by Ken Bruen
He held out the disk. A gift, and Fat Pink didn’t mind.
“Recorded not twenty-four hours ago,” said the little man.
The trader swallowed hard. “Name your price.”
They settled on 75,000 euros—Little Pink knowing the U.S. dollar was weak—and the Audi. In return, they’d record for as long as the ghost chose to play.
Driving in the rain through Ballsbridge toward Kill o’ the Grange, headlights sweeping across the diamonded windscreen, the trader had it figured. He’d report the Audi stolen before he left Stillorgan Road for the meeting, record Rory, glorious Rory, and then he’d double-back on foot to grab his money, putting the sight of the bouncer’s Ruger MK right between Fat Pink’s googly eyes.
He’d pick up a new set of wheels in Spain and be in Seville by tomorrow noon.
That was fair play to the boys in Coldbath Fields, and he wasn’t too far gone with the beatings and the crank to have forgotten what he’d learned in the yard. A real tutorial it was, day in and out.
The call made, he put the mobile back in his pocket, and rolled down the window, searching for a sniff of Dublin Bay. None, his nose as numb as stone.
“Eejits,” he said to the night air. “Eejits and wankers. Come to rip off Eamonn the barkeep, and look who’s here. The man who broke the Ravenscroft.”
He was still chattering when Fat Pink opened the door to the cottage on a grainy road two rights and a left off Kill Avenue, and there’s yer open field and the black tree branches groping for the indigo sky.
“You’re early,” Fat Pink said, filling the door frame, all but blocking out the light.
“I got the money.”
The rustle of wings, or his imagination, all too alive.
“Well?” said the trader, who’d left the Ruger in the glove box.
Fat Pink stepped aside.
The wobbly stairwell was his only choice, and he all but leapt from his head when Fat Pink killed the lights.
“What the—”
“Whisht now,” Fat Pink warned as he joined him on the creaking stairs. “Remember what we’re on about.”
“I can’t see,” the trader mumbled. He stopped at the landing, wondering where to go. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw a white knob and started for the door in front of him, but Fat Pink grabbed his shoulder and led him along the banister.
The floor creaked too. The house 200 years old if a day.
And in the room, gaslight.
Little Pink and another guy, bulldog snarl, neck as thick as a post, his melon flat on top.
“This him?” Pug asked.
Little Pink nodded.
The trader squinted and he saw an old table, longer than it was wide, and two chairs. The fireplace had been shuttered awhile ago, and the green shades on the windows were drawn.
Fat Pink nudged him in.
“How do we do this?” the trader said, his voice cracking. Darting bees xylophoned his ribs, the march of wind-up ants, barbed wire made of licorice and lace.
Pug took a sip from a half-pint, offered it to no one.
“We wait,” Little Pink replied. He pointed to a chair.
The trader walked in, and the trader sat down.
Fat Pink took the chair to his left. The flickering gaslight made his features quaver and dance.
Leaning against the slate mantle, Pug twisted his head until his neck cracked.
As if anticipating the question, Little Pink said, “Hours, minutes. You never can tell.” He took out his silver machine, set it on the table.
“That’s what you’re using? No microphones? You’ve got no facilities?”
Pug grunted and Fat Pink pushed down a laugh.
“It’s what we use.”
Dumb bastards, the trader thought. You get the ghost in a recording studio and you’re John Dorrences, you are.
He folded his hands on the table, and Fat Pink turned round to Pug, but neither man spoke.
Skeleton key in hand, Little Pink locked the door.
Five minutes later, felt like five hours, the trader sat tall when he heard the snap-squeal of an electric guitar going into its amp, and a quick punch on the strings to make sure it was in tune.
“Calm yerself,” Fat Pink said.
Little Pink nodded toward the machine.
And soon the sound of a Fender Stratocaster filled the room, and the ghost was running his blues scales, warming up, and soon he was toying with some old Muddy Waters lick, and the trader knew his man was working his way to something brilliant. And then the guitar let out a cry and a hole in the sky opened and here it came, lightning and molten gold and, God in heaven, it was glorious.
