.
“No, Sunshine, not this time; I fucking respect you, but you have to respect me. We are going to play a wee game to see who exactly is the toughest, baddest black hat in town.”
Everyone cheered, thinking that this was some powerful new joke of Scotchy’s.
Scotchy quieted them down with a wave of his hand and then whispered to Big Bob, who was standing next to him. Big Bob nodded and ran into the bedroom at the rear of the flat. When he came back he was holding something. I pushed my way to the front and saw that it was a gun. Six-shot revolver. Scotchy took it from Big Bob and held it up in the air. Everyone gasped. A few backed away.
Andy was looking at Scotchy, swallowing hard. His face white as a funeral notice. Holding on to a chair back like it was the stern rail on the Titanic. He was trying hard to stop himself from shaking, stop himself from going down.
“Ok, everyone knows the rules, so I won’t bother to explain. I’m taking out five bullets, as you can see. That leaves one left. Look.”
“Wait a minute, Scotchy,” Sunshine said from the back, but even he couldn’t stop this now. The crowd shushed him and wouldn’t let him through.
Scotchy took out five rounds and put them in his pocket.
“Fucking wise the bap, Scotchy,” I said, since no one else was going to.
“Bruce, new boy, you shut the fuck up and learn your fucking place,” Scotchy said with menace. I wanted to reply, but when
I opened my mouth, it was dry. I saw Fergal and caught his eye. He seemed as frightened as I was.
Scotchy climbed down off the speaker and cleared a circle around himself.
“Me first,” he said.
He took the revolver and spun the chamber. He pointed at his head. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The barrel revolved, the hammer went back and came down on an empty chamber. No bullet.
The place erupted. One of the girls fainted, a biker threw up, and everyone else cheered hysterically. Andy looked as if he was about to pass out.
“See, everybody. No chicken, me,” Scotchy said. He called for silence and passed the gun first to Bob and then to Andy. Andy took it as if it were a dead animal. I tried to find Sunshine in the crowd to see if he would stop what was happening, but he was lost in the sea of faces. Everything was blurring up and dissolving.
Andy took the revolver and put it to his right temple. The muzzle caressing his blond hair. Andy seemed so young, like a farm boy from Galway or Iowa or somewhere.
“Don’t,” I said, but no words came out.
Andy closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
There was silence. The hammer came down. Then everyone was cheering again. Scotchy lifted Andy up into the air and proclaimed him the winner. He took the revolver and showed us that it had been empty the whole time. Scotchy carried Andy around the flat twice and set him down on the sofa. Strangers were coming over and patting him on the back. Scotchy was laughing hysterically with Big Bob, who’d been in on the whole thing. I found Bridget practically sobbing in a corner.
“You left me,” she said.
“I didn’t. I wanted to see what was happening to my friend, I
—” I tried to explain.
She looked at me in disgust.
“A man pulled a gun out and you left me. You are just like all the rest. It’s all a fucking boys’ club, isn’t it?” she said.
I didn’t know how to respond. She shook her head and wiped away a tear.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
“Can I, um, escort you home or anything?” I asked. “No.”
“I suppose I’ll see you around,” I said.
“If you’re working for Darkey, yes, then I probably will see you around,” she said coolly. She found her remaining friends and stormed out.
Fergal found me sitting on the balcony looking out at the black Hudson and the George Washington Bridge. I was beginning to have serious misgivings about coming here to America. About working with Scotchy. About doing what they wanted me to do for them.
“Get you a beer, it’ll cheer you up,” Fergal said, reading my thoughts.
“Nah, no beer, just need a bit of peace and quiet,” I said.
I shook my head. That thing with Bridget had seriously depressed me. And it was too late to go back to Ireland. I owed Darkey five hundred bucks and the money for the flight. I’d have to work that off at least. Fergal saw that I was troubled.
“We’ll go get Andy and go home,” he said.
We found him sitting in a corner, trying not to cry. “You’re tonight’s big winner,” I told him.
He nodded.
“Let’s go home,” I said. All three of us went outside. Andy was still shaking, and I had to steady him with my arm.
