Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [69]
“I’m shaking in me boots,” Fred says. “Threatened by a scut who can’t hold down a job in this economy.” I remembered then, the Brit had been fired. Incompetence, I think. They’d been so desperate for bodies they’d offered to retrain him. He told them to fuck off, and went back on the dole.
I must have been buckled because I found myself in Megan’s gaff a bit after the holy hour. She was a fine thing, Megan. She had the map of Ireland painted on her face, and since I was going in without me slicker, sweet baby Jesus willing, I’d paint a map of the Hebrides all over her sweet belly, in a shade of white paler than her skin.
I don’t know why she took me home. She’d never fancied me before I defended her wee bit of honor. Maybe it was a deeper need, or maybe she really did like me. I stopped thinking about it as soon as I got a glimpse of her pubes.
I love Dublin in the rain, the drops bouncing off the bricks, the stabbers looking like boats riding little rivers between the cobblestones; reminds me of my history lesson. Some of the Vikings, tired of rape and pillage, took a fancy to the place where the River Poddle joined the Liffey; Dubh linn, Black pool in the old language. They’d settled down, married some of the local women, and started trading with the painted inland chiefs.
I felt bad about pulling a legger on Megan, but I thought kindly of her, a heavy blanket between the chill predawn morning and her fine pelt.
She’d surprised me the night before, when we tangled up in each other after we’d done with the rasher. She’d the accent and the attitude, had her pegged for skanger, but she was a bogger, slipped out of Sligo a little after her fourteenth birthday and managed to stay two footfalls away from the whorehouse steps since. I felt like I was the only jackeen left in the whole pissing city.
That is, till the hurley stick took my legs out from under me. I figured it was a couple of local lads looking for a quick score. Then I thought better of it.
It was the worst beating of my life, and not on account of the pain. A couple of Manchester boys and a Yank had turned my piss to blood a few years ago when I was on the piss after a football match. I’d limped around for a few months after that one. I’d probably shrug this one off in under a week. Still, I prayed for a two bulb, or even a wasp to save me from the humiliation.
The fucking wog and the sasancach used hurley sticks on me. Judging by the dried flecks of blood mingling with my fresh batch, I’d say they were the same pieces of Irish ash they’d used to work over the narrowback. The fucking wankers had probably paid for them with euros.
LONELY AND GONE
BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI
Caidé an scéal?
Conas atá tu?
Oh, not Oirish, are you? Funny. You’ve got the pale skin, dark hair, the whole Gaelic vibe ’bout you.
Me? Spent a lot of time here and there. A lot of it here.
No, not literally here, in this pub. Nice place, though, innit? Trés Victorian.
Hey, let a girl buy you a drink.
Yeah, I’m foukin’ serious. Fancy a pint?
Oh. A Scotch man. A thousand pardons. Allan, could you pour this handsome devil here a Johnnie Walker black? To match his hair.
It’s a joke, boyo.
You’re a serious one, aren’t you?
Let me take a wild foukin’ guess: You’re American. And your wedding ring’s in your carry-on, right?
Yeah, sure I’ll watch your drink. I’ve got Allan here to keep me company.
That was quick.
Yeah, sarcasm. Bingo.
Ah, just drink up. Your ice is already melting. Tell me about yourself.
Hi, Jason. I’m Vanessa. Glad we covered the basics.
No, you first. I insist. I’ll get to me in a little while.
Sin scéal eile?
Ah. Knew you were a customer-relations man, Jay. I could just tell.
Ever scale the museum steps—like in Rocky?
Nah, never been. I’m sure I’ll make it there eventually.
Yes, yes.
Hmm.
Very interesting. Really. Would I lie to you, Jaybird?
Oh me?
Me, I’ve got a plane to catch in exactly fourteen hours. Which means I’ve got time to kill. And to be perfectly blunt, Jason, I’d like to spend it with you.
Which is why I poisoned