The trader shut his eyes in bliss.
And Fat Pink grabbed him by the left forearm and wrist, pressing the man’s hand flat on the table, and with one brutal swoop of a hatchet, Pug took off the trader’s thumb.
Blood spurted, and it ran in a river toward the machine.
The trader howled and the trader howled, and he was almost as loud as the guitar, the blizzard of blues notes, the screeching feedback, the beauty.
Pug took off his belt, wrapped it around the trader’s left arm, cutting the flow.
Standing, Fat Pink put his hands on his shoulders, pressed the trader deep and hard into the chair.
Little Pink, off the door and tapped the machine. Silence. Absolute silence, save a man’s agony cry.
“And you had to name it after him, didn’t ya?” Little Pink said, glaring at the trader, his eyes colder than cold.
Pug was digging in the trader’s pocket for the Audi’s keys.
“Desmond’s,” Little Pink went on. “That’s your idea of a joke?”
The trader’s thumb lay on the table, pointing with recrimination at its former host.
“I don’t—Jaysus, my hand. Look at my—”
Little Pink smacked him, and then Little Pink smacked him again.
“My name is Chick,” he said through grit teeth. “His name is Chick, and the man going to your car is named Chick. We’re from Limerick, and we don’t forget.”
“I don’t know …” Near shock, the trader blubbered and whimpered. “My thumb …”
“Our father was a good and decent man who didn’t deserve to die ’cause of the likes of you.”
Despite the searing pain, the trader was starting to get it. Ravenscroft, and some people won and some lost, but who the fuck is Chick?
Little Pink stepped back and he smiled, and when he smiled, Fat Pink smiled too.
It was Fat Pink—Larry Chick being his real name—who came across Trudi in Bristol, and it was Bernie Chick—him the one the trader dubbed Pug—who heard about the guitar player over in the States in Red Bank, New Jersey, who could play it like Rory done. Little Pink, who was Paul but went by the name Des to honor his father, put it together. The club off the Royal Canal was a gift, it was. The crystal meth situation too, meaning the trader didn’t think to see if Bernie was behind him when he finally stumbled back to his ratty flat.
“We’re going to take your teeth too,” Des Chick said.
“And the nose,” Larry nodded.
“And the nose,” Des agreed, “if Bernie comes back empty-handed.”
The trader could not believe he had been duped. Better than them all, and smarter, and yet he’d been duped.
Des said, “And then we’ll talk about regret.”
The trader looked at his thumb on the table, and he heard the one he called Pug trudging up the creaking stairs.
LOST IN DUBLIN
BY JASON STARR
Kathy had come to Dublin to forget about her fiancé, Jim, or to at least reassess the relationship, but so far she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. She’d called him twice—once, minutes after her flight landed, under the pretense of wanting to find out how Sammy, their year-old Labrador, was doing, but it was really to hear his voice; and again when she arrived at the hotel to admit that she missed him. He said he missed her too and told her tha
t this was crazy, to get on the next plane back to New York, but she told him no, she had to stay, to try to “work this thing out once and for all.”
Now, as she lay in bed in the curtain-darkened hotel room, trying to sleep off her jet lag, she wondered what the hell she was doing with her life. For years, all her friends had been trying to convince her to dump Jim, and part of her wanted to do it. She knew she’d never be able to trust him again—for all she knew, he was back in bed with that bitch right now—so what was the point in even thinking about staying with him? But it had never been easy for her to let go of things and she’d been with Jim for six years, and although things had been stormy, to say the least, she felt she had to at least give it a chance—see if there was still something there.
She stirred for a couple of hours and then got up, not sure if she had slept or not. She still had a bad headache and felt out of it, and a shower and a whole small bottle of Killarney sparkling from the minibar didn’t help. But she was excited to go out exploring and she figured a good cup of coffee would perk her up.
She picked up a tourist map and went down Chatham Street to a pleasant-looking café and sat at one of the tables outside. A waitress came out and asked her what she was having.
