he didn’t want to pass the cut on to Body O’Neill.”

“And then you killed Barry and his mate?”

“No, no, I didn’t touch them. I just showed Slider where the boat was and helped him out. He shot the Scottish lad, but he had to question Barry first to make sure he hadn’t blabbed.”

Another fake grin.

“Then what?” I ask.

“That was yesterday. He gave me half my score. The rest tomorrow by FedEx when he gets the big money. Haven’t seen him since then.”

“And you knew nothing about the kidnapping?”

“Not a thing. Slider’s a hard case and says if I ask any questions or breathe a word, no kneecapping, no Belfast six-pack, but instead a bullet in the neck from those over-the-water types.”

“Better not be lying, Gusty,” I say.

“It’s fucking gold, so it is. I swear it.”

I nod.

I know with a dead certainty that Gusty is lying through his teeth. He didn’t stand idly by while Slider topped those two lads on the boat. It’s more likely that Slider is the middleman and Gusty iced them. He certainly helped. Whether he’s deeper in the kidnapping than this I don’t know, but somehow I doubt it. Probably hired him for this one job. Doesn’t seem like a criminal mastermind. The real person I need to speak to is Slider McFerrin.

“Slider told you nothing about these over-the-water players?”

“Nothing. He was keeking it, no way he was saying.”

“I swear to God, Gusty, if you’re keeping anything back, you’re fucked. Slider and Barry are mixed up in the disappearance of Bridget Callaghan’s daughter. Bridget’ll fucking kill you and Seamus’ll fucking kill you and O’Neill will kill you.”

“I don’t know anything about any kidnapping. This was just a wee job. Guns and a hit. That’s all,” Gusty says.

“Whereabouts in Bangor is this Slider fella?”

“I don’t know. He let it slip he was from Bangor, but he wasn’t saying. I don’t know any of the hoods from Bangor, but you could ask around.”

I grimace and take a step away.

“You keep your trap shut until the girl’s back with her ma. Understood?”

“I understand.”

He nods at me and I begin making my way through the throng. What next? Up the stairs, out into Belfast, somehow get to Bangor. A town about fifteen clicks away in northern County Down. Make sure I call the cops about that murdering bastard Gusty, although that can wait until after midnight too.

Never turn your back.

It’s an old lesson and a good ’un.

“He’s a fucking peeler,” Gusty suddenly screams at the top of his voice. “He’s a fucking undercover. Get him.”

Like in a club when a drunk falls into the DJ’s turntable, the noise in the room immediately ceases. Even the dogs stop killing each other for a second.

I run for the stairs.

I don’t make it.

Two men immediately on top of me hammering punches into the side of my head. I thump one off. The other tries to butt me in the nose, misses, and smashes me in the forehead. I stick a fingernail in his right eye and kick him away. But it’s too late now and the rest of the room is running over. A couple of punches and then an aluminum bat smacks into my ribs. You know you’re in trouble when someone produces a baseball bat. Baseball isn’t played in Ireland. Men who carry baseball bats for a living are professional skull smashers. Another bat crashes into my legs. I go down yelling. A kick lands on the side of my head. More kicks in my ribs. I see the glint of a knife. Baseball bats and knives. Well, that’s it then. They’re not messing about, they’re going to kill me. An undercover cop, fair game in their eyes.

The bat comes down heavily a couple of inches from my head, breaking someone’s foot instead. A kick just misses getting me in the balls. But someone succeeds in stamping on my chest, knocking the wind out of me.

And finally I manage to pull out the revolver.

I shoot someone in the leg and someone else in the gut. Both men fall to the floor with heavy thuds, too shocked even to yell.

The kicking stops, the men freeze for a moment. I fire into the ceiling. The attackers take a step back.

I am badly hurt and I realize immediately I’ve a window of only a few seconds before I’ll pass out. Blood is pouring into my mouth, my head’s pounding. I get to my feet. Almost fall, steady myself.

“I’m not a fucking cop,” I say and swing the pistol around wildly, pointing it at various individuals. They’re scared now, ready to believe me. “Gusty owes me ten grand, I’m his collector.”

They turn to look at our old pal.

Need to further concentrate their minds. I shoot him in the crotch. He falls to the ground, screaming.

