by John Brady
It took him a count of seven before he could see anything beyond the lights over the pool tables. All he could make out were the figures moving, the smoke. James Tierney’s closely cropped head appeared in the glare over one table. He leaned in again to cue the shot.
“Howiya, Jammy, how’s it going, man?”
James Tierney dropped the cue with a sigh, closed his eyes and then regrouped to line up the cue again.
“Get lost, Leonardo,” he murmured.
The cue darted, the white knocked the red hard against the mat and into the corner pocket. By the time the red clicked amongst the other balls in the pocket, the white was still.
“Ace, Jammy! Brilliant, man! Fucking ace!”
Jammy Tierney stood up out of the light. Another man stepped forward. The balls on the table were mirrored in his glasses. Tierney stared at the table and chalked his tip.
“I’m in a game,” he said.
“Sorry, Jammy. Sorry, man. I just thought I’d, you know…”
“Take a fucking walk.”.
“Yeah, right. It’s okay! Sorry. I’ll wait outside like, you know. No problem.”
For the next twenty minutes he walked from the front door of the pool hall down the lane to the back. He thought often of sneaking back in and watching somewhere he wouldn’t be noticed. He imagined the perfect shot, the ball dropping into the pocket, the money changing hands. If he was Jammy Tierney, he’d be doing better than this dive. He’d be at it night and day until he got to the big time. He stopped by the back door again. What if Jammy was giving him the brush-off and was going to leave by the front? He took a step up toward the open door but stopped when he remembered Jammy’s face. He jogged to the front of the building in time to see the guy with the glasses leaving.
The gloom of the pool-room seemed to have deepened. Tierney was setting up the balls. A skinny, hippy type was chalking his cue.
“Hey, how did you do, Jammy?”
Tierney jerked his head up.
“What are you doing back here? I thought I told you to get lost, didn’t I?”
“I heard you, Jammy. Yeah, and I left. I seen the other fella go, so…”
Tierney took a step back and looked him up and down.
“Even in here I can see how wasted you are. The state of you. You’re sweating.”
“It’s a heat wave, man.”
“Oh yeah? Look in a mirror, Leonardo. You’re a mess.”
“Looks aren’t everything, Jammy, man. Come on, man. I just came by to talk to you for a minute.”
“ ‘Talk to you?’ Sure you’re not sussing out the place to see if you can do some dealing to the kids in here? Because if you are, I’ll burst you.”
“I just wanted to say hello. Is that such a big crime these days?”
“What are you into now, Leonardo? You graduated to the hard stuff?”
“No way!”
“Here, let me see your arms. Yeah, you’re wearing a jacket and it’s like the Sahara this last ten days here. C’mere!”
He pushed Tierney’s hand away.
“Don’t start with me, Jammy.”
Tierney laughed.
“Or what? What’ll you do, Leonardo? Faint on me?”
“All I wanted was to say hello and that.”
He looked back into Tierney’s face and took in his scorn. They were the same age. They had been friends since the first day they had started primary school together.
“Did you get a job?”
“I do a bit of this and that. They’re going to cut down me rock-and-roll. They found out I was living at home, you know?”
“And you’ve given up completely on the drawings and stuff, right?”
“No way! Well, not exactly. I go out some days with me stuff.”
“I never see you out there. I haven’t seen you for months. Anywhere.”
“Well, I’m trying to stake out new places, amn’t I? I don’t like to just do the one spot all the time, you know. That’s not how the art business works, Jammy.”
“The art business. That’s what you’re calling chalk drawings on the frigging footpath, is it?”
Tierney folded his arms. The tattoo of the snake and the guitar swelled out from his upper arm.
“It’s the summer, man. There are millions of chalkies out there. Jesus! Foreigners even. Every street-corner. What am I supposed to do, have a barney right there in the street with every single one of them so’s I can have a good spot to show me stuff?”
“Let me guess. You want me to stand there with you and collect money for you.”
