by Paul Bishop
I could remember what it was like to be at the beginning of a career with a world of glory stretched out before you for the taking. I didn't pop her bubble. Reality would do that soon enough. It would take more than winning one drill to secure her a place as the backup goalkeeper. Nick was a vicious little bastard, and he'd quickly find some way to strike back.
After practice, Bekka had left her car at the Acropolis and thrown her long, jean-clad legs over the back of the Laverda. Her hair was still pulled back into a ponytail, but she had applied a light touch of makeup which accentuated her features. The lipstick on her full lips was a rich, deep red which stirred something inside me.
I'd felt very comfortable riding the Laverda with her arms wrapped around my waist and the heat of her breasts pressing into my back. She was a natural on the bike, riding as smoothly as if she were an integral part of the machine. She put all her confidence in my abilities as a driver, and we flowed like mercury along the twilight streets. She made the short ride to the restaurant a joy. My heart was racing faster than the bike's engine. I tried to remember that there is no fool like an old fool. However, neither love nor lust has a conscience.
"All I have to do now is get you on a plane back to England, and I've got myself a starting position," Bekka said over the dessert. She finished the sentence with a light laugh.
I couldn't stop my emotional reaction to the statement from flickering across my face. Bekka saw it and reached out to touch my hand, which was resting on top of the table.
"I meant that purely from a professional standpoint, not a personal one. I've only known you two days, but I've watched you on film so many times you were already in my dreams before I met you. Don't worry, I like having you around in the flesh."
I felt myself blush, and Bekka laughed again. "That's delightful," she said. "I don't think I've ever made a man blush before."
I knew I was turning even redder. The tips of my ears were burning. "Are my feelings that obvious?"
"Not at all," Bekka said. "I just feel tuned in to you. And I can't say I've ever felt that with anyone before."
I brought my eyes up from where they had been focusing on her hand touching mine and met her steady gaze. The ice color of her eyes had changed to smolder with white heat.
The restaurant she had chosen was a casual eatery called The Mainsail. It specialized in seafood. The atmosphere was red-checked tablecloths, antique ship's wheels and bells on the walls, and hundreds of oil sepia photographs of whalers doing battle with the sea's giant mammals. The lighting was subdued, made romantic by red candles which flickered shadows across the faces of the diners.
I shifted verbal gears to break the silence stretching between us.
"I had a proposal this morning," I said and offered up a mischievous grin. I often run for the cover of humor when I find myself involved in intense situations with women.
Bekka caught my mood and pulled her hand back in mock offense. "Oh, really?"
I proceeded to tell her about my encounter with Caitlin Brisbane. I overplayed the circumstances to comic proportions and by the time I was done we were holding hands across the table again. Bekka was laughing so hard, tears were rolling down her face. Every man loves to have a beautiful woman laugh at his jokes, and I am certainly no exception. I felt wonderful.
When we had regained our composure I asked, "Does what you said last night about wanting to help me with my other agenda still hold true?"
"You bet. What do you have in mind? Something to do with Caitlin?"
"No, not yet." I shook my head and asked, "How far is Santa Monica from here?"
"About twenty minutes by freeway if the traffic is light. Why?"
"Well, I'm not sure, but I want to follow up on this meeting. " I took out a copy of the flyer advertising Terranee Brisbane's speech in honor of the Irish/American Benevolent Association. Bekka took it from me and looked at it with interest.
"What makes you think this has anything to do with the Ravens?" she asked.
I told her about the scenario Pat Devlin had described; that the Irish/American Benevolent Association was possibly a front for the IRA. I then went on to tell her of Devlin's cryptic statement about being able to play soccer and fight the war at the same time.
Bekka shrugged her shoulders. "If you want to go, I'm game," she said.
Her statement reminded me of the old joke about the two hunters who came across a naked woman in the woods. The woman looked at the hunters with lust in her eyes and said, "Hello boys, I'm game." So, the two hunters shot her.
I hoped that whatever I was getting us into wouldn't end up the same way.
The Golden Harp pub dominated the ground-level end unit of a rundown building on the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Seventh Street. The ocean was only a few blocks further west and the sea breeze filled the night air with its saltiness. The logo on the sign over the entrance to the pub made the politics of the place very clear. It displayed a huge, ornate golden harp with the strings replaced by iron prison bars and a shadowy figure lurking behind them.
Inside, the pub was three-quarters full. The mass of humanity was swilling down Guinness like the taps were about to run dry. The smoke of pipes and unfiltered cigarettes battled with the smells of fried food coming from a small kitchen in the rear. A wooden bar formed a square in the middle of the room, and behind it three bartenders poured liquid courage nonstop.
Flush with the west wall was a low rectangular platform obviously acting as stage. On the wall itself were blowups of the photos and political cartoon featured on the flyer. Against another wall three separate dart games were in progress, and a jukebox was pounding with the sounds of the rock group U2.
