‘He’s famous?’
‘Not yet, but he’s game.’
She laughed, said: ‘I haven’t one clue to what you’re on about.’
He gave a shy smile, answered: ‘Ah, there’s no sense in it, but it has a grand ring!’ He looked at her hands, added: ‘And speaking of rings, can I hope yer not wed?’
She was filled with warmth, not to mention a hint of lust. She said: ‘Are you long in security?’
He drained his glass and she clocked his even white teeth. He said: ‘I was with the Social Security for longer than either of us admit, but yes, it’s what I do. I like minding things. I used to do it back home, but that’s a long time ago. Thank Jaysus… and no, it’s not what I do while I’m waiting to be an actor. I’m with Woody Allen who said he was an actor till he got an opening as a waiter.’
She laughed again, then said: ‘I’ve got shopping to do, so are you going to ask me out?’
‘I might.’
Roberts looked at his wife across the breakfast table. Deep lines were etched around her eyes, and he thought: ‘Good Lord, she’s aging.’ But said: ‘England went under with barely a whimper, losing their final match by twenty-eight runs today.’
‘That’s hardly surprising dear, surely?’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, I mean the poor lambs have a maniac stalking them. It’s not conducive to good cricket, is it?’
He felt his voice rising: ‘All they had to chase was a perfectly manageable victory target of 229.’
‘Says you. And darling, I’m sure they feel you should be chasing a maniac instead of criticising.’
Falls was surprised that Eddie Dillon had a car. She felt he’d have a lot of surprises. The motor was a beat-up Datsun, faded maroon. He said:
‘I won it off a guy in a card game.’
‘What?’
‘Just kidding. It’s the kind of line guys adore to use.’
‘Why?’
‘Good question, and one I have no answer to.’
He was dressed in a thin suit; everything about it was skinny, from the labels to the crease. A startling white shirt cried: ‘Clean, oh yes.’ Falls had her sedate hooker ensemble. Black low-cut dress, short, and black tights. Slingback heels that almost promised comfort, but not quite. He said: ‘You look gorgeous.’
She knew she looked good. In fact, before he arrived, she’d almost turned herself on. He’d brought a box of Dairy Milk. The big motherfucker that’d feed a flock of nuns.
She asked: ‘Won them in a card game?’
‘Yup, two aces over five, does it every third hand.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To Ireland.’
And in a sense, they did.
‘I was a small time crook until this very minute, and now I’m a big-time crook!’ Clifton Young in Dark Passage
Fenton, of the ‘E’ gang, was becoming less wallpaperish. He was beginning, for the first time in his life, to follow the plot. Not completely, but definitely in there. Now, coming off a football high, he challenged Kevin, said: ‘See that young copper got done?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The papers are saying we done it.’
Kev was dressed in urban guerrilla gear. Tan combat pants with all the pockets, tan singlet and those dogtags they sell in the arcade. Desert Storm via Brixton. He sensed Fen’s attitude and squared off. A Browning automatic peaking from the pocket on his left thigh. He smiled, said: ‘Fuck ’em.’
Fenton, less sure, wanted to back off, but had to hold. Asked: ‘Did ya, Kev? Did ya do him?’
Kev was well pleased. It kept the troops in line if they believed the boss was totally not to be fucked with. He said: ‘Whatcha fink Fen, eh… what do ya reckon, matey?’ Now Albert and Doug were on their feet and the air was crackling. Fen fell back into a chair, saying: ‘Aw Jeez, Kev, you never said nuffing about doing the old bill. Jeez, it’s not on. It’s not… And he groped in desperation for a word to convey his feeling. ‘It’s not British.’
Kev gave a wild laugh, then pulled the Browning out, got into shooter stance, legs apart, two-handed grip, swung the barrel back and forth across his gang, shouted: ‘Incoming!’ and watched the fucks dive for cover.
He could hear hueys fly low over the Mekong Delta, and vowed to re-rent
‘What a place. I can feel the rats in the wall.’ Phantom Lady
The Galtimore ballroom confirms the English nightmare. That the Irish are: One, tribal. Two, ferocious. Three, stone mad.
To see a heaving mass of hibernians ‘dancing’ to a show-band with an abandon of insecurity, is truly awesome. Like a rave with intent. When Falls saw the entrance and felt the vibes, she asked: ‘Are we here to dance or to raid?’
Eddie took her hand, laughed: ‘They’re only warming up.’
She could only hope this was a joke.
It wasn’t. Two bouncers at the door said in unison: ‘How ya, Eddie.’
Falls didn’t know: was this good or bad? Good that he was known, but how regular was he? Was she just another in a line of Saturday Night Specials, cheap and over the counter?
Eddie said: ‘They’re Connemara men. Never mess with them. When penance is required, they think true suffering is to drink sherry.’
Inside it was sweltering, and seemed like all of humanity had converged. Eddie said: ‘Wait here, I’ll get some minerals,’ and was gone.
Falls panicked, felt she’d never see him again. The sheer mass of the crowd moved her along and into the ballroom. She thought: ‘So this is hell.’
A stout man, reeking of stout in a sweat stained shirt asked her: ‘D’yer want a turn?’
‘No thank you, I’m — ’ but he shouted: ‘Stick it, yer black bitch!’
A band, consisting of at least fifty or so it seemed, were doing a loud version of ‘I Shot the Sheriff. Mainly it was loud, and they sure hated the sheriff. And here was Eddie, big smile, two large iced drinks, saying: ‘So, did you miss me?’
‘Yeah.’
Then they were dancing, despite the crowd, the heat and the band. They were cookin’. He could jive like an eel. Falls had never met a man who could dance. In fact most of them could barely speak. It deeply delighted her. Then a slow number: ‘Miss You Nights’.
And she drew him close, enfolded him tight. She asked: ‘Is that a poem or are you real pleased with me?’
‘It’s poetry all right.’
And later, it would be.
The Beauty of Balham