“Next person to fucking look in my direction is off to the fiery pit,” I tell them.

I shamble-run to the stairs. The doorman blocking my path. I shoot him in the left thigh, push past him, and scramble up the steps. The mob boiling behind me, debating whether to follow me or not. Am I a cop? Am I not? A confusion in the stories and the fact that I still have a gun. I have one round left. One for any one of them.

I open the metal door and run into the street. Down one alley, then another, losing myself.

Losing myself.

The blood pouring out.

My head throbbing.

Pain mounting.

Those flashing lights again.

Take a look back, no pursuit.

Another alley. I slip, fall into a pile of garbage cans.

Aye, that’s me. In the goddamn rubbish. At home here.

In Belfast.

In Dublin.

And back.

I fall way back.

Across countries. Oceans. Years.

Lima.

Los Angeles.

Farther.

All the way to a cold January in the Bronx, where my mind wants to take me for reasons that I don’t get now but I’ll understand by midnight.

Tsssfffff… We came running down the lane, between the railway tracks and the security fence. A red number 2 train approaching and Andy afraid that we were going to be sucked over onto the line the way Goldfinger got sucked out of the plane in the Bond flick.

“There’s no way,” I tried telling him. “It’s all to do with pressure.”

“Aye, you say that, and when I’m mashed up against the carriages you can tell my ma.”

The train was accelerating and we still had about fifty yards until we got to the steps at the platform.

“We’re not going to make it,” Andy said. Fergal was leading us, but he was so looped on paint thinner he thought he was back in the OC, hare coursing or something, screaming and hooting and generally spooking Andy and me.

“Will you shut it, you big glipe,” I told him, but he was uncontrollable.

The train was bearing down and those buggers in the MTA never stop.

“We’re gonna die now,” Andy said behind me.

“We’re not going to die,” I assured him.

But the gap between the line and the security fence was only about a yard wide and for the first time I began to think that Andy might be right. Maybe the bloody thing was going to hit us. It was coming at a fair oul clip, that was for sure.

“If we cut over to the other side of the tracks, there’s more room,” Andy suggested.

“Go and you’ll trip and fall and get bloody electrocuted and then beheaded and I’ll have to explain that to your ma,” I said.

“Well, big Fergal’s going to get it first, the way he’s carrying on.”

“And he deserves it, his idea.”

I looked up the track to see where Fergal was, but everything was absorbed into the train’s headlights. It couldn’t be more than ten feet in front of us. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

It sounded its horn and I found myself screaming.

“Oh my God,” Andy yelled out and then the thing was on top of us.

“It’s sucking me in,” I heard myself shrieking. “Sucking me in, so it is.”

Couple of people staring at us from their seats, lights, clattering wheels, sparks. In a few seconds the train was past. Fergal was giving it the fingers from the side of the track. I was hyperventilating. Deep breaths, I told myself, deep breaths.

Andy put his hand on my back. I shook my head.

“That boy is going to get us killed,” I said, pointing at Fergal.

“More than likely,” Andy agreed.

We headed up the line, caught Fergal, grabbed him by the jacket, and trailed the useless ganch after us. We exited the subway station and found the steps down the hill. Sure, it saved us about fifteen blocks by going over the fence and along the tracks, but it had taken years off our lives.

A minute later we walked into the brightly lit bar, more or less in one piece. Fergal looked at his clunky digital watch and told us that it was exactly nine o’clock.

“My shortcut paid off. We’ll be able to get a seat now,” he said, sliding his way among the patrons. Andy gave me a disgusted glance and I validated it with an eyebrow raise.

We walked to the bar, but before we got five paces a bouncer tapped me on the shoulder.

“How old are you boys?” the bouncer asked in a monotone.

“How can you ask me that question?” Andy said. I groaned. Just answer, you bloody big stupid eejit. “Can’t you see that I’m twenty-five?” Andy continued. The bouncer looked at him with skepticism as Andy rummaged for the fakest of fake IDs. Fergal waved his hand in front of the bouncer’s face.

“These are my mates,” he said.

Fergal was five or six years older than Andy and myself, but even so, that wouldn’t matter to the bouncer. I sighed. All this way into the heart of the Bronx and then risking death on a shortcut along the elevated subway tracks. All for some mythical bar that would probably be shite. Moot, anyway, because it looked like we were going to get chucked out after just two seconds inside the establishment.

