First Thrills - Lee Child [32]
He said, “You’ll be the Yank I hear about.”
I turned to look at him. He had the appearance of a greyhound recovering from anorexia and a bad case of the speed jags. About thirty-five, with long graying hair, surprisingly unmarked face, not a line there, but the eyes were old.
Very.
He’d seen some bad stuff or caused it. How do I know?
I see the same look every morning in the mirror.
He was dressed in faded blue jeans, a T-shirt that proclaimed Joey Ramone will never die and a combat jacket that Jack Reacher would have been proud of. He put out a bony hand, all the veins prominent, and said, “I’m Sheridan, lemme buy you a pint.”
I took his hand, surprisingly strong for such a wasted appearance, said, “Good to meet you, I’m Morgan.”
Least that’s what it said on the current credit cards.
He had, as he put it, a slight problem, a guy he owed money to and the how much would it cost to make the guy go away.
I laughed, said, “You’re going to pay me to get rid of a guy who you owe money to? One, why would you think I can do it, and two, how will you pay me?”
He leaned closer, smelled of patchouli, did they still make that old hippy shit? Said, “You’ve got yerself a bit of a rep, Mr Morgan, and how would I pay you, oh, I’d pay you in friendship and trust me, I’m a good friend to have.”
Maybe it was the early pint, or desperation or just for the hell of it, but I asked, “Who’s the guy?”
He told me, gave me his name and address and leaned back; asked, “You think you can help me out here, Mr Morgan?”
I said, “Depends on whether you’re buying me the pint you offered or not.”
He did.
As we were leaving, I said, “I’ll be here Friday night; maybe you can buy me another pint.”
Like I said, I didn’t have a whole lot going on so I checked out the guy who was leaning on Sheridan.
No biggie but on the Thursday, his car went into the docks and him in it.
Some skills you never forget.
Friday night, I was in McSwiggan’s; Sheridan appeared as I ordered a pint and he said to the barman, “On me, Sean.”
He gave me a huge smile; his right molar was gold and the rest of his teeth looked like they’d been filed down.
We took our drinks to a corner table and he slapped my shoulder, said, “Sweet fooking job, mate.”
I spread my hands, said, “Bad brakes, what can I tell you.”
He threw back his head, laughed out loud, a strange sound, like a rat being strangled, said, “I love it, bad break. You’re priceless.”
That was the real beginning of our relationship. Notice I don’t say friendship.
I don’t do friends.
And I very much doubt that anyone in their right mind would consider Sheridan a friend.
We did a lot of penny-ante stuff for the next few months, nothing to merit any undue attention but nothing either that was going to bankroll the kind of life I hoped for.
Which was
Sea
Sun
And knock-you-on-your-ass cash.
An oddity, and definitely something I should have paid real attention to. I’d pulled off a minor coup involving some credit cards I had to dump within twenty-four hours. With Sheridan’s help, we scooped a neat five thousand dollars. And at the time when the dollar had finally kicked the Euro’s ass.
See, I do love my country.
You’re thinking, “Which one?”
Semper fi and all that good baloney. It pays the cash, it gets my allegiance.
So, we were having us a celebration; I split it down the middle with him, because I’m a decent guy. We flashed up as Sheridan termed it.
Bearing in mind that the Irish seven-course meal is a six pack and a potato, we went to Mc Donagh’s, the fish-and-chipper, in Quay Street.
We sat outside in a rare hour of Galway Sun; Sheridan produced a flask of what he called Uisce Beatha, Holy Water. In other words, Irish Moonshine, Poteen.
Phew-oh, the stuff kicks like one mean tempered mule.
Later, we wound up in Feeney’s, one of the last great Irish pubs. Here’s the thing: I’d sometimes wondered if Sheridan had a woman in his life. I didn’t exactly give it a whole lot of thought, but it crossed my mind. As if he was reading my mind he said, “Morgan, what day were you