It was still there, though parts of the street farther along had taken some recent hits from the look of things. A faded brown sign hung askew on the pitted brick wall, and the heavy oak door was now plated with steel. Other than that it looked like the same hole it had always been. Fucking Belfast, he thought wearily, and opened the door.
The pub was low-roofed and shabby, the long counter worn from countless elbows tucking in for a long night of it. The air reeked of stale Sweet Aftons and spilled drink, but it was warm and dry, and there was ale on tap. Sometimes a man required little else of the universe.
The pub was empty other than a couple of old men at the bar and a table of five snugged at the back, near the gas fire. The two old-timers at the bar were silent; glum faces hanging over their half-empty glasses, they’d barely glanced up at his entrance. Regulars then. The men in the corner were an oddly lot, two on the smallish side, one with a face hidden under his cloth cap, the other missing two fingers from the first joint on his left hand. Another with the face of a priest, but he recognized him as Sweet Bill, a down-on-his-luck bookie. The fourth man was the one who’d drawn his glance though. He was a big lad with a shock of glossy brown hair, and a pair of blue eyes that sliced through the wreath of smoke about their table.
The man had taken his measure as soon as he’d come in the door. Casey didn’t take offence; a lifetime of assessing every room he walked into for unfriendlies had accustomed him to being given the once over himself.
“Thanks,” he said as the publican set his Guinness on the bar. The barman nodded, then slid his watery blue eyes back to the flickering telly that burbled to itself in a corner behind the counter.
Casey took a long swallow of his drink, then turned on the rickety stool to watch the game in progress. They were playing poker—five card draw from the look of it. The man with the cloth cap had just thrown down his cards with a sound of disgust and stood, saying he was done for the night. Casey smiled, the drink had rinsed the day’s sour taste from his tongue and he was in the mood for a bit of fun.
He waited until the capped man left, before he stood and walked over to the table. The men looked up at his approach, but he knew it was the blue-eyed man he’d need to address. He fixed him with his most genial smile.
“I see ye’ve an empty chair,” he said. “Will ye mind if I take it?”
The big man looked up, fixing him with a cold blue glare. “Are ye askin’ to play?”
“An’ if I am?” Casey said, returning the blue glare with a very black one.
“Then ye’d best take the plug out an’ sit down,” the man responded, though his tone was still frigid.
Casey took the chair, which was directly across the table from the blue-eyed man. He nodded to the other men, who returned his greeting with grunts and curt nods of their own.
“Name’s Robin Temple,” the man said, dealing Casey in, “what’s yer own?”
“Casey Riordan,” he replied, taking his seat between the old man and the young one who was missing the two fingers. “What are we playin’?”
“Five card draw,” Robin replied coolly, flicking the fifth card onto Casey’s stack. Casey waited until everyone else had picked up their cards, before touching his own. It was his own bit of superstition, like wearing certain socks on game days had been back when he’d played team rugby. It also gave him time to assess the other player’s tells, expressions on their faces, sniffing, tapping fingers, etc. Most people had them, and sure enough the men around him began fidgeting. Right off he knew the two-fingered boy thought he’d a winning hand, the bookie had nothing, and Robin—well he remained inscrutable, face revealing nothing, cards neatly splayed in a hand that wore a curious looking ring. It was silver and heavy, with the outline of a phoenix, its rising mouth open to swallow a blood red ruby.
“Are ye goin’ to pick up yer hand or not?” Robin asked, voice openly hostile.
“Aye,” Casey replied mildly. He took his time fanning the cards out, arranging them to suit and then smiling about the table. “There, I think I’m ready now.”
Robin smiled suddenly, but the feral parting of lip held no friendliness. Casey had a decent hand, with a good card or two he could likely win, but he’d lose a few, make some blunders, and put the men at their ease. When he did win, he’d make a show of crowing, which would lull them all into thinking he’d not played with men of their caliber before.
As things went they were a fairly easy lot to read. Two Fingers touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip when he’d more than a pair. The bookie tapped his foot under the table when he thought his luck was on the rise.