I entered the pub and muscled my way to the bar with Bekka following behind me. A bartender shoved two pints of Guinness at me without asking, snatched a ten dollar bill out of my hand, and didn't return with the change. In our turn, we were elbowed away from the bar. We found our way to two chairs that had been pushed back from full tables. As we sat, a somber-looking youth with a two-day growth of beard and a dangling earring took the stage. Feedback wailed from a pair of beat-up speakers when he attempted to talk into the microphone.
As the youth turned to work on the sound system, I took a quick look around the room. I couldn't spot Pat Devlin or anyone else from the Ravens. However, standing in front of the stage, facing the audience in a military at-ease posture, was a rough-looking quartet of youths sporting knit scarves in the Ravens' colors. One of them turned to say something to the one next to him, and I caught a glimpse of Terranee Brisbane and the other speaker, Niall Emma-non, sitting on the stage behind them.
I took a closer look at the four young men. They appeared cocky and dangerous, all muscles and anger, as if they would like nothing better than a punch-up to break out. One of them was obviously the leader by dint of his stature. He was tall and wiry, about twenty-five years old, with a long aquiline nose and strong features. He had shiny black hair pulled back into a ponytail which rivaled Bekka's for length. He was clean shaven and wore a crisp white shirt with a green tie which snugged up under his scarf. Suspenders held his pressed Levis up over his slim hips, and high polished boots extended from the bottoms of his stovepipe trouser legs. I was willing to give odds-on that the boots were steel-toed Doc Martin's.
I looked at the other three. They were all dressed similarly, although without the crispness of their leader's demeanor. Instead of Doc Martin's, they wore black soccer boots with yellow stripes slashed across them. I wondered if Ethan Kelso was anywhere around. I had the gut feeling that these clowns were the core of the Hardbirds firm of soccer hooligans led by Archer, the royal bad boy.
Before I had the chance to make any further observations, the youth on the stage got the microphone working properly and attempted to get everyone's attention. His brogue was so thick it was hard to understand. He must have put his point across because the audience started applauding politely and Niall Emmanon stepped up to the mike.
Emmanon's speech started out hitting the usual Irish political catchphrases, designed to whip up the crowd's sympathy. He spoke of the "Irish struggle," the battles he had fought and paid the price for in prison time, and his dedication to the cause. He pleaded the case of the widows and orphans left behind by those who had made the ultimate commitment for the cause, and the lonely women and children whose men were locked away but not forgotten.
When he wound down there was a loud round of applause and several voices took up the verses of an Irish fight song with most of the crowd joining in on the tear-jerking chorus. When it looked like the singing was going to continue unabated, the youth who had introduced Emmanon regained the stage and called for quiet. When he had a relative response to his request, he introduced Terranee Brisbane, who was received with a swell of applause and cheering. It was obvious Brisbane had worked this crowd before and that they liked him. It quickly became clear why he was so well liked, because the first thing he did was order a round of drinks for the house.
When everyone was served, Brisbane half turned and dramatically pointed a finger toward the blowup of the political cartoon on the wall behind him.
"British soccer has become synonymous with violence over the past few years," he stated in a sonorous voice as he warmed to his subject. "In 1985 British soccer hooligans rioted in Turin, Italy, and trampled thirty-nine innocent people to death. In 1986 hooligans in London went on a mad rampage, destroying buildings and attacking innocent people in the streets after their team lost a football match. Later that same year, hooligans stabbed a nineteen-year-old man to death after he merely shouted his support for another team.
"More recently, English soccer hooligans were responsible for the horror at Heysel Stadium in Brussels, and the disaster last April at the Liverpool-Nottingham Forest FA Cup semifinal in Sheffield where ninety-five people died. Stadiums everywhere have been destroyed by the 'English disease.' Players have been terrorized, neighborhoods vandalized, and referees threatened with death over controversial calls.
"The soccer violence in Britain has come to rival the death statistics run up by the drive-by shootings and turf clashes of the gang warfare in urban American streets." Heads in the audience began to nod in agreement with this as Brisbane continued his oration. ' 'The British ruling class states its outrage at this turn of events. It professes shock at the actions of the working-class soccer fans but does nothing to alleviate the source of the problem, which is the oppression and exploitation of the working class. In point of fact the British ruling class, as always, even encourages this exploitation."
The audience applauded these statements with enthusiasm. Nobody seemed inclined to question Brisbane's own "ruling class" roots, or the fact he appeared to be employing his own soccer bullyboys for protection. As long as he was hitting the right notes of outrage, the crowd was willing to listen to him. And drink his booze, of course. It made me sick. Brisbane had no idea about the rot he was talking. But he still kept talking.
"The British government is expert at exploiting working-class rivalries to its own advantage. Soccer provides a diversion from the poverty and unemployment suffered by the working class while maintaining rivalries between working-class factions. Problems that the British government is unwilling, but not unable, to solve.