“I’m twenty-five,” Andy insisted and showed the ID.

The bouncer looked at Fergal for a second.

“Wait a minute. Do you work for Sunshine and Darkey White?” the bouncer asked.

Fergal’s eyes narrowed. He drew himself up to his full height.

“Aye, I do,” Fergal said.

“And these are your mates?” the bouncer asked him.

“Aye, they’re tagging along. Andy here has been with us about six months, and for young Michael, this is his very first week in America.”

The bouncer looked upset and then afraid.

“Sorry, I had no idea, I had no idea,” he said apologetically.

“It’s ok,” Fergal said.

He backed away.

“Sorry for grabbing you on the shoulder, pal. I didn’t know you were working for Darkey White,” he said to me.

“Forget it,” I muttered. “It’s nothing.” Although it wasn’t nothing, and Fergal suddenly gained stature before my eyes.

We walked upstairs to the top bar, our ultimate destination.

Of course, we could have gone drinking anywhere in Riverdale or Manhattan but what was special about this place, allegedly, was that it was full of underage Fordham girls, who, Fergal claimed, were gagging for it all the bloody time. Beer, underage girls, Fergal on paint thinner. Quite the mix.

“My prediction,” I told Andy, “is that it’s going to end in tears.”

“Lucky if it’s only tears.”

We opened the door of the top bar and went in. But for once, Shangrila wasn’t over the next mountain. It was right bloody here, if your particular utopia was heavily made-up seventeen-year-old Catholic girls, in slut skirts, heels, jewels, and perfume from their ma’s closet.

There were mirrors everywhere and bright interrogation-style lights. MTV was playing on two TV screens, the music so loud that everyone except the bar staff had to shout. The girls had attracted a rough crowd of ne’er-do-wells from Long Island-surly suburban kids, looking for action of any description: girls or fights, either would be acceptable.

Fergal sussed a vacant table near the corner right under one of the TVs. He led the way, his big arms swinging wildly at his sides, terrifying me into thinking that he was about to knock over someone’s pint. He could handle himself, but it was inevitable that Andy and me would be drawn in to any fracas. A couple of silent prayers and mantras kept him safe all the way to the corner. We sat down and took off our jackets.

“My shout,” I said, and asked the boys what they were having. Everyone was on lagers, so that was easy to remember. The barman caught my eye as soon as I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. Part of the advance Sunshine had sent me to bring me over from Belfast to New York.

I ordered three pints. I paid with the bill, got the change, and put the three pints into a triangle. I weaved my way back through the tables, avoiding obvious booby traps in the shape of extended legs or handbags or the belts of folded-up coats.

“Cheers,” Fergal said, grabbing his pint right out of my hand and drinking half of it in one gulp and then belching. It was tough to be seen with Fergal. He played quite the rube. Eccentric one too. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and trousers and tatty woolen waistcoat. He had a red beard that looked like a case of scrum pox gone awry. Andy claimed that Fergal was a sophisticated thief back in the OC, but it was hard to credit.

I sat down, looked at Andy, and we both took a sip of beer.

“So what’s the craic?” Andy asked me. “How’s America treating you so far?”

“It’s ok.”

“How’s your place?” he asked.

“Fucking shitehole.”

“Be it ever so humble…”

“Ok, boys, listen,” Fergal said, looking serious and conspiratorial. With the getup he was in, the conspiracy could have involved a plot against Queen Victoria, but more likely it was about the girls.

“Listen. I’ve been checking out the table under the clock. Don’t all look round at once, but tell me how old you think the brunette under the R in Rangers is?”

Fergal was checking out a brazen wee hussy with a six-inch-high beehive hairdo, hello-sailor lipstick, and pancake to cover the acne. She was with her older sister, who, after a great deal of pestering, was obviously taking her out on a Saturday-night thrill. Neither sister was going home with anyone tonight.

“Sixteen,” Andy offered.

Fergal looked at me.

“Not sixteen, no way,” I said. “I know for a fact how old she is.”

“Seventeen?” Fergal suggested.

I shook my head again, taking a big sip of my pint to keep up the suspense.

