Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [51]
“Harry Rigby, Joe. Can you let me in? I need –”
Somehow I couldn’t finish it, couldn’t say the word out loud, but maybe he saw something in my eyes he saw every day in the mirror. Or maybe nobody had asked him for help in a long, long time. And maybe he was always disposed to being a Good Samaritan and no one ever took the time to find out. Whatever it was, he opened the door, gave the street outside a quick scan, dragged me inside.
It was no warmer in the hallway. The house, three stories of faux-Georgian craft, had been condemned ten years previously, still standing only because the rear of the train station didn’t exactly inspire the Celtic cubs with notions of urban chic. Joe was the sole occupant, a squatter who’d never need to assert his rights unless rats ever became a must-have townhouse accessory.
He was wearing the same overcoat and soiled pants from the day before. Hair rumpled, eyes raw, bloodshot. His bristles rasped as he rubbed his chin, none too sure of the next step in the hospitality game. The smell of cheap cider breath was foul.
The hallway was high, long and dank. Mould oozed up the walls. The stench of cat piss seeped into my pores. A battered black pay phone was bolted to the wall, one of the ancient ones that had a Button A, Button B and
a barbell receiver. There was a scorch mark just inside the door, but apart from that the carpet had no discernible pattern. He noticed me staring.
“Lighter fluid,” he said. His voice was gruff now, no self-pity. “Couple of years ago, at Halloween. The kind of thing they do nowadays.”
A bare bulb hung low over the kitchen table, at which a single chair sat guarding an empty bottle of stout. A line of washing – a pair of faded pink long johns, two shirts with yellowing armpits – stretched from over the cracked porcelain sink to the glowing Sacred Heart on the far wall. Other than that, the kitchen was as neat as it was empty. He looked at me and frowned, bushy brows knitting.
“Christ, son. What happened to you?”
I sat, gingerly, on the chair, tugged my shirt out of my jeans. His eyes widened and he disappeared back into the hallway. When he returned he had a grimy sheet that he’d torn into strips and a tub of foul-smelling orange cream that I didn’t ask too many questions about. He sat on an upturned wooden box, cleaned the wound, applied the grimy bandages. His hands shook but his movements were deft, his touch sure. When he was finished he sat back and lit the butt of a cigarette.
“You were lucky, son. It was a big one but it went through clean. If it had hit anything it’d have blown your back out.”
“Felt like an electric shock when it hit. Thought I’d been fried.”
“Seen it happen. He went berserk, charged off into the jungle on his own, just screaming.” He stubbed the butt, looked away. “None of my business, son, so you tell me what you like. But I never put you down for running with a bad crowd.”
I kept it short. When I was finished he shook his head but didn’t start any sermons.
“You keep your head down, son. If it comes looking for you, kick it in the balls. But don’t go looking for it.”
It was good advice, the sage words of an old man, the kind I particularly hate passing up.
“Thanks for everything, Joe. I really appreciate it. No kidding, I thought I was dying out there. But I have to shoot through.”
“Want to kip here? There’s plenty of room.”
“Cheers, Joe, but no. I don’t want to put you out anymore than I already have.”
Mischief blazed in his eyes.
“A night like this, and you with holes back and front? She must be some woman.”
“Aren’t they all, Joe?”
“True as God, son. True as God.”
He stood up and left. When he returned he was carrying an oil-soaked rag, carrying it careful in the crook of one arm. He sat down, put the rag on the table. Looked at me, folded back the rag. An old cowboy’s gun sat there, a Colt Peacemaker .45, a six-shooter, oiled and gleaming. The barrel wasn’t quite long as a piece of string.
“Mad what you find in the jungle,” he said. “There’s three bullets to go with it. If you’re interested.”
I was tempted,