Robin won the first round with three nines, Two Fingers trailing him with three eights, the bookie taking third with two pairs and Casey bringing up the rump with a pair of fours.
Casey did modestly well in the next three rounds with two pairs, three of a kind and another set of pairs. He remained amiable throughout, asking the odd novice question.
The deal came back round to Robin on the last game. Casey eyed his hand, three of spades and diamonds, jack, king and ace of hearts. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, furrowing his brow as though stymied by the hand.
In the first throw down he discarded his three of spades and picked up the queen of hearts. His own heart started to speed up a little, though he sighed lightly and gave his head the faintest of shakes. He watched the other discards and based his guesses on what they held accordingly. He was fairly certain that Two Fingers was working on a couple of pairs, a decent hand and often a winning one in other situations, but likely not so lucky for the laddie today. The bookie was going to go out on his turn; he’d no more than a pair and knew it wasn’t going to be enough.
“I’ll take one,” Casey said, throwing down the five he’d been dealt in the last round.
Robin dealt him the final card, his index finger pushing it across the table to Casey, eyes never leaving his face.
“Thank ye,” Casey said politely, waiting until the other man blinked first before turning his attention to the card that lay now under his own hand.
He didn’t pick it up until everyone had been dealt their cards.
“Bets lads?” Robin asked.
The bookie shook his head and put his cards down. Robin threw another fiver onto the pile with a flash of white teeth.
Casey sighed heavily and took the last bit of money he had, if it went higher he’d have to fold. “I’ll see yer fiver an’ raise ye another.”
Robin eyed him speculatively over the top of his own cards, still as stone and, if Casey was any critic of these things, sober as a judge.
“I’ll see yer five,” he said finally, putting a crumpled note on the table that was hopefully the bottom of his own fund. “Gentlemen?”
Two Fingers sighed in disgust and threw his cards down, “That’s me done then.”
It was down to the two of them now. Casey didn’t so much as blink, but merely held Robin’s gaze with his own. Any sign of weakness would be exploited without mercy. He wasn’t about to give Robin an opening.
No one breathed; the tension was high enough to walk clear across. Robin laid his cards down one at a time, clearly enjoying his moment.
On the table lay the five cards of a flush, ace of spades, nine of spades, four of spades followed by another four and nicely rounded off with a ten.
“Now do ye know of many hands that can beat that, gentlemen?” Robin asked, blue eyes gleaming triumphantly.
“I suppose a royal flush would do it,” Casey said mildly and laid his cards on the table. The ten, jack, queen, king, and ace of hearts met three sets of incredulous eyes.
The two-fingered boy slammed his complete fist into the table, causing a cascade of chips to spill onto the floor, “He’s cheated, do ye know the odds of such a thing?”
“About one in two an’ a half million,” Robin said, a reluctant smile playing with the corners of his mouth. “But I know a cheat when I see one, an’ I’d wager a hundred pound the man didn�
��t cheat. Do ye care to oppose me on that?”
The boy looked up and saw something beyond the lazy smile that cautioned him in his answer.
“No,” he said, “If ye think he didn’t cheat, I’ll take yer word on it.”
“Aye well then sin sin, man.”
Wisely the two other men vacated their chairs and, within minutes, the pub as well, leaving the two big men opposite each other at the table.
Robin idly shuffled the cards, narrowing his eyes in assessment of the man across from him. He knocked the cards on the table, placed them face down and toward Casey.
“Double or nothin’?” he asked, dark blue eyes meeting the black of his opponent’s.
“You call it,” Casey said, not so much as blinking.
“Right, kings are high and deuces are wild. Cut.”
Casey obliged, spinning the top half of the deck neatly to one side, and fanning them out in a perfect line.
“Nice trick,” Robin observed, taking the top card, glancing at it and smiling like a cat with too much cream around its whiskers. “Yer turn,” he said cutting the deck a second time and letting the cards splay in an arc, before coming to rest one after another in a very tidy pile.