“That girl is fourteen years old,” I said at last.

Both of them were suitably impressed, taking unsubtle double takes.

“No way,” Andy said.

“Believe it, kiddo. I’ll go ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

They didn’t believe me. I asked her. She said she was twenty-one and I told her I heard there was going to be a police raid to check IDs. The whole table cleared out five minutes later and once the rumor was out, four other tables after that.

Andy’s round. He went to the bar, but despite being a giant he had some trouble getting served. Fergal, fully recovered now from his paint-thinner experience, was in a reflective mood.

“Yon Andy boy is encumbered not just by imposing stature but also by his astounding lack of bar presence,” Fergal said.

“Explain.”

“Certainly. He’s not ugly, not handsome. And to have presence at the bar you need to have either a very handsome noticeable face or a very ugly noticeable face. Andy is right in the middle,” Fergal said.

“Whereas you, Fergal, are a big lanky bugger with a horrible beard, the dress sense of a street person, and a nose that’s bigger than some of the smaller hills in the Netherlands,” I said, just to see how far I could push Fergal boy. But he wasn’t fazed.

“All very true, and explains why I never have to wait more than thirty seconds at the bar. You get served very quickly because, I conjecture, the barman is thinking that anyone with your evil eyes is liable to do just about anything if he doesn’t get his pint pretty sharpish.”

“I take evil eyes as a compliment,” I said.

“As you should.”

Andy came back and asked what we were talking about.

“Just oul shite,” I told him truthfully, and got stuck into beer number three.

Fergal finished his pint and looked around the bar.

“Boys. Sorry I brought you. This place is a bust, let’s get over into the city,” he said with ennui. We all agreed, drank the rest of our bevvies, and grabbed our coats from the backs of the chairs. We had all just stood up when the bar door opened and Scotchy Finn came in.

Scotchy Finn. Finally.

“There he is,” Andy said. “That’s Scotchy, he bloody said he was coming, but you never know with him.”

“That’s Scotchy?” I asked, staring at a dangerously thin, paleskinned, orange-haired, bucktoothed, sleekit wee freak.

“That’s him,” Andy insisted.

I hadn’t encountered Scotchy yet, but his reputation had preceded him. He was supposed to have met me at the airport, but he hadn’t. He was supposed to have gotten me an apartment in Riverdale, but he’d found me one in Harlem instead. He was supposed to have taken me around the city, but he’d left all that to Andy. To cap it all, the story was that if Sunshine liked me, Scotchy was going to get his own crew, with the three of us under him. Our new boss.

Scotchy saw us and beamed from ear to ear.

“Boys, you weren’t heading out, were you? Rounds on me,” Scotchy said, and threw his jacket into the corner. We all sat down again. Scotchy went to the bar and came back almost immediately with four pints and whiskey chasers.

“Death to death,” Scotchy said, and knocked back his whiskey.

We all followed suit.

“You’re the newie, right?” he asked me.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Heard you were in the fucking British army,” he asked aggressively.

“Aye, right again.”

“Well, ya bloody collaborator, I spent my time blowing up the British army, trapping them, killing ’em, sniping them, down in South Armagh,” Scotchy said with a touch of hammy malevolence.

“Aye, I thought I could detect a culchie inbred-hillbilly accent. South Armagh. Surprised you had the time to fight the Brits when you were fucking your sister and the various domestic farm animals that were handy, not that you could probably tell the difference between your sister and the farm animals,” I said, and took a drink of my pint.

I wasn’t sure how he would react to that and I was nervous for about half a second before Scotchy opened his fangy chops, grinned, and broke into a laugh.

“I think I’m going to like you, Michael,” he said.

“Well, I’d love to say the same, but I’m not too sure, Scotchy,” I told him.

“Forsythe, is it? Like Bruce Forsyth, that fucking shite comedian?”

“Aye, like Bruce Forsyth the shite comedian,” I said.

“Ok, from now you’re fucking going to be Bruce,” Scotchy said.

“I don’t think so, mate,” I replied.

Scotchy ignored me and turned his attention to Andy and Fergal.

“Well, boys, how have you been while I’ve been dodging bullets and making us all rich in Washington Heights?”

“Good,” I said, still speaking for the group, my first attempt to assert my dominance over them and, hopefully, one day over Scotchy, too.