“Just a coffee,” Kathy said.
The waitress left and Kathy opened the map and was very confused. Dublin was a maze of streets with Irish names and she had no idea where she was. It didn’t help that she had a lousy sense of direction. Normally when she traveled she relied on Jim to take her from place to place. Jim was one of those guys who seemed to have a compass implanted in his brain and always got a handle on a city instantly, even if he’d never been there before. The last trip they’d taken together was to Paris, two years ago, and she never looked at a map the entire ten days. Jim whisked her around the city, from arrondissement to arrondissement—walking to some places, taking the Metro to others—and she never had to worry about anything.
The waitress brought the coffee. Kathy had a sip, then noticed a guy at the table next to hers smiling at her. She hadn’t noticed him before and she figured he must’ve sat down while she was looking at the map. He was working on a laptop and was kind of cute.
She smiled back at him and then he said, “You’re American, are you?”
Kathy felt a wave of guilt she experienced whenever she was traveling and was outed for being American, as if her nationality was something to be ashamed of and kept hidden when abroad.
“I guess that’s pretty obvious, huh?”
“The map and the accent were sort of giveaways, I suppose. Hi, I’m Patrick, by the way.”
“Hi, I’m Kathy.”
He asked her if it was her first time in Dublin. She told him it was, and that she’d come because her father was born here and she’d always wanted to see it. When she told him she was from New York he said, “Ah, love New York. I was there once when I was at university, but I want to go again. I’m a playwright, you see.”
“Really?”
“Well, aspiring. Had one play produced last year, at a small theater here in Dublin.”
“That’s great.”
“Believe me—it sounds more impressive than it is. The theater’s a twenty-five-seater and it was empty half the run … Are you on holiday with your husband?”
Kathy saw Patrick looking at her engagement ring.
“Oh, no,” Kathy said. “I’m not married … I’m not even sure I’m engaged anymore, actually.”
“So you’re here with friends, are you?”
“No, I’m here by myself, actually.”
“Oh, that’s very nice. If you need any suggestions on places to go, I’d be delighted to help out.”
“Actually, if you could tell me how to get to the O’Connell Street area that would be great.”
Patrick came over and circled O’Connell on Kathy’s map, and marked several other spots, writing in the names of his favorite restaurants and pubs. Kathy liked smelling Patrick’s cologne and it felt good with him close to her.
After a few more minutes of pleasant small talk, Kathy looked at her watch and said, “I better ask for my check and get going.”
“Would you mind doing me a small favor?” Patrick said. “Could you watch my laptop for just one minute?”
“Oh, yeah,” Kathy said. “Sure.”
Patrick smiled—he had nice dimples—then went into the café. Kathy caught the waitress’ attention and made a scribbling motion with her hand. The waitress nodded but was busy taking another order.
Kathy looked at the map, at the markings Patrick had made, thinking how nice he was for doing that. He was kind of cute and he had a sexy accent. Too bad he was too young for her—he seemed to be about twenty-two or twenty-three— and she never really liked artsy-type guys.
She was looking closely at the map, at the location of a good produce market which Patrick had circled, when it happened. She was aware of someone moving quickly next to her and then she looked back and saw the guy with dark wavy hair sprinting away down the block. Instinctively, she grabbed her purse, relieved that it was still there. Then she looked back at the guy who was running away and realized he was holding Patrick’s laptop.
Kathy hesitated and didn’t say anything for a few seconds, until the thief had already turned the corner, and then she screamed, “Stop him! Somebody stop him!”
The waitress and a customer—a man in a business suit—came out of the café.
“What happened?” the waitress asked.
“Somebody stole a laptop,” Kathy said.
“Where’d he go?” the man asked.
“He just ran away … around the corner,” Kathy said. “Can’t you call the police or something?”
Then Patrick came out and seemed confused. “What happened?”
“Your laptop was stolen,” Kathy said.
Patrick peered at his empty table with a look of horror, shock, and disbelief.