“Impressive,” Casey commented, taking his own card with a deft flick of the wrist.
“Time to hold ‘em or fold ‘em,” Robin said with a lovely show of teeth.
“You first,” Casey said politely.
Robin flipped his card over with a delicate movement of his middle finger, making it land on his wrist.
“King of Hearts,” he crowed triumphantly.
“Glad to see some things never change,” Casey said with a grin, “but I believe,” he flicked his card with the thumb of his right hand causing it to flip over twice before landing, sweet as a whisper, on the balance of the tips of his index finger and thumb, “that ye did say twos took all. Two of hearts makes me the winner.”
Robin glared at him. “Ye black Irish bastard, where’d ye hide it—up yer sleeve, or down yer trousers?”
Casey winked. “I’ll never tell.”
“Goddamn it, Casey Riordan,” Robin said, smile splitting wide, “it’s good to see ye. Can ye be persuaded to take a drink with me?”
“Maybe just the one.”
“Just the one,” Robin said disbelievingly, “have ye gone an’ joined the Temperance League whilst I was away?”
Casey shook his head. “No but it’s more than my life’s worth to stumble home drunk.”
“Ah, she’s strict is she?”
Casey grinned. “Not so much, but she knows which privileges to deny to keep me in line.”
“The power of the female, eh? Whatever damn fool said they were the weaker sex obviously didn’t have much dealins’ with them.”
Casey cleared his throat. “I’d heard ye married, Pat wrote me in prison to tell me of it.”
“Aye, I married her,” Robin said ruefully, thumb tracing the rim of the bottle that sat between them, “knowin’ all the time that it was a damned mistake. I was no more than a pet monkey to her, her rebel Irishman that she could show off at parties with her society friends. I’m afraid I was bought for my shock value an’ little else.”
“I’m sorry to hear it man,” Casey said sincerely.
“Are ye?” Robin cut him a look, “I wouldn’t be if I were you, it’s me who should be apologizin’. Though I paid the price, she never forgot ye an’ never let me forget it either.”
“I never loved her proper,” Casey said, “though maybe I didn’t know it entirely then.”
“Aye, when did ye figure it out then?”
Casey met his look with one of his own. “When I met my own wife.”
“I noticed the ring, how long will it have been then?”
“Just the two years this April, though I don’t remember any life before her if ye’ll know what I mean.”
“Ye love her a great deal then.”
“Oh aye.” Casey smiled. “I love her to distraction an’ beyond.”
“She’s a looker?”
“Doesn’t even begin to describe her,” Casey said, “she still takes my breath away. First time I saw her I felt like someone had hit me hard in the stomach, I could barely keep to my feet.”
“How’d ye meet?”
“She was sittin’ half-naked in my brother’s kitchen, if ye can countenance it, the very day I arrived home from prison.”
“Jaysus,” Robin said, leaning forward over the table, a flicker of the sixteen-year-old he’d once been in his face. “Yer never tellin’ the truth man.”
“No, ‘tis true, she was posin’ in the altogether for a drawing that Pat was doin’.”
“Christ.” Robin grinned. “Ye always did have the damnedest luck with women.”
“Aye well,” Casey shrugged, “Pamela was different right from the first; I knew there was no playin’ with her.”
“Good Irish Catholic girl?” Robin asked, re-filling his glass and Casey’s half-empty one.
“She’s a Yank from New York originally, an’ she darkens the door of a church about once a year.”
“O-ho did ye marry yer American heiress after all?”
“No, when we first met we’d not even the two pennies to rub together.”
“Have ye a passel of babies then?”
“No,” Casey’s face was tight as he contemplated his whiskey with sudden intensity, “we had a stillborn daughter October past an’ haven’t had luck in getting pregnant since then.”
“I’m sorry man, tongue got ahead of my brain as usual.”
“Not to worry, ye couldn’t know,” Casey downed his whiskey in one swallow.