Scotchy ignored me again, then went on to tell us what particular mischief he’d been up to all night with Big Bob and Mikey Price and the rest of the crew. Extortion, muscle, threats-fun stuff. After a couple of bloody anecdotes, Scotchy looked at me and grabbed me by the arm.

“Come on, new boy, get those down your neck and it’s back to my place. Having a party for ya. Just decided. Get youse fixed up yet, even Andy over there, the big scunner.”

We wolfed our pints, barely able to keep up with Scotchy as he got in another and ordered a keg of beer to carry out. Scotchy tried to pull the remaining jailbait, but no one would go with him. He went to the bog while Fergal and I lugged the keg to Scotchy’s Oldsmobile.

“Are you sure you should be driving, Scotchy?” Andy asked him as we got in the back. Scotchy swiped at the top of his head.

“Ok, ok, I was only asking,” Andy muttered.

Scotchy put the car in gear and spun the wheels out of the car park. Scotchy was a terrible driver-even when fully sober he fiddled continually with the washer fluid, the mirror, and the radio; and now he was half tore.

Twice he almost got us into accidents, one of them with a police car.

He flipped the stations and when Karen Carpenter’s warble came on, Andy asked him to leave it.

“I like that song,” Andy said, in vino veritas.

“I like it too,” Scotchy concurred.

I rolled my eyes at Fergal, but he also appeared to like the Carpenters, making me think that I alone in the vehicle hadn’t been body-snatched.

We arrived at Scotchy’s pad in Riverdale at 10:30. Nice place, with a balcony and a view across the Hudson. Scotchy had done minimal decorating. A few posters of Who and Jam concerts he’d attended. A sloppy paint job in the kitchen. A proud display of beer bottles from all over the world on his long mantelpiece.

Scotchy showed us to the liquor cabinet and started making phone calls. By twelve, there must have been forty people there, but only about a quarter of them girls. At least the booze was good. Scotchy had boosted a huge case of single malts from the distributor. Twelve-year-old Bowmore, seventeen-year-old Talisker, and an Islay laid down in the year of my birth.

Just after midnight, Sunshine showed up. A saturnine, balding Steve Buscemi type who was Darkey White’s number two. I’d met him once before, when he’d interviewed me about working for Darkey. Even more than Scotchy’s, it was Sunshine’s call whether I got the job or not, so I made a point of talking to him about movies old and new. Sunshine liked me and introduced me to Big Bob Moran and his brother David. Bob was already drunk and complaining about the Dominicans who were invading his neighborhood in Inwood. He was going to move back out to Long Island, he said. David Moran was a more complicated character, who worked directly for Mr. Duffy, the reputed head of the entire Irish mob in New York City. David and Sunshine had a lot in common: they’d both gone to NYU, were both thinkers. Both white-collar types, unlike me and Scotchy on the bloody coal face.

“Sunshine says you’ll be joining him very shortly,” David Moran said.

“He hasn’t told me yet, at least not formally.”

“Sunshine has heard great things about you; you ran a couple of rackets when you were a teenager in Belfast and you were even in the army for a while. Remember, we’re all one big family here,” he said. He patted me on the cheek.

Scotchy noticed Bob, David, and Sunshine for the first time and came running over. He shook hands and dragged them outside to see his new car.

Andy found me and took me to one side.

“Listen, Michael, let me tell you who’s just arrived,” he said in hushed tones.

“Is it the pope? Madonna?” I said breathlessly.

“Bridget Callaghan,” he said.

“Who’s that?”

“Pat’s wee girl, the youngest. She’s just back from university. She’s dropped out, so don’t say anything about that, it would upset her, ok?”

I nodded. But there was something else. I could read Andy like a book.

“What?”

“What do you mean what?”

“Tell me.”

Andy sighed.

“Darkey’s very fond of her, she’s very beautiful. Darkey treats her like a daughter. He told me specifically he wants me to look after her now she’s back in New York, so she doesn’t get in any trouble. Now, Michael, that means you, too, I don’t want you trying to go off with her, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Promise me,” Andy said.

“Jesus, I promise,” I said.

“Ok, let’s go meet them, she’s got a couple of wee friends with her, I think.”

“And can I ask them out?”

