The Emerald Lie

Back in the ’70s, I was stationed briefly in Dublin. I can still remember the first guy I saw wearing bell-bottom pants. Drugs were just becoming part of the culture and dopeheads were beginning to appear and get busted. Our directive was crystal clear.

Guys with long hair, fuck ’em.

And we did, with feeling.

Those months gave me a sense of the street that has saved me many times. I was fit from playing hurling and full of piss and vim. Drinking wild but then so was everybody else. Least anyone I knew. There was a legendary drug cop named Lugs Brannigan, out and about in the ’60s, he was the sort of man that Gene Hackman was born to play. October 2014, the first ever bio of him was published. He used his fists to settle most disputes and nobody seemed to think it was worth noting, but he got the job done. He never used a baton, opting for a pair of heavy black gloves, and would lash thugs across the face. This not only got their full attention but had the invaluable ingredient of shame.

Reprimanded once by a judge for his methods, he answered,

“Nothing like a belt in the mouth to stop their actions.”

The powers that be kept him to never more than sergeant rank. He had the best approval though. On his retirement, the working girls of Dublin gave him a set of Waterford crystal to say thank you for his protection from abusive men.

I was seeing a girl from Athlone named Rita Lyndsey. Her father was a fire chief so we were somewhat in the same territory. She had a head of gorgeous dark brown curls and I think I was well smitten. She loved to dance, I loved to drink and, when I drank, I could, um, like dancing.

The primo duty in those days was security for visiting rock bands and phew-oh, we got some heavy numbers in those days. Led Zep, the Stones, and even a flying visit from Black Sabbath. As a Guard, I was meant to listen to

Show bands

Country and western.

A duty on a concert by Taste introduced me to Rory Gallagher, and shortly afterward I caught Skid Row, the band that fired Phil Lynott. Gave me a lifelong admiration for guitar heroes. The last few years, I went on a binge of curiosity about what happened to all these guys and I read

Nick Kent

Nina Antonia

Mick Wall

Robert Greenslade

Philip Norman

For some weird unconnected reason, all this fire ran through my mind as I tried to grapple with Emily being the arsonist. Close to babbling,

I said,

“I don’t know which is worse: that you did it or that you didn’t and are claiming it.”

She said simply,

“They beat you up, I got payback.”

I tried,

“But a man is dead.”

She smiled, chilling in its simplicity, said,

“He was a piece of shit.”