“So what brought ye back here? Tim Newsome said ye’d packed up an’ gone off to Boston a couple years back.”
Casey shook his head. “This country, it’s a wee bit like an addiction, ye know. Ye know it’s not good for ye, that it may kill ye in the end, an’ yet ye can’t resist it at the same time.”
Robin nodded in agreement. “I swore I’d left the dust of these streets behind for good, an’ yet after Melissa an’ I divorced I didn’t see where else I was to go. Wandered out west for a bit, Nevada, California an’ such. Then one day I find myself in the airport in Los Angeles bookin’ passage for a flight to Dublin. An’ I knew I was always bound back here, like a lemming to the feckin’ cliff.”
Casey laughed, despite the serious tone. “Aye, all things considered it’s a wee bit suicidal I suppose.”
“Aye,” Robin said and now there was no trace of laughter in his face, “but I’ve made my peace with Joe. I don’t suppose ye can say the same of yerself.”
“I’ve no need to, I’m not part of that world anymore,” Casey said.
“Aye well, the man remembers ye, so ye’d best watch how ye step.”
“Is that a threat?” Casey asked, hands stilled around his drink.
Robin shook his head. “Jaysus man, have ye been gone so long as to think that little of me?”
“We’ll both be changed by the time that’s passed, no?”
“Aye,” Robin replied softly, “we will at that.”
Casey dug in his pocket, emerging with a pack of cigarettes and two pound notes.
“Yer money’s no good here tonight, ye’ll let me get it,” Robin said.
Casey nodded his thanks as he shrugged his coat on. “It’s been good to see ye,” he said. “Ye should come by an’ meet my wife one of these days; we’re livin’ over the Beechmount Youth Center.”
“I’ll do that.”
“FRIEND OF YERS?” the publican asked, as the door closed behind Casey.
Robin smiled, a fleeting wistfulness gracing his features. “Aye, once upon a time he was. Best friend I ever had, like a brother really.” He stubbed the remains of his cigarette out in the ashtray, smile vaporizing along with the smoke.
“Times change though,” he said, and though his tone was mild, the barman stepped back a bit, a chill fixing itself in the back of his neck
. “And ye know what they say.”
“No, what’s that?” the barman asked, thinking he’d not feel safe until the door was locked behind this man’s back.
Robin threw some money on the counter, settling up the night’s accounts.
“Ni dhiolann dearmad fiacha,” he said, then whistled himself out the door.
The barman shivered and locked the door, there were enough lingerings of the Gaelic his grandmother had spoken to translate the man’s statement.
A debt is still unpaid, even if forgotten.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Boys of Summer
IN THE SPRING THE POSTMAN brought Pamela an unexpected gift.
“Package from New York,” he said with a tip of his cap, after handing her the smooth manila envelope which had a pleasant heft to it. She didn’t recognize the return address, but knew who it had come from as soon as the contents spilled onto the kitchen table where she’d sat to open the package. She picked them up, hands trembling a little, itching as they had not in months for the feel of a camera.
Image after image of their life in Boston came back to her, the streets, the people—Father Kevin, the Cardinal, Charlie, Desmond, Siobhan and Pat from the last Christmas they’d spent there. Plenty of Casey, many where he looked harassed at being subjected to the aim of his wife’s camera once again, but many natural shots that she’d had great fun taking. At the bottom there was a picture of Love Hagerty, a publicity still she’d taken, during the last campaign, of him in a crowd, cuffs rolled up, tie askew, trying to make believe he was a man of the people. She dropped the photo as if it were poison, mouth suddenly dry and stomach flipping over.
There was a note inside, written in a firm, squared-away hand. Written, she saw smiling, with Lucas’ usual economy of expression.
You forgot these. You captured Hagerty nicely—the smug bastard.
Lucas
She picked the photo of Love up again and slowly tore it into strips, ripping it again and again until there was no way of recognizing the face in the photo anymore, until the blue eyes, which seemed to mock her even on paper, could no longer look out from their celluloid world.
Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2) Page 24