“’Course.”

We met Bridget.

She had dyed blond hair and freckles. It might be that she was beautiful, but I couldn’t get a good look at her under the party lights. She offered her hand. I shook it.

“Michael Forsythe,” I said.

“Andy told me you were here. I’m Bridget. He says you’ll be working for him,” Bridget said in a bubbly New York accent.

“Yeah, right, I’ll be working for Andy,” I said sarcastically.

“Listen, it’s nice to meet you, but I’m not stopping, the last place on earth I’d want to be on a Saturday night is a party at Scotchy’s house.”

“I can see why,” I said.

There was a long awkward pause during which I identified her perfume as something refined from citrus zest.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” she said and turned to find her friends. I watched her bum sashay through the party. She gave Andy a friendly kiss on the cheek. Much to my surprise, I found that I was jealous. I quickly barged through the crowd and stood beside her.

“You don’t have to go yet,” I said to her.

“I do, I have to find my friends,” she muttered.

“Yeah, Michael won’t keep you,” Andy said.

“Well, Andy won’t keep you, he has to get back to listening to the Carpenters,” I attempted weakly.

“Being a wetback, Michael has to go home early and hide from the INS,” Andy said, giving me the skunk eye.

“At least I don’t have zero bar presence,” I said.

“At least I don’t smoke,” Andy replied.

“At least I’m old enough to smoke.”

“I’m the same age as you,” Andy said.

“Why don’t you two boys just kiss and make up,” Bridget mocked.

Andy and I were put in our place, and we both laughed. Bridget was quick as well as cute, and I was now officially captivated. I tapped Andy on the back five times, which meant that all I wanted was five minutes alone with her. He gave me a suspicious look but went off to refill his drink.

“You’re a student,” I asked her when we were alone “I was a student. I left after two semesters.”

“Where were you at?”

“University of Oregon.”

“Beautiful place, I hear.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Doing?”

“Celtic studies.”

“Interesting stuff?”

“Yes.”

“You enjoyed all those trees?”

“Uh-huh.”

Her one word answers were a clue things weren’t going well. I stopped the patter and looked at her.

“Ok, Bridget, so you’re beautiful, you’re smart, and you’re pissed off because you can’t believe you’re at this party with a bunch of drunken hoods, and that might have appealed to you once but for the last half a year you’ve seen the wider, more cosmopolitan world, and now it’s a bit too Return of the Native and you’re thinking how long do I have to talk to this imbecile before I can get my friends to go the fuck home. Perceptive, huh?”

She smiled.

“Perceptive,” she agreed.

“If it’s not a sore topic, why did you drop out?”

“Well, you were wrong about one thing, I’m not smart. I do hate it here, but I’m not clever enough to get away from here. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get away from here. From all this. Not now. I didn’t drop out, I flunked out,” she said.

“You don’t seem like a dummy to me,” I told her.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said and smiled so sweetly it nearly broke my heart, and things could have gone swimmingly after that had not Scotchy and Andy got into an argument about something and began screaming at each other. Scotchy and Andy? It seemed unlikely, but there it was. Sunshine and Big Bob were holding back Andy; Mikey Price and David Moran were holding on to Scotchy.

I found Fergal.

“What’s going on?” I asked him.

“Andy’s had a bit too much to drink, he says Scotchy’s been robbing him blind,” Fergal explained. “Scotchy says he’s going to kick his fuck in.”

“Jesus.”

“Sunshine won’t let them come to blows, but the problem is Andy’s right, Scotchy probably has been robbing him blind,” Fergal continued.

“That Scotchy seems like a nasty wee shite,” I said.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”

“I’m going to shoot him in the kneecaps,” Scotchy was yelling.

“Aye, resort to fucking firearms, cowardly fucking shite,” Andy said.

“That’s enough, for God’s sake, you stupid fucks,” Sunshine said, very atypically losing his cool. Andy and Scotchy stared at him, chastened.

Sunshine whispered something to Scotchy. He shook his head and stormed off.

The party continued for about five minutes, but suddenly the music stopped and everyone turned around to look at Scotchy, who was standing on top of his massive stereo speakers.

“Everybody shut up,” Scotchy yelled.

In a second the whole place was as quiet as a funeral parlor.

