Dublin Noir

Edge, brother.”

They pulled away from the flats, flashing everyone they thought they might know. In minutes, they were on the motorway heading south.

Christy was already lost in the dream. “Come tomorrow and we’ll be topless by the pool. Sipping cocktails in the sunny southeast, a girl on either side and one in the middle.”

Little Mike’s phone rang.

“Hello. Mike here.” He winked at Christy. Another thirteen-inch call. “Yep, it’s true. I have it right here before me. Could use a little TLC, as it happens… Uhuh… Really? Well, I’m sure we could work something out.”

Mike covered the mouthpiece with a hand.

“Any chance we could make a stopover in Castledermot?”

BLACK STUFFBY KEN BRUEN

ART: skill; human skill or workmanship.

Then you got a whole page of crap on:

Art

Form

Paper

Nouveau

– ful

Like I’ve got the interest.

Jesus.

I was in the bookshop, killing time, saw the manager give me the look. That’s why I picked up a book, a goddamn dictionary, weighing like a ton, opened it to the bit on art. Glanced up, the manager is having a word with the security schmuck.

Yeah, guys, I’m going to steal the heaviest tome in the shop.

Check my watch, Timex piece of shit, but it’s getting late. Tell you one thing, after the job, first item, a gold Rolex. The imitations are everywhere but the real deal… ah, slide that sucker on your wrist, dude, you are home.

Cost a bundle, right?

The whole point, right?

On my way out, I touch the manager’s arm, the wanker jumps. I go, “Whoa… bit nervous there, pal? Could you help me?”

He has bad teeth, yellow with flecks of green, a little like the Irish flag. He stammered: “How, I mean… am… what? ”

“Dictionary for Dummies, you got that?”

His body language is assessing me and wanting to roar, “Nigger!”

Man, I know it, you grow up black in a town like Dublin, you know.

He pulls himself together, those assertive training sessions weren’t blown, he gets a prissy clipped tone, asks, “And who would that help, might I inquire?”

“You, buddy, you’d really benefit. See, next time a non-Caucasian comes in, you can grab your dummy dictionary, look up… discretion … and if that helps, go for it, check out assumptions, too, you’ll be a whole new man.” I patted his cheek, added: “You might also search for dentistry, Yellow Pages your best bet there.”

I was in the snug in Mulligans, few punters around.

A guy comes in, orders a drink, American accent but off, as if he’d learned it, says to Jeff, “Gordon’s on the rocks, splash of tonic.”

Then: “Bud back.”

Jeff gives him a look and the guy offers a hearty chuckle, explains, “I mean, as well as, guess you folk say… with it… or in addition to?” Was he going to give the whole nine?

He got the drinks, walked over, sat at my table, asked, “How you doing?”

Like every night in the city, some asshole does the same Joey Tribiani tired rap. I didn’t answer. Instead, I peeled a piece of skin on my thumb. He said, “You don’t wanna inflame that, buddy.”

Wanna?

So I asked, “You a doctor?”

He was delighted, countered, feigning surprise, “You’re Irish?” Not believing it, like I’m black, so come on. I nod and he takes a hefty slug of the gin, grimaces, then: “How’d that happen?”

I still don’t know why but I told him the truth. Usually, who gives a fuck?

Sean Connery said, tell them the truth, then it’s their problem. My mother was from Ballymun, yeah, Ireland’s most notorious housing estate. Fuck, there’s a cliche: She’d a one night stand with a sailor.

How feckin sad is that?

And not a white guy.

He asked, “So, was it, like… tough, am…?”

I let that hover, let him taste it, then did the Irish gig, a question with a question. “Being black, or being fatherless?”

He went, “Uh huh.”

Noncommital or what?

I said, “Dublin wasn’t a city, it was still a town, and a small one, till the tiger roared.”

He interrupted: “You’re talking the Celtic Tiger, am I right?”

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