“You think you can walk?” I asked. “I’m fine,” Fergal answered.
“I wasn’t talking to you, ya big ganch,” I said. “I’ll be ok in a minute,” Andy said.
We walked east in silence in the direction of the IRT stop. It was a cold, cold night and the hazy stars were out.
“Bob told me that Scotchy had a live round in it when it was his turn, but he made him take it out for Andy,” Fergal muttered at last.
“He’s still fucking crazy,” I said.
The IRT stop was deserted, but in New York, I learned, the trains run all night. It appeared at two-thirty. We got in. For Fergal and Andy it would be just a few stops, me all the way down to 125th Street.
“Well, you finally met Scotchy, our new crew chief.” Andy said sardonically.
“I finally did,” I agreed.
“He’s not as bad as all that,” Fergal said. “You’ll see, a year from now, we’ll have the finest crew in the city and we’ll all be the best of mates.”
A year from then, Fergal, Scotchy, and Andy were dead in Mexico. I had lost a foot and I had killed Bridget’s fiancé, Darkey White.
The subway car rattled. The lights flickered. Andy got off. Fergal got off. I lit a cigarette. “The best of mates,” I said drowsily, let the fag slip between my fingers, and dozed long past my stop and all the way down to Ninety-sixth Street.
A helicopter gunship flying overhead. Baghdad? Nah, it’s raining. The other B. Belfast.
Stars.
Stars that are still there when I close my eyes. Sheesh.
Why, of all memories, this one?
Why, indeed. I get to my feet. I’m in an alley. My face covered with blood.
My cell phone ringing. “Hello?”
“Michael, where are you?” Bridget asks. “Town.”
“Have you found anything?”
“Aye, a name, it might be good.”
“Look, I want you to forget it. We’ve been instructed to go to Arthur Street police station. They’re calling with specifics and I’m having the money delivered. We’re getting the call in a few minutes. I’m cooperating fully. It’s too late now. We’re doing the exchange at midnight. I don’t want you to fuck it all up.”
“Bridget, wait a minute, this is a good lead, I—”
“Michael, I told you to forget it, Siobhan’s life is at stake here. The most important thing is Siobhan. I want you to back off. I’ll send you something for your time. Ok, hold on…. Ok, I have to turn the phone off now, Michael, I don’t expect to see you again.”
The dial tone.
Silence.
What had happened to that little freckled frightened girl? Darkey had schooled her.
I had schooled her.
She had schooled herself.
No one messed with her now.
But even so. Back off? Like hell.
She doesn’t see the big picture. This isn’t going to end with an exchange of girl for cash. This is going to be bloody. These people are ruthless.
And what’s more, I nearly have the bastards.
I look at my watch. It’s not even nine o’clock. Plenty of time left.
I head out of the alley, toward lights. I find a bar. Stagger to the bathroom. Take off my jacket, Zeppelin T-shirt. Examine myself carefully in the mirror. Bruises all over my rib cage, scrapes, cuts. No sign of internal bleeding, though. Nothing protruding through the skin. I touch individual ribs.
A couple might be cracked. Not that you can do anything about a cracked rib. I fill the sink with hot water and wash the blood off my face. Rinse my chest and clean the wounds with a paper towel. Couple of nasty cuts on my forehead. I stick my head in the sink and try to get the clotted blood out of my hair. I click the hand dryer and blow hot air on my face and arms. Read the graffiti while I’m drying. “Death to Prods.” “Death to Fenians.” “Fuck the Pope.” “Fuck the Queen.” And, a new one on me: “Asylum Seekers, Go Home.”
Fix the duct-tape bandage, adjust my prosthesis, T-shirt on, jacket on. Check the revolver. Reload. Exit.
“Arthur Street police station?” I ask the keep. “Who wants to know?” he says.
No more time for this shit. I pull the revolver out of my trousers and point it at his face.
“Arthur Street police station?”
“Go out of here, straight on, till ye hit Powers Street, make a left at the Boots, then another left, ya can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” I say, put the revolver away, and leave his bar, vanishing out into the creeping, cold Belfast night with all the other guntoting villains.