“Wee Andy and I have had a disagreement about something and he called me a coward. Now, I’ve thought about it and I cannot let it lie. If there’s one thing I can’t stand for, it’s being publicly called a yellow bastard. I’ll take anything else but not fucking that.”

“Get down from there, Scotchy,” Sunshine said from somewhere.

“No, Sunshine, not this time; I fucking respect you, but you have to respect me. We are going to play a wee game to see who exactly is the toughest, baddest black hat in town.”

Everyone cheered, thinking that this was some powerful new joke of Scotchy’s.

Scotchy quieted them down with a wave of his hand and then whispered to Big Bob, who was standing next to him. Big Bob nodded and ran into the bedroom at the rear of the flat. When he came back he was holding something. I pushed my way to the front and saw that it was a gun. Six-shot revolver. Scotchy took it from Big Bob and held it up in the air. Everyone gasped. A few backed away.

Andy was looking at Scotchy, swallowing hard. His face white as a funeral notice. Holding on to a chair back like it was the stern rail on the Titanic. He was trying hard to stop himself from shaking, stop himself from going down.

“Ok, everyone knows the rules, so I won’t bother to explain. I’m taking out five bullets, as you can see. That leaves one left. Look.”

“Wait a minute, Scotchy,” Sunshine said from the back, but even he couldn’t stop this now. The crowd shushed him and wouldn’t let him through.

Scotchy took out five rounds and put them in his pocket.

“Fucking wise the bap, Scotchy,” I said, since no one else was going to.

“Bruce, new boy, you shut the fuck up and learn your fucking place,” Scotchy said with menace. I wanted to reply, but when I opened my mouth, it was dry. I saw Fergal and caught his eye. He seemed as frightened as I was.

Scotchy climbed down off the speaker and cleared a circle around himself.

“Me first,” he said.

He took the revolver and spun the chamber. He pointed at his head. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The barrel revolved, the hammer went back and came down on an empty chamber. No bullet.

The place erupted. One of the girls fainted, a biker threw up, and everyone else cheered hysterically. Andy looked as if he was about to pass out.

“See, everybody. No chicken, me,” Scotchy said. He called for silence and passed the gun first to Bob and then to Andy. Andy took it as if it were a dead animal. I tried to find Sunshine in the crowd to see if he would stop what was happening, but he was lost in the sea of faces. Everything was blurring up and dissolving.

Andy took the revolver and put it to his right temple. The muzzle caressing his blond hair. Andy seemed so young, like a farm boy from Galway or Iowa or somewhere.

“Don’t,” I said, but no words came out.

Andy closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

There was silence. The hammer came down. Then everyone was cheering again. Scotchy lifted Andy up into the air and proclaimed him the winner. He took the revolver and showed us that it had been empty the whole time. Scotchy carried Andy around the flat twice and set him down on the sofa. Strangers were coming over and patting him on the back. Scotchy was laughing hysterically with Big Bob, who’d been in on the whole thing. I found Bridget practically sobbing in a corner.

“You left me,” she said.

“I didn’t. I wanted to see what was happening to my friend, I-” I tried to explain.

She looked at me in disgust.

“A man pulled a gun out and you left me. You are just like all the rest. It’s all a fucking boys’ club, isn’t it?” she said.

I didn’t know how to respond. She shook her head and wiped away a tear.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

“Can I, um, escort you home or anything?” I asked.

“No.”

“I suppose I’ll see you around,” I said.

“If you’re working for Darkey, yes, then I probably will see you around,” she said coolly. She found her remaining friends and stormed out.

Fergal found me sitting on the balcony looking out at the black Hudson and the George Washington Bridge. I was beginning to have serious misgivings about coming here to America. About working with Scotchy. About doing what they wanted me to do for them.

“Get you a beer, it’ll cheer you up,” Fergal said, reading my thoughts.

“Nah, no beer, just need a bit of peace and quiet,” I said.

I shook my head. That thing with Bridget had seriously depressed me. And it was too late to go back to Ireland. I owed Darkey five hundred bucks and the money for the flight. I’d have to work that off at least. Fergal saw that I was troubled.

“We’ll go get Andy and go home,” he said.

We found him sitting in a corner, trying not to cry.