“I can look after myself, so I can.”
“What, then? You came by to talk about the bleeding weather?”
“I want to get on with someone, Jammy. You know.”
The shadows dug deeper into Tierney’s forehead.
“What,” he said.
“You know. Get something going. A future. Show what I can do.”
Tierney continued to stare at him but his eyes had slipped out of focus.
“The Egans? You are a header. ‘The Egans’ he says. Like he really means it.”
“Don’t give me that look, Jammy. Come on! I done stuff!”
“Crack, you mean. Speed.”
“You’re not even giving me a chance, man.”
“Chance at what? Here, let me tell you something. Nothing personal now.”
He leaned in close to whisper.
“You’re a total waster. Okay? You’re out of your box.”
“All I’m saying is maybe you can put me in touch with people.”
“‘People’?”
“Everyone knows you’re clean, Jammy. They respect that, man. But the lads in here: you know them, they know you. Fellas come through here every day of the week. Some of them are in the line of what I’m talking about.”
“Listen, man. Get this through your head: I’m clean. Like I always been. Like you used to slag me about. I play an odd game here and that’s it.”
“Don’t get me wrong, man! I’m not asking you to get in on something you wouldn’t want to. Really, Jammy! I swear. All I’m saying is maybe you could put in a word for me. Only me, like. Not you. I’ve been thinking, right? I want to settle down, don’t I. Get a start and do things right. You know, move in with someone.”
“Who’s the lucky someone?”
“Mary, maybe.”
The scorn left Tierney’s face.
“Mary? Mary Mullen?”
“Well, yeah. Maybe you wouldn’t understand.”
Tierney blinked and looked away to the end of the hall.
“Come on, Jammy! You could get me in the door at least.”
“I don’t work for the Egans. I mind me own business. So should you. Fucking iijit.”
“It’s not just them, Jammy! You know people. People coming through here, like.”
“Get the message, man.”
“I’m good at stuff, Jammy! I am!”
Tierney’s eyes bored into his now.
“What the hell are you so good at that the likes of the Egans would want you for? ‘Pavement Artist: Leonardo Hickey. Specialising in chalk, and getting high.’ ”
“I can do cars steady, Jammy. I’m good at it. Regular fence. I do a bit every night now.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant, man,” said Tierney. “Just ace. Oh, yeah. Christ. I’m out of here.”
He walked alongside Tierney.
“And I can drive. Aw, man, you know I can do that.” Tierney didn’t slow his pace.
“You’re about ten years too old to be still joyriding. Get smart, Leonardo. Fuck’s sake.”
He rapped Tierney’s shoulder as they stepped out onto the footpath. Tierney whirled around, his face twisted in anger.
“Don’t do that, man! Don’t fucking touch me!”
“Sorry. It’s just that… you know.”
“It’s not like it was! Never!”
“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“You never listened to me, did
you? Ever. I told you to stay away from that stuff. To look out for yourself, you know. And now look… Jesus, you were the best soccer player all the way through school. You could have-”
“I still can, Jammy! You should see me, man!”
Tierney’s eyes rested on the far end of the street now.
“Yeah, right, man. Sure. But you’re running in the wrong direction.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? It’s easy to judge people, isn’t it? Oh, yeah. So easy.” Tierney turned to him.
“Look, Leonardo. I don’t know if you really listen to anyone. Get this through your head: Nobody trusts a junkie.”
“I’m not a fucking junkie, Jammy. Don’t call me that.”
“Oh, yeah? You could quit cold turkey any time, right? Sure, man. Prove it. Sort yourself out and maybe someone might take you seriously.”
“They take Mary seriously and you know what she does-”
Tierney suddenly jabbed him hard in the chest.
“Shut up, man! I can just about put up with you lying about yourself but-”
“I was only saying that she gets to do-”
Tierney grasped his collar and twisted it.
“I don’t want to hear it, you lying bastard.”
