And was not averse to skirting the legal line.
I was just about holding my head above water, but it was getting fraught.
So, yeah, I was open to possibilities.
How I met Sheridan.
I was having a pint of Guinness in McSwiggan’s and no, I wasn’t hallucinating but right in the centre of the pub is a tree.
I was wondering which came first when a guy slid onto the stool beside me. I say slid because that’s exactly how he did it. Like a reptile, he just suddenly crept up on me.
I’ve been around as you’ve gathered and am always aware of exits and who is where, in relation to the danger quota.
I never saw him coming.
Should have taken that as an omen right then.
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 McDonagh’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 born on?”
I was about to put it down to late night-drink speak, but I was curious, asked, “That’s a weird question, what day, how the hell would I know what day?”
He looked sheepish, and when you add that to his rodent appearance, it was some sight, he said, “See, my girl, she has this thing about the nursery rhyme, you know, Monday’s child is fair of face and am… Thursday’s, is, yeah, has far to go, she judges people on what their day of birth is.”
My Girl!
I was so taken aback by that it took me a moment to ask, “What are you?”
No hesitation, “Thursday’s child.”
We laughed at that and I don’t think either of us really knew why.
I asked, “Who is the girl, why haven’t I met her?”
He looked furtive, hiding something but then, his whole life seemed to be about hiding stuff, he said, “She’s shy, I mean, she knows we’re mates and all, but she wants to know your birth day before she’ll meet you.”
I said, “Next time I talk to Mom, I’ll ask her, ok?”
As Mom had been in the ground for at least five years, it wasn’t likely to be any time soon.
Another round of drinks arrived and we moved on to important issues, like sport. Guy stuff, if ever you reach any sort of intimacy, move to sports, move way past that sucker, that intimacy crap.
I meant to look up the nursery rhyme but, as far as I got, was discovering I was born on a Wednesday.
Told Sheridan it was that day and he said, “I’ll tell her.”
He was distracted when I told him, the speed he took turning him this way and that, like a dead rose in a barren field.
I’d noticed he was becoming increasingly antsy, speed fiends, what can I tell you? But he was building up to something.
It finally came.
We were in Garavan’s, on Shop Street; still has all the old stuff you associate with
Ireland and even… whisper it, Irish staff.
And snugs.
