Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [11]
As if I hadn’t noticed the weapon. His grip on the butt had eased, not a lot but a little. He said, “In the bedroom I got near thirty large, you believe that, nigger?”
No matter how many times I hear the word, and I hear it plenty, it is always a lash coming out of a white mouth, an obscenity. He let it saturate, then added, “I got enough nose candy to light up O’Connell Street for months, soon as I deliver the painting and get the rest of the cash. A serious amount, but guess what, I’m a greedy bastard, I don’t really share.” Pause, then, “And share with a darkie? … Get real. Gotta tell you, I’m a supporter of the Klan—did you know they were founded by a John Kennedy? How’s that for blarney?”
I lowered my head, said, “Never let the left hand see what—”
Shot him in the face, the gun in my right hand, almost hidden by the crushed fingers. The second tore through his chest. I said, Brooklyn inflection, “Duh, you gotta … focus.”
Got the cash, put the portrait under my coat, didn’t look back. Near Stephen’s Green a wino was sprawled beside a litter bin. I gave him some notes and stuffed the Whistler in the bin. He croaked, “No good, huh?”
I said, “It’s a question of appreciation.”
TRIBUNAL
BY PAT MULLAN
There’s a buzz about the place. Sure as hell wasn’t here when I left fifteen years ago. He remembered Dublin as the pits then. Dark, priest-ridden, can’t-do culture, living on government handouts and money from the emigrants. A Godforsaken hole of a place. For himself, anyway. Edmund Burke. Yeah, that’s me. My old man had delusions. Thought if he named me after the great Irish statesman that the name would overcome the bad genes and the lousy upbringing. Willie Burke had been a failure, failed at every no-risk job he ever attempted, and the old man had ended his days earning a mere pittance as a salesman in a tailoring shop that had seen its best days in the last century. Mass on Sunday was the highlight of his mother’s week, a timid woman from the west of Ireland who’d never felt at home in the big city. An only child, Edmund had been conceived just as his mother’s biological clock was about to stop ticking. She was forty-two when she had him.
All these things flooded his mind as he jumped into the taxi at Dublin Airport and told the driver to take him to Ballsbridge. He’d survived. Succeeded because his father’s failure terrified him. Got into Trinity, earned a law degree, headed for England, stayed a year in a boring clerk job at a London legal firm as resident Paddy. Luck intervened. His mother’s uncle in Boston sponsored him to the States. Decided that he’d go by sea instead of air. Took a 28,000-ton liner out of Liverpool. Gave him a sense of being a pilgrim setting out for the New World.
Now he was back. Why. The Celtic Tiger! That’s why. Well, one of the reasons. He was running away again. But that’s another story. Taking a year off from his New York law firm. Had just about enough of his mob clients. As well as his ex who wanted to rob him blind. Oh yeah, he’d stashed away a few dollars, but still hadn’t made that million. Maybe Dublin’s the place to be these days. Everybody’s here. All these faces in Dublin on a Tuesday and you see them again in New York or L.A. on the weekend. Aidan Quinn. Gabriel Byrne. Liam Neeson. Colin Farrell. Michael Flatley now a household name with Riverdance conquering the world. And Michael O’Leary and Ryanair conquering the skies. The priests are scarce on the ground these days. Divorce is legal. The Bishop of Galway has a love child with an American lover, and the President of Ireland has crossed the religious divide to take communion in a Protestant cathedral. The IRA is about to call it quits and the border separating the Republic from Northern Ireland is gradually becoming an imaginary line. Money talks. And money goes where it’s well treated. And the Celtic Tiger is treating it well.
Money! That’s really why I’m here, he reminded