Tierney shoved him away.
“I can do it, Jammy. Whatever it is. Swear to God.”
Tierney looked into the startled eyes again.
“What the hell are you talking about? Do what?”
“Whatever it takes, Jammy. I’m good! I’ve done stuff. Tell them, okay? Will you?”
THREE
Minogue’s back was prickly. A cyclist wearing only shorts and runners and a Walkman dawdled by their parked car. “181,” said Malone. Minogue looked at the flowers and the fresh paint. A dozen feet of brown lawn ran from the low pebble-dash wall to the house. Neighbours to one side of 181 had begun what might have looked like a rockery had they not lost interest. A Hi-Ace van squatted on cement blocks at the far end of the street.
Music with a disco beat sounded against the door. Minogue knocked harder. The chain pulled tight as the door opened. A woman with tied-up hair and sharp black lines on her eyebrows peered out. He pegged her for forty, for someone who didn’t like that one bit, for someone willing to fight it tooth and nail. She gave him a once-over and looked to Malone behind.
“The windows, is it?”
“No, ma’am. I’m looking for a Mrs. Irene Mullen.”
“No. No Irene Mullen here.”
She had said it too brashly for Minogue not to notice.
“Aren’t yous the Corpo come to fix the windows? I called them a fortnight ago.”
Her eyes kept moving from Minogue to Malone and back.
“Do you know a Mrs. Mullen?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Sorry. My name is Minogue. I’m a Guard. Matt Minogue.”
“That so? Where’s your ID.”
She barely looked at the photocard. Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m here about Mary Mullen.” He fixed her with a glare. “She’s the daughter, you know.”
“You’re wasting your time then, aren’t you? She doesn’t live here.”
“This is her last known address. There was no phone number. We drove out to check.”
The sun was on his bald spot now.
“Well, now you know,” she said, and closed the door. He strolled back to the car and leaned against it. Two youths emerged from a house up the street. They took their time walking toward the two policemen. Malone watched them, scratching his forearm.
“She’s trying to put one by us,” he murmured.
The youths stopped by a wall in front of one of the houses, lit cigarettes and stared at the policemen. A motorbike cruised by, turned around and stopped. The driver kicked out the stand, switched off the engine and stood next to the two by the wall.
“I wonder if our timing mightn’t be a bit off,” said Minogue. “We could come back with a posse, I reckon.”
A Post van appeared at the top of the road. Minogue saw the curtains in the upper floor of the house stir. He waved the van down. The driver was a middle-aged man with heavy jowls and a cigarette burning close to his knuckles. Beads of sweat high up on the driver’s forehead competed with a face full of large scattered freckles for the Inspector’s attention. Minogue’s eyes kept wandering to the wiry tufts of ginger hair sticking out over the man’s ears. He held up his card to the open window.
“Howiya there now. I’m a Guard and I’m looking for someone.”
The driver returned his hand to the gear shift.
“Well, good for you, pal. I’m not.”
“No-wait, I mean. It’s not the way it sounds. There’s been a death in the family. I’m trying to locate next of kin for someone.”
The driver thumbed his chin. The cigarette stayed in place against his knuckles.
“Yeah?”
Minogue’s eye went from the sceptical Dubliner behind the wheel back to the three youths. The man had taken him for a Guard trying to pin a warrant on someone.
“I was looking for a Mullen, Irene Mullen. I don’t know about a Mister Mullen, just her. She was here four years ago.”
The driver stared down into the wheel-well by the passenger seat and then back at Minogue.
“One of her family?”
“I’m afraid so. Do you know her?”
The eyes darted to the house Minogue had just left and he nodded once.
“She said there was no one that name there.”
“Who was it?” His hand moved the gear shift slowly from side to side in neutral.
“I don’t know who she is or says she is-”
“I mean the person what’s dead.”
“Well now, we’d prefer to pass the news on to the next of kin first.”