"The violence that erupts is almost inevitable, given the fortress-like conditions that prevail at soccer stadiums, where fans are herded into steel-encased pens, like so many cattle, to direct their anger and frustration toward a rival group of fans. And the situation promises to get worse as the British government threatens to implement a soccer fan ID card scheme as part of the Football Spectators Act forced through the Parliament last year. This action is just another example of the ruling class attempting to take away the freedoms of the working class in order to keep them repressed and in there, quote, proper place. We should not and will not stand for this!" Applause rang through the pub.
' 'The situation is analogous to the conditions in Northern Ireland where the working class is sequestered into ghettos and pitted against one another like rival teams in the name of national security! The God Forsaken British Empire ..."
"What the hell do you know about Northern Ireland, you stupid git?"
Every head in the pub suddenly swiveled to see who the owner of the blasphemous voice was. I was no exception, and I spotted a masked figure standing on the bar. Surrounding him were seven or eight hardcases who had brought axe handles out from under long coats. They all had bandanas pulled up to hide the lower part of their features and baseball caps pulled low on their foreheads.
I was only able to recognize the masked figure's voice as Pat Devlin's because I had been warned to expect trouble.
In one hand, Devlin held a red balloon that looked to be filled with some kind of liquid.
"Get off the stage, you are blithering idiot," he yelled at Brisbane. "You've no idea how many people's blood you have on your hands so here's a sample." With that, he threw the balloon with deadly accuracy. It caught the top of the microphone and ripped open, sending a thick red substance spraying across the pale gray of Brisbane's suit front. I caught the offal smell instantly. Animal blood.
The pub had broken into pandemonium. Pat Devlin had to have a very personal stake in the Irish troubles to take this kind of action, but there was no time to worry about what it was. Devlin's cohorts with the axe handles had started to wade into the crowd with indiscriminate swings, and Archer and his bullyboys were headed into the fray for a major confrontation. It was time to get out.
I grabbed Bekka's hand and pulled her up out of her seat. We weren't fast enough, though, and one of the axe handle-swinging thugs was bearing down on us. I dodged under his first swipe and hit him as hard as I could over his heart. He went down in a heap. Pain lanced through my fist and I prayed I hadn't broken anything.
I reached back behind me to grab Bekka's hand again and started to plow through the crowd. There was a sudden explosion at the front of the room, and I glanced up to see Niall Emmanon waving around the biggest pistol I had ever seen. Where he'd kept it while he was speaking, I had no idea, probably in the small of his back. It looked like he had fired into the air to clear the space around him, but I didn't wait to see if he was going to start picking out targets.
I felt a hand grab my sleeve and I spun around to lash out with my fists again, but I recognized the features of Ethan Kelso just in time.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked.
"It's my job! What the hell are you doing here? And who's this with you?"
A beer glass flew between us and shattered against a chairback. The pub was in a full-scale punch-up.
"Can we save the reunion and introductions till later?" Bekka asked urgently. "We've got to get out of here!"
Ethan changed my initial direction and pulled us toward the back of the pub. I felt like a trout swimming upstream since we were moving against the tide of humanity trying to get out of the pub's front door. There was a back door, but everyone seemed to have forgotten about it. After much pushing and shoving, Ethan suddenly dragged Bekka and me off to one side and into the men's restroom.
"Always have a plan of retreat," he said, as he propped open a small window. He punched out the wire screen covering the opening and stood back to help Bekka up and out. I climbed through next, and then reached back
in to help pull Ethan through. Police sirens could be heard arriving at the front of the pub.
"Let's blow this pop stand," Ethan said, and started to jog down the alley we'd found ourselves in.
We'd only gone a few steps when I put my hand out to stop Ethan.
"Wait a minute," I said. "I think that motorcycle parked against the wall is the one Liam Donovan was riding when he tried to run us down at the Acropolis."
Ethan stopped to look at the bike I was pointing out. It was parked almost directly behind the back door of the pub where patrons were now spilling out like lemmings running for a cliff. There were several cars also parked in the alley, but the bike stood out because of the bright yellow gas tank which I remembered from the night before. I know bikes, I've been around them and studying them for years. Makes, models, and features stay with me like suspects' faces, names, and methods must stay with Ethan. The bike was the same make and model of Japanese crotch rocket that Donovan had been riding, I was sure of it.
"Damn. We don't have time for this," Ethan said. "We've got to get clear before the uniforms close off this alley. Are you sure?"
I nodded.
Ethan looked undecided for a second until a black-and-white police car turned into the far end of the alley.
He pushed me urgently in the opposite direction. "The bike will have to wait. We have to get clear of here."
All three of us started to run down the alley.
"I've got a surveillance team set up to follow Emmanon. If he got clear of the pub, I've got to be clear to stay with him."
We exited the alley but continued running until we reached the parking lot where I'd left the Laverda. Ethan pulled a radio transmitter out of his back pocket and within seconds a black, unmarked coupe had curbed itself alongside of us with its passenger door open. Ethan jumped in.
"Thanks," I told him.
"Just get clear of here and call me tomorrow."
"Don't you want to say I told you so?"
"Why? Because I said you'd get involved in this thing?"