“You’re tonight’s big winner,” I told him.

He nodded.

“Let’s go home,” I said. All three of us went outside. Andy was still shaking, and I had to steady him with my arm.

“You think you can walk?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” Fergal answered.

“I wasn’t talking to you, ya big ganch,” I said.

“I’ll be ok in a minute,” Andy said.

We walked east in silence in the direction of the IRT stop. It was a cold, cold night and the hazy stars were out.

“Bob told me that Scotchy had a live round in it when it was his turn, but he made him take it out for Andy,” Fergal muttered at last.

“He’s still fucking crazy,” I said.

The IRT stop was deserted, but in New York, I learned, the trains run all night. It appeared at two-thirty. We got in. For Fergal and Andy it would be just a few stops, me all the way down to 125th Street.

“Well, you finally met Scotchy, our new crew chief.” Andy said sardonically.

“I finally did,” I agreed.

“He’s not as bad as all that,” Fergal said. “You’ll see, a year from now, we’ll have the finest crew in the city and we’ll all be the best of mates.”

A year from then, Fergal, Scotchy, and Andy were dead in Mexico. I had lost a foot and I had killed Bridget’s fiancé, Darkey White.

The subway car rattled. The lights flickered. Andy got off. Fergal got off. I lit a cigarette.

“The best of mates,” I said drowsily, let the fag slip between my fingers, and dozed long past my stop and all the way down to Ninety-sixth Street.

A helicopter gunship flying overhead. Baghdad? Nah, it’s raining. The other B. Belfast.

Stars.

Stars that are still there when I close my eyes.

Sheesh.

Why, of all memories, this one?

Why, indeed. I get to my feet. I’m in an alley. My face covered with blood.

My cell phone ringing.

“Hello?”

“Michael, where are you?” Bridget asks.

“Town.”

“Have you found anything?”

“Aye, a name, it might be good.”

“Look, I want you to forget it. We’ve been instructed to go to Arthur Street police station. They’re calling with specifics and I’m having the money delivered. We’re getting the call in a few minutes. I’m cooperating fully. It’s too late now. We’re doing the exchange at midnight. I don’t want you to fuck it all up.”

“Bridget, wait a minute, this is a good lead, I-”

“Michael, I told you to forget it, Siobhan’s life is at stake here. The most important thing is Siobhan. I want you to back off. I’ll send you something for your time. Ok, hold on… Ok, I have to turn the phone off now, Michael, I don’t expect to see you again.”

The dial tone.

Silence.

What had happened to that little freckled frightened girl?

Darkey had schooled her.

I had schooled her.

She had schooled herself.

No one messed with her now.

But even so. Back off? Like hell.

She doesn’t see the big picture. This isn’t going to end with an exchange of girl for cash. This is going to be bloody. These people are ruthless.

And what’s more, I nearly have the bastards.

I look at my watch. It’s not even nine o’clock. Plenty of time left.

I head out of the alley, toward lights. I find a bar. Stagger to the bathroom. Take off my jacket, Zeppelin T-shirt. Examine myself carefully in the mirror. Bruises all over my rib cage, scrapes, cuts. No sign of internal bleeding, though. Nothing protruding through the skin. I touch individual ribs.

A couple might be cracked. Not that you can do anything about a cracked rib. I fill the sink with hot water and wash the blood off my face. Rinse my chest and clean the wounds with a paper towel. Couple of nasty cuts on my forehead. I stick my head in the sink and try to get the clotted blood out of my hair. I click the hand dryer and blow hot air on my face and arms. Read the graffiti while I’m drying. “Death to Prods.” “Death to Fenians.” “Fuck the Pope.” “Fuck the Queen.” And, a new one on me: “Asylum Seekers, Go Home.”

Fix the duct-tape bandage, adjust my prosthesis, T-shirt on, jacket on. Check the revolver. Reload. Exit.

“Arthur Street police station?” I ask the keep.

“Who wants to know?” he says.

No more time for this shit. I pull the revolver out of my trousers and point it at his face.

“Arthur Street police station?”

“Go out of here, straight on, till ye hit Powers Street, make a left at the Boots, then another left, ya can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I say, put the revolver away, and leave his bar, vanishing out into the creeping, cold Belfast night with all the other guntoting villains.