The hand stopped abruptly and the driver’s face set into a hard expression.
“Get a bit of cop on, for Christ’s sake,” he said.
Minogue took a step back from the van.
“Don’t you get it? I’m taking a chance here just talking to you. I’m the only one that comes through here now, Chief. You won’t even get the Corpo repairmen or the gas and meter fellas without an escort. The people here know me, man. Do you get it? I just deliver letters here like I done this last twenty-three years. I know me onions.”
“What are you saying?”
He jerked the ignition off and opened the door.
“Don’t they speak English down in Cork?”
“Clare. And I’m here thirty years if you need to be asking.”
The driver was nearly a foot shorter than Minogue.
“Let me tell you something, Chief. One year here is longer than thirty of yours.”
He shoved his fingers of his left hand in his mouth and whistled. The sound, a skill Minogue assumed was specific only to Dublin corner-boys, was piercing.
“Oi!” the driver called out. “Crunchie! Oi!”
The motorcyclist stood away from his bike and lifted his helmet. His face was a rash of acne. He shook out his hair as he walked over. The Post driver spoke with him and then walked to the door of the house. Crunchie winked at Malone and sat back on his motorbike. Malone nodded once. Minogue joined him by the side of the car. A half-dozen youths, two of them girls, had materialized out of nowhere. Minogue saw faces at some windows, curtains being moved.
“I think we’re all right,” said Malone. The postman stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. Crunchie strolled over to the van.
“Oi,” he said to someone Minogue couldn’t see. “Get away from the bloody van there!” Two teenagers skipped away from behind the van. Crunchie walked around the van and looked at the two policemen.
“What are you looking at,” he said to Malone. The detective returned his stare.
“Not much, by the look of things.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Minogue nudged Malone. The door opened. Minogue took in the fright on t
he woman’s face. She came slowly down to the wall and folded her arms.
“I’d as soon not discuss anything out here now,” Minogue said to her. The van driver came down the step and worked his way around her.
“Thanks, Joe,” she said. She turned back to Minogue.
“You’re not coming into my house. No way. That was a promise I made to myself. Yous weren’t there when yous were wanted, years ago.”
“Mrs. Mullen?”
“My name isn’t Mullen. I have me own name back now. What do you want?”
What Minogue wanted was a phone to check the PM time with Eilis. If this woman was the mother, she’d have to identify the body.
“It’s Mary, isn’t it,” she said, and bit her lip.
“Your daughter?”
She nodded and her jaw quivered.
“Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?”
Her voice seemed to be trapped in her throat.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“I’m very sorry but…”
She grasped at her face and turned away. The Inspector stepped forward.
“Oh, my God,” he heard her gasp. “Oh, my Jesus. Oh, my sweet Jesus.”
“Have you people in the house?” Minogue asked. “I think we should maybe go in and sit down for a minute.”
“Kevin,” she yelled. Her voice was ragged now. “Kevin!” One of the group walked over.
“Get your mother, Kevin. And hurry up with you!”
Malone parked behind an ambulance. Minogue rolled out of his seat and opened the back passenger door. Irene Lawlor made no move to get out. She sat there with the door open, staring down at her hands. Malone looked across the roof at Minogue. Irene Lawlor had said little in the car on the trip over. She had rebuffed most of Minogue’s queries with a stare fixed on the roadway by her window. Her companion, a Mrs. Molloy, had big eyes and what looked like goitre. She’d chainsmoked and murmured to Irene Lawlor all the way into the city centre. Whatever she’d said had had no noticeable effect. Irene Lawlor’s glassy stare remained.
Mrs. Molloy walked around the back of the car and leaned in. Minogue saw the red lines of the car seat impressed on the back of her thighs where her miniskirt had been creased. He stepped back and Mrs. Molloy pulled Irene Lawlor out. She walked in a crouch as if trying to recover from a punch to the stomach. She entered the hospital, with her arms wrapped around her waist.
