Dublin Noir

“And the two, the ones keeping guard, they’re going to what, give it to us?”

Now he laughed, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse. “How fucking stupid are you?” Shaking his head, like good help was hard to find, he said, “We’re going to give them the gas.”

That’s what we did.

Dream job-in, out. No frills, no flak.

… Unless you count the dead guy.

We’d donned cleaner’s gear, always wanted to don something, gives that hint of gravitas. Bow said, “Help us blend.”

Especially in my case, sign of the new Ireland, black guy riding a mop, no one blinked an eye.

We’d become America.

Them janitor blues, pushing dee broom, miming dee black and sullen-translate: invisible.

The guards, one in mid-yawn. We hit them fast, tied them up, tops, four minutes. I didn’t glance at the painting, was fearful it might remind me of my mother. Bow did, I heard the catch in his breathing. Then we were almost done, reached the back door, when a soldier came out of nowhere, a pistol in his hand, roared, “Hold on just a bloody minute!”

Bow shot him in the gut. I’d been going for the gas. I stared at Bow, whined, “No need for that.”

The smirk, his mouth curled down, he put two more rounds in the guy, asked, “Who’s talking about need?”

The heat came down

Hard

Relentless

Like the Dublin drizzle, rain that drove Joyce to Switzerland

With

… Malice aforethought.

We kept a low-to-lowest profile. A whole month before we met for the split, the rendezvous in an apartment on Pembroke Road, not far from the American embassy, an area I’d have little business in. Bow had rented the bottom floor, wide spacious affair, marred by filth, empty takeaway cartons, dirty plates in the sink, clothes strewn on the floor, the coffee table a riot of booze. He was dressed, I kid you not, in a smoking jacket, like some Agatha Christie major. Not even David Niven could pull that gig off.

Worse: on the pocket, the letter… B.

For… Bollocks?

He was wearing unironed tan cords and flip-flops, the sound slapping against the bare floor. I was wearing a T, jeans, Nike trainers with the cushion sole. A logo on my T… Point Blankers.

Near the window was the painting, dropped like an afterthought. I took my first real appraisal. The old lady did indeed look… old. She was nothing like my mother-my mother had never sat down in her wretched life.

I heard the unmistakable rack of a weapon and turned to see Bow holding a pistol. He said, “Excuse the mess, but decent help, man, it’s impossible to find.”

I stared at the gun, asked, “You’re not American, right?”

Winded him, came at him from left field, I added: “You’re good most of the time, you’ve it down and tight, almost pull it off but it slips, couple of words blow the act.”

His eyes gone feral, he moved the weapon, pointing at the center of my chest, asked, “What fucking words?”

I sighed theatrically (is there any other way?), said, “Okay, you say… mighty, fierce… ”

He put up his left hand. Not going to concede easy, protested, “Could have picked them up, been here a time.”

I nodded, then, “But you use fierce in both senses, like terrific, and like woesome-gotta be Irish to instinctively get that. You can learn the sense of it, but never the full usage.”

He went to interrupt but I shouted, “Hey, I’m not done! The real giveaway, apart from calling a pint a pint of stout, is me fags … Americans are never going to be able to call cigarettes gay.”

He shrugged, let it go, said, “Had you going for a while, yeah?”

I could give him that, allowed, “Sure, you’re as good as the real thing.”

Used the gun to scratch his belly, said, “Long as we’re confronting, you’re not Homer Simpson either, not the dumb schmuck you peddle. The Bukowski, it was yours, and the way you didn’t look at the painting, you’d have to be real smart not to show curiosity.”

I reached in my pocket, registered his alarm, soothed, “It’s a book, see…” Took out the Bukowski, Ham on Rye, flipped it on the floor, said, “A going-away present, because we’re done, right?”

As if I hadn’t noticed the weapon. His grip on the butt had eased, not a lot but a little. He said, “In the bedroom I got near thirty large, you believe that, nigger?”

No matter how many times I hear the word, and I hear it plenty, it is always a lash coming out of a white mouth, an obscenity. He let it saturate, then added, “I got enough nose candy to light up O’Connell Street for months, soon as I deliver the painting and get the rest of the cash. A serious amount, but guess what, I’m a greedy bastard, I don’t really share.” Pause, then, “And share with a darkie?… Get real. Gotta tell you, I’m a supporter of the Klan-did you know they were founded by a John Kennedy? How’s that for blarney?”

I lowered my head, said, “Never let the left hand see what-”

Shot him in the face, the gun in my right hand, almost hidden by the crushed fingers. The second tore through his chest. I said, Brooklyn inflection, “Duh, you gotta… focus.”

Got the cash, put the portrait under my coat, didn’t look back. Near Stephen’s Green a wino was sprawled beside a litter bin. I gave him some notes and stuffed the Whistler in the bin. He croaked, “No good, huh?”

I said, “It’s a question of appreciation.”

TRIBUNALBY PAT MULLAN

There’s a buzz about the place. Sure as hell wasn’t here when I left fifteen years ago. He remembered Dublin as the pits then. Dark, priest-ridden, can’t-do culture, living on government handouts and money from the emigrants. A Godforsaken hole of a place. For himself, anyway. Edmund Burke. Yeah, that’s me. My old man had delusions. Thought if he named me after the great Irish statesman that the name would overcome the bad genes and the lousy upbringing. Willie Burke had been a failure, failed at every no-risk job he ever attempted, and the old man had ended his days earning a mere pittance as a salesman in a tailoring shop that had seen its best days in the last century. Mass on Sunday was the highlight of his mother’s week, a timid woman from the west of Ireland who’d never felt at home in the big city. An only child, Edmund had been conceived just as his mother’s biological clock was about to stop ticking. She was forty- two when she had him.

All these things flooded his mind as he jumped into the taxi at Dublin Airport and told the driver to take him to Ballsbridge. He’d survived. Succeeded because his father’s failure terrified him. Got into Trinity, earned a law degree, headed for England, stayed a year in a boring clerk job at a London legal firm as resident Paddy. Luck intervened. His mother’s uncle in Boston sponsored him to the States. Decided that he’d go by sea instead of air. Took a 28,000-ton liner out of Liverpool. Gave him a sense of being a pilgrim setting out for the New World.

Now he was back. Why. The Celtic Tiger! That’s why. Well, one of the reasons. He was running away again. But that’s another story. Taking a year off from his New York law firm. Had just about enough of his mob clients. As well as his ex who wanted to rob him blind. Oh yeah, he’d stashed away a few dollars, but still hadn’t made that million. Maybe Dublin’s the place to be these days. Everybody’s here. All these faces in Dublin on a Tuesday and you see them again in New York or L.A. on the weekend. Aidan Quinn. Gabriel Byrne. Liam Neeson. Colin Farrell. Michael Flatley now a household name with Riverdance conquering the world.