black Nike along the sideline was the coach, Richie Bates. He was twenty-five years old, six foot three and two- hundred-and-ten pounds, every inch of his body carefully toned into hard muscle. His neck was short and thick and the top of his head was Action-Man flat. Richie was a guard, short for garda, singular of gardai, the Irish police force. He worked with a sergeant out of the small sub-station in Mountcannon. After an hour of play, he was still running up and down, roaring.
‘Come on, lads! Move it! Move it!’
‘It’s freezing,’ said Robert, jogging after the ball.
‘If you run, you’ll warm up,’ said Richie. Robert rolled his eyes. He had just come on. Everyone around him had hot red faces and white breath. He was still ghostly pale, but knew the slightest effort would turn him to crimson and make his eyes stream. He was not a sportsman. He sweated too much, he breathed too heavily, his hair fell across his face, his legs were dark and hairy, thick and slow. But he could appreciate the irony. He was the sports writer for the school paper.
Shaun had the ball and was heading for goal. He stumbled and landed hard.
‘Get up, Lucchesi!’ said Richie instantly. Shaun breathed through the anger. Richie blew the whistle. ‘Right, lads, that’s it. Off you go. Well done.’ No-one responded.
Back in the changing room, Billy McMann, a short, skinny twelve-year-old, was hunched shivering in the corner trying to do up his fly, but his fingers were curled and numb from the cold. He caught Shaun’s eye and gave a weak smile. Shaun stepped over, quickly zipped up the boy’s fly and patted him on the head.
‘Thanks,’ said Billy, blushing.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Shaun.
‘Jesus Christ, Billy! Can’t even zip up your own pants?’ It was Richie, standing, laughing in the doorway.
Shaun stared at him. ‘Give the kid a break.’
Billy fumbled with his bag.
‘You need to toughen up,’ said Richie pointing at him.
‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ said Shaun. ‘His goddamn fingers were freezing.’
‘Watch your mouth, Lucchesi,’ said Richie. ‘Or we won’t be calling you Lucky for much longer.’ His look challenged the rest of the room.
‘You’re not in uniform now,’ someone shouted from the back.
‘You watch yourself, Cunningham,’ said Richie. ‘Or I’ll be waiting outside that off-licence when you’re picking up your next six pack.’ He left.
A few of the boys groaned. Then Robert said, ‘You’re still a fag, Lucky.’ Everyone laughed.
‘Do you need a lift?’ Robert asked Shaun.
‘Nah,’ said Shaun. ‘My dad’s coming.’
He walked out of the school and stood by the gates, watching all the other parents come and go with their sons. Joe eventually pulled up in the Jeep.
‘You’re such a loser,’ said Shaun through the window. ‘I’ve been standing out here for, like, twenty minutes.’
‘I was busy. I’m trying to pack.’
‘You forgot.’
‘No, I didn’t. Just get in, Shaun.’
‘What’s your hierarchy of things to remember, Dad? Like on a scale of one to ten, where do I come in?’
‘Here we go,’ said Joe.
‘Yeah, well, it’s a pain in the ass. You can remember everything for work, but—’
‘Drop it,’ snapped Joe.
‘Jeez, relax, would you? I’m the one who got stood up here. Again.’
‘I said drop it,’ said Joe, too loud. They drove the rest of the way in silence.
They were just in the door when the phone rang. Joe picked up.
‘Come back, all is forgiven,’ said Danny Markey.
‘Please stop calling me at this number,’ said Joe. ‘I told you. It’s over.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,’ said Danny. ‘It’s not me, it’s you.’
They laughed. Shaun made a face at his father’s transformation.
‘So things that bad?’ asked Joe, ignoring Shaun.
‘You’ve no idea,’ said Danny. ‘I’m with Aldos
Martinez or All Doze – guaranteed to help you sleep or your money back. And if that’s not enough, I’m out last night, date with Maria, and my wife calls looking for me. And this rookie on the TS tells her I’m finished hours ago. I go home telling her the hard night I’ve had and she knees me in the downtown area. I swear to God. What happened to, “He’s out on the road, I’ll get him to call you.” I’m gonna rip the guy’s rookie head off next time I see him. He’s a retard. Clancy called to fuck with him, pretended he was some pimp looking for his girl Juanita Sophia Marguerita whatever and the guy leaves his desk to go check. I shit you not. Anyway, it’s like everywhere I look I’m getting screwed.’
‘Wish I was there to offer my support,’ said Joe.
‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ said Danny. ‘So how are those ugly Irish broads?’
‘They’re doing great,’ said Joe. ‘Want me to pass on your regards?’
‘Sure,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll come over, wrap myself round one of those wide backs.’
‘Hey, Shaun isn’t doing too badly with his Irish girl.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve seen the pictures. Katie’s an exception. Let me tell you, if he ever gets tired of her…’
‘You’re a sick man, Danny. A sick man.’
‘True,’ said Danny. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if you’re coming back for your birthday.’
‘What are you, a girl?’
‘It’s a big deal. When I’m old like you I’ll want you to make a big deal over me.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing for my birthday, Danielle, but maybe we could have a sleepover—’
‘You sound like me. A guy tries to do the right thing…’
‘Look, I don’t know what I’m doing for my birthday. But I’m in New York tonight.’
‘What?’
‘Giulio is getting married tomorrow. Don’t ask. I don’t know if I’ll make it into the city. I’m only there a couple a days.’
‘Call me. I’ll come to the airport, meet you for a drink or something.’
‘Sure.’ He saw Anna walk in. ‘Danny, I gotta go catch a flight. Here – maybe you should talk to my lovely lady wife about any birthday plans.’
‘Hmmm, French accent…’
‘Jesus Christ. No-one is safe.’
Anna smiled and took the phone from Joe.
‘Bonjouuur,’ she said. Joe could hear Danny whooping.
The taxi driver guided the red saloon along the winding tree-lined road. One hour ago, he had picked up his first fare of the morning at Shannon airport. He had been talking ever since.
‘That’s what we need over here – Rudy Giuliani. The guy cleans up a whole place like New York and our politicians can’t clean their own backsides.’ He looked in the rear-view mirror. He got no response. He kept talking.
‘I ended up in Harlem once, you know. Only white guy there, I swear to God. And I’m from Cork and in Cork, we call everyone “boy”. We say “How’s it goin’, boy?” or “What’re you havin’, boy?” Well, I tell you one night in Harlem straightened me out fairly quickly. My mate, this big black guy, tells me, “Someone will pull a gun on you here if you call them boy.” So I started calling everyone “man” instead. “Hey, man, how’s it goin’, man?” Now I’m back here and I’m saying “man” and they all think I’m nuts.’ He turned back to his passenger. He drove on. ‘Right,’ he said after two quiet minutes, ‘here we are. Will this do? They usually seem to have a few good deals.’
‘This is great,’ said Duke Rawlins.
Brandon Motors stood on a winding back road, sloping down a field by a red-brick bungalow. New and used cars lined the grass, fluorescent green and pink price tags wedged behind their windscreen. The Car of the Week was mounted on a slanted wooden platform edged with green and gold bunting. The dealer stood beside it, nodding
