Cross - Ken Bruen [15]
I hope.
I hit St Nicholas' Church, where they say Columbus prayed before setting off to find America.
Must have been some powerful plea.
And here I was in Shop Street, three minutes from the pub.
A guy stopped, said, 'Jack?'
I stared at him. Nope, didn't know him, but what had that to do with anything? Since the shooting, it seemed everybody knew me.
He was dressed from head to toe like an advert for American sport. A sweatshirt for the LA Dodgers, track pants with a stripe down the leg and a logo that read SUPERBOWL, plus the requisite Nike trainers. Perched precariously on his head was a baseball cap that read KNICKS KICK ASS. I have to say I was dazzled by the sheer amount of Americana. He wasn't young, so no excuse there, he was in his mid sixties, or else very badly blasted from drink or drugs or both.
He said, 'I was a friend of your mother's.'
Which meant he was no friend of mine. He registered my response and added, 'I mean your late lamented mother.'
He blessed himself, said, 'May the Lord give her peace. He certainly didn't give her much while she walked the earth.'
I was going to say that she didn't provide a whole lot of that commodity herself, but what was the point? He'd reckon I was bitter, which was true.
I asked, 'You stopped me for?'
He gave a well-rehearsed laugh – someone must have told him it was one of his best features. They lied.
I looked at my watch and he took the hint, said, 'Here I am delaying you. The thing is, I'm collecting for the under-fourteen football team, we want to get them some new gear.'
I stared at his outfit and asked, 'Will it bear any relation to what you're wearing?'
He was horrified. 'They play Gaelic. I mean, we have to support our national game.'
Before he could launch into some longwinded lecture on the history of hurling, I said, 'Tell you what, I'll put a cheque in the post, how would that be?'
Not good.
I was waving goodbye before he could formulate a reply.
Just before I got to Garavan's, someone else hailed me and I went Fuck off. There is only so much shite you can take in one morning and I was way past my quota. I got inside quickly. The barman nodded, no words, which was fine and I went into the snug. You are finally part of the furniture when not only do you not order anything but head for your own seat and wait for the drinks to arrive.
As they did.
The pint looked like all the prayers I'd ever hoped to have answered. The Jameson, riding point, was its own glory.
I muttered, 'Doesn't get any better than this.'
How sad is that?
As the barman put the drinks down, I wondered if I should ask him his name. But then we'd probably get friendly and something terrible would happen to him. So I simply grunted and he asked, 'Did you see the pilot of Deadwood on Sky last night?'
I'd been in bed by nine, having taken another sleeper to ease the pain that had erupted in my heart. I shook my head.
'It was mighty, real dirty, wild, the language was ferocious. I counted fuck thirty times.'
Is there an answer to this? An answer that falls on any level of sanity? I didn't have it.
He added, 'You'd love it.'
Now is that flattering or asking for a slap in the mouth? I let it slide, resolving to catch the next episode.
I was about to leave when a guy walked in, looked round, approached me, asked, 'Can I get you a whiskey?'
I've seen many men, women too, wrecked by booze, their faces a testament to all that hell has to offer, but this guy, he was like those photos of Bukowski in his last days. Not good. Beneath the ruin, I'd hazard he was only thirty or so, but the red eyes had seen things that a century of hurt might accomplish.
I asked, 'Is there a sign out there that says, Gather here all ye nutcases – if you want to find a dog or just generally go bananas, then this is the shrine for you?'
He fixed bloodshot eyes on me and repeated, 'Dog? What dog?'
I knew this could go on for a time