Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [8]
I nodded, continued, “So I was fourteen before I knew I was black, different.”
He didn’t believe it, asked, “But the kids at school, they had to be on your ass. I mean, gimme a break, buddy.”
His glass was empty. I said, “They were on my ass because I was shit at hurling.”
He stared at his glass, like … where’s that go? Echoed, “Hurling, that’s the national game, yeah?”
I said, “Cross between hockey and murder.”
He stood, asked, “Get you a refill there?”
I decided to fuck with him a little, he said, “Large Jameson, Guinness back.”
The boilermaker threw him, but he rallied, said, “Me too.”
Got those squared away, raised the amber, clinked my glass, and you guessed it, said, “Here’s looking at you, pal.”
Fuck on a bike.
The other side of the whiskey, I climbed down a notch, eased, but not totally.
He was assessing me, covertly, then: “Got some pecs on you there, fella. Hitting the gym, huh?”
He was right. Punishing program, keep the snakes from spitting, the ones in my head, the shrink had said. “You take your meds, the snakes won’t go away—we’re scientists, not shamans— but they will be quieter.”
Shrink humor?
I quit the meds. Sure, they hushed the reptiles, but as barter, took my edge. I’d done some steroids, got those abs swollen, but fuck, it’s true, they cut your dick in half. And a black guy with shrinkage? … Depths of absurdity.
I was supping the Guinness, few better blends than the slow wash over Jameson. I said, “Yeah, I work out.”
He produced a soft pack of Camels, gold Zippo, then frowned, asked, “You guys got the no-smoking bug? … It’s illegal in here?” Like he didn’t know already. Then reached out his hand, said, “I’m Bowman, Charlie, my buddies call me Bow.”
I’m thinking, Call you arsehole.
And he waits till I extend my hand, the two fingers visibly crushed. He clocks them, I say, “Phil.”
He shakes my hand, careful of the ruined fingers, goes for levity, asks, “Phil, that it, no surname? C’mon buddy, we’re like bonding, am I right? How can I put it, Phil me in?” He laughed, expecting me to join.
I didn’t.
I said, “For Phil Lynott, Thin Lizzy. You heard Lynott speak, his Dublin accent was near incomprehensible, but when he sang, pure rock. Geldof said Phil was the total rock star, went to bed in the leather trousers.”
Bow’s mouth was turned down. He said, “My taste runs more to Van Morrison.”
Figured.
He spotted the book on the seat beside me, Bukowski, asked, “That’s yours, you’re into … Buk?”
Buk?
Fucksakes.
My mother, broke, impoverished, sullen, ill, had instilled: “Never, and I mean never, let them know how smart you are.”
Took me a long time to assimilate that, too long. The days after her funeral, I’d a few quid from the horses, got a mason to carve:
I
DIDN’T
LET
THEM
KNOW
Like that.
The mason, puzzled, asked, “The hell does that mean?” I gave him the ice eyes, he muttered, “Jeez, what’s wrong with Rest in peace?” I said, “That’s what it means, just another form.” He scratched his arse, said, “Means shite, you ask me.” He said this after I paid him.
So I threw a glance at the Bukowki. Denied him, going, “Not mine. I need books with, like, pictures.”
Bow and I began to meet, few times a week, no biggie, but it grew. Me, careful to play the dumbass, let him cream on his superiority. He paid the freight, I could mostly listen.
A month in, he asked, “You hurting there, Phil?”
I was mid-swallow, my second pint. I stopped, put the glass down, asked, “What?”
His eyes were granite, said, “Bit short on the readies … Hey, I’m not bitching.”
… (Oh yeah?)
“But there’s no free lunch. You familiar with that turn of phrase, black guy? When we freed your asses, we figured you might be self-sufficient. Maybe spring for the odd drink?”
I was thinking of how my mother would love this prick. He tapped his empty glass twice, then, “You’re good company, Phil, not the brightest tool in the box. This ride’s, like, coming to a halt.”
I was trying to rein it in, not let the snakes push the glass into his supercilious mouth, especially when he added: “You getting