“I’m so sorry,” Kathy said. “This guy just came down the block and grabbed it.”
“Did you see what he looked like?” the man in the suit asked.
“No,” Kathy said. “I just saw him from the back … He had wavy hair. He was wearing jeans.”
“I don’t think that’ll help the Gardaí very much,” the waitress said.
“Go ahead and call,” Kathy said. “Maybe they can catch the guy.”
“I’ll call,” the man in the suit said, and he took out his cell phone and walked away.
Patrick was sitting, devastated, with his forehead against the table.
“I’m so sorry,” Kathy repeated. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I had everything on that machine and it wasn’t backed up,” Patrick said. “My whole new play—it’s gone.”
“I feel so awful,” Kathy said. “I mean, the guy came up so quickly. I didn’t even see him.”
“Maybe they’ll catch him,” the waitress said.
“Bollocks they will,” Patrick said, looking up. His eyes were red and teary. “The cops never catch those fuckers.”
“It’s my fault,” Kathy said.
“Why’s it your fault?” Patrick said. “This city’s going to shit, I’m telling you. Bastards.”
The man in the suit returned and said, “The Gardaí will be here soon.”
“Not soon enough, I’m afraid,” Patrick said.
“You never know,” Kathy said. “Maybe they’ll catch the guy.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they’ll try really hard to find a laptop,” Patrick said.
“Yeah, it’s doubtful they’ll catch him,” the waitress said.
“I don’t know what to say,” Kathy said. “I feel responsible.”
“What do you mean?” Patrick said.
“You asked me to watch it and I didn’t. I got distracted. It’s my fault, I guess.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” Patrick said. “It took me a year to save up for that computer. And they cost a lot here—much more than in America.”
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“I’m really sorry,” Kathy said. “Wait, I know.” She reached into her purse. “Let me give you some money.”
“Don’t bother,” Patrick said.
“No, it was my fault—here.” She dug into her purse. “This is all the cash I have—here, take it.” She handed Patrick some bills. She wasn’t sure exactly how much was there, but she’d exchanged $200 into euros at the airport.
“Really, I appreciate the offer,” Patrick said, “but it’s not necessary.”
“Please, you have to,” Kathy said. “I feel awful.”
“I’m not taking your money.”
“You have to. Come on, I know it’s not enough for a new laptop, but it’ll have to help. It’ll make me feel so much better if you took it.”
“It’s really not necessary,” Patrick said. “It took me two years to save up for this and I can save up again. Until then, it’s back to pen and paper, I suppose.”
The waitress shook her head and went away to take someone’s order.
“Good luck,” the man in the suit said, and he went back into the café.
“I guess the Gardaí’ll be here soon,” Patrick said to Kathy. “You don’t have to wait.”
Kathy was still holding the money. She was starting to cry. “You have to take the money,” she said. “If you don’t, I won’t be able to stop thinking about it my whole trip and I’ll have a horrible time. Please, just take it.”
Patrick looked away for a few moments then turned back and said, “I suppose if you’re insisting …”
Kathy gave Patrick the money. She apologized a few more times then just wanted to get away. She took her map, then went into the café to charge the bill on her AmEx since she didn’t have any more cash. When she returned Patrick was still waiting for the police, wiping tears from his cheeks.
“I really am sorry,” Kathy said.
“It’s all right,” Patrick replied. “Have a great time in Dublin, all right?”
“I’ll try to.”
Kathy walked away, relieved. Following Patrick’s instructions, she ambled along Grafton Street and across the Hapenny Bridge. Still shaken up, she wasn’t able to absorb much of the city. For a couple of hours, she just wandered around, window shopping, figuring she’d do the real touristy stuff tomorrow. She was hungry and went to one of the restaurants that Patrick had suggested—an excellent Thai place on Andrew Street. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel at all awkward or self-conscious sitting at a table alone and she didn’t miss Jim at all. She had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner and got a little drunk. When she left the restaurant, she passed a cyber café and decided to just get it the hell over with already. She logged onto her e-mail account and wrote Jim a note.
