Dublin Noir

Reed wasn’t sure if the cop was having a go at him or serious. “Low branch. I was walking.”

The copper nodded and said, “Where you off to this time of night?”

“Six? This time of night is right for a pop before dinner.”

The cop nodded at the answer. “Where d’ya go?”

“Usually the Ball Alley House.”

The cop took in the information and stepped back. Reed tensed like he might be hit or more cops would swoop in and grab him. He had the knife on him. He’d hate to use it on this cop. He wiggled his hip and felt the knife in its scabbard snug against his waistband. He checked out the copper’s uniform, trying to detect any kind of protective vest under it. Too hard to tell. Reed decided he’d have to stab him in the neck quick and deep. The only problem was that it would bring a lot of heat. He’d be gone, but it was a danger regardless.

The cop said, “Bollocks.”

Reed just stared at the beefy man.

“Bakurs on Thomas or the Cukoos Nest beat the arse off the Ball Alley House.”

Reed relaxed slightly. “Ah, it will have to do. That’s my place.”

The cop said, “You got a funny accent. Where you from?”

“Galway.”

“What brings ya to the Big Smoke?”

Reed considered his answer as he calmly placed his hand on his hip, an inch from the knife. This would have to be fast.

An old Honda zipped around the corner and swerved to miss a trash bin in the road, nearly causing it to run down the cop. To make matters worse, the driver beeped at him. The cop hopped onto the sidewalk, pushing Reed away from the street too.

With the cop next to him and distracted, Reed reached under his loose shirt, gripped the hard handle of the Gerber, and prepared for a fluid motion of slashing up, then planting that thing right in the cop’s thick neck.

But the cop jumped back into the street yelling, “You fucking rice-grinding shite!” Without a glance back at Reed, he trotted down the street and hopped into his small, unmarked car. Within twenty seconds the vehicle was racing past Reed toward the speeding Honda.

An hour later, Reed was behind a young American couple slowly strolling toward one of the local hotels. The five-story building had a decent restaurant and bar in the lobby. Reed hoped they were staying at the hotel and were on their way back instead of stopping for a bite and pint. He stayed back a ways until they were to the door of the hotel, then closed the distance to see where they were headed. The man was maybe thirty and built like a model, too thin and too neat. The woman was younger, about twenty-three and fresh-looking like a lot of the Americans from California or Florida. She had long blond hair and looked like she’d had to grease herself to slide into the Levi’s gripping her hips.

Reed came up the front steps and almost knocked into them in the lobby. They had stopped to look over the restaurant’s posted menu. Reed peered at the man. He wouldn’t be thinking about a toasted sandwich if he had a girl like that stuck on his arm. Typical Yank.

He eased past them like he was heading to the lifts, and then a miracle happened. They followed him. It couldn’t have been more natural. As he stood by the buttons, he asked the man, “What floor?”

He had a funny accent, even just saying, “Four, please.”

Reed nodded and mumbled, “Me too,” as he hit the button. He glanced over at the couple. The girl smiled at him with a dazzling spray of white.

Reed paused so they could get off the elevator, then followed them down the narrow hallway. The cheap carpet made a swoosh sound as they all glided along. His right hand was up on his hip.

The couple slowed at a room five from the end of the hall and the man fumbled with the plastic card key. Reed heard the door click and then saw a crack of light from the inside. He was on the man right as he entered the doorway, knife out and slashing deep across his throat before the girl even turned to see what the funny noise was. He shoved the shocked man into the bathroom to his left and advanced down on the girl as she turned. Before she could say a word, he had a hand across her beautifully sculpted face and the knife deep into her solar plexus. He wiggled his hand, slicing through veins and heart tissue as he watched the life seep right out of her blue eyes. He pulled the blade out and sliced into her left breast, amazed at the clear liquid that gushed out before the blood. Fucking implants. Unnatural.

He carefully placed her on the wide, unmade bed, even setting her head on the pillow. Then he turned and stepped toward the bathroom. The man was motionless on the ground and the blood still seeped from the massive wound on his neck. Reed had to step away from the door as the red ocean threatened to flow over the threshold. He leaned in and snatched a white towel from inside the door and wiped down his bloody knife, then his hands. He twisted the towel and laid it across the door frame so it would stop the blood from spilling into the room. He didn’t want anyone to find these two for as long as possible.

He checked his shoes quickly, reset the knife in its scabbard, took the Do not disturb sign from the inside door handle, and then opened the door. After hanging the sign, he casually walked back to the lift, more than satisfied with his last job. Now this whole ugly business was over. His own job secured, no one the wiser. As he waited for the lift, he made a quick check of his hands and found a splash of blood on the back of his right one.

The lift bell sounded and the doors parted. He looked up into a wide, round face that seemed familiar.

“Jaysus fucking Christ. What might Galway’s new tourism director be doing in Dublin?” He smiled showing crooked, browning teeth. The lift doors closed behind him as he came up to Reed. “This whole butcher business has pushed every fucking tourist in the country to Galway.”

Reed returned the smile, no easy task. “Hello, Jason, what’re you doin’ here?”

“Just passing through. I’m settin’ up a network for the university. But I thought you’d be up to your arse in work back home.”

“I return tomorrow,” Reed said.

Jason said, “You never answered my question. What’re you doin’ here?”

Reed let a little smile cross his lips. “I better show you.” He let his right hand come to his hip and started to lift his shirt as he slapped the emergency stop button with his left. He’d show the man just how far a good tourism director might go for his job.

HEN NIGHTBY SARAH WEINMAN

It took three tries before I understood what Deborah was saying. The first time I must have completely misheard; the second, I simply refused to believe it.

“ You’re absolutely shitting me,” I said after the third try.

“Of course not, Andrea. When do I ever?”

She had a point. We’d known each other all our lives and Deborah never, ever joked around about anything. Let alone about where she wanted to have her hen night.

“But Dublin?” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.

“Don’t worry, I’m paying for everyone.”

I gritted my teeth. Even though we’d been best friends almost since birth, Deborah always had the knack for reminding me that she’d been raised on the right side of the Jewish ghetto in Golders Green, while I’d been stuck in Temple Fortune-or rather, I’d had the misfortune to grow up there.

“That’s not it. But Dublin? During Bank Holiday weekend? Are you barking mad? It’ll be swarmed with idiotic drunks looking for a shag.”

“And how’s that different from any London pub? Besides, I want something special. And you’ve always wanted to go to Dublin, I thought. At least, that’s what you say practically every other week.”

I often wondered why I was still friends with her. Family ties, perhaps; our mothers met in university and still rang each other every morning to discuss the latest community gossip and which of their friends’ children were misguided enough to break their parents’ hearts and marry outside of the faith. That’s why Deborah’s engagement