“How would you like to be my wingbird?”
Whatever.
She’d be whatever was asked.
On her release, she went to work straightaway for Connie and now, many failed ventures later, they were in the West of Ireland.
Brid liked to drink, to drink a lot, and then she was prone to talk. Of the many features in Brid that Connie had curbed and changed, the booze was not among them. Plus, it did have an upside.
For Connie.
When dark shit had to be done, and God knows, with Connie’s checkered past, a lot of dark deeds needed doing, Connie had learned when you need the dirt dished, you loaded Brid with Jack and coke, let her loose.
Now Connie looked at this Benjamin J., then looked at Brid and knew intuitively that Brid had been running her mouth.
Benjamin said,
“Brid and I had a convivial few drinks.”
Then he giggled, mock admitted,
“So okay, we might have let the demons out more than we planned to.”
Connie froze: This was very bad.
Benjamin moved fast, had his arm around Brid (very risky as Brid usually took the arm off anybody who touched her), said,
“But hey, no sin, no foul, we’re on the same page, from Brid’s little revelations. I surmise we might be kindred spirits.”
Connie, used to regrouping fast, snarled,
“She’s a dipso: Any mad shit she told you is the product of booze insanity.”
Benjamin seemed delighted, echoed,
“Dipso, how wonderfully retro and yet not entirely off the mark”
Connie didn’t like this guy. Everything about him creeped her out. If you’ve been chaplain at a women’s prison and could still function, if erratically, it took major creep show to faze you.
She said,
“Thanks for dropping by but we’re kind of busy right now.”
Benjamin was still beaming, said,
“Bravo, good try, but, lady, you are so busted.”
Connie looked at Brid, who seemed frozen in place, figured she’d have to handle this her own self, said,
“Let me be clear, like crystal clear. Fuck off.”
Benjamin seemed to give this some thought, then said,
“No.”
Connie was not used to the no word but it seemed every asswipe in Galway felt free to tell her that. Before she could unleash, Benjamin reached in the pocket of his very fine tweed coat, took out a fat packet, laid it gently before her, said,
“I would like to say this is a small donation but I’d be selling us short. It is indeed a sizable amount, the type that makes even a holy lady like your good self go Holy shit.”
Connie, no qualms about cash, ripped it open, did a rapid count, looked up, did a recount, then said,
“Holy shit.”
Benjamin smiled, mimicked a very poor Irish accent, said,
“’Tis but the beginning, me lady.”
Connie felt a glow, the glow of opportunity, asked,
“The beginning of what?”
Like she could give a fuck, she was in, whatever mad plan he had.
Benjamin took out a calfskin wallet, pulled out a rush of notes, turned to Brid, asked,
“Be a sweetie, purchase us some happy libations, there’s a good girl, while I natter with your boss.”
Brid bristled.
Didn’t take the notes, snarled,
“What am I, the message wanker?”
Benjamin reached over fast, pinched her cheek as you would a fat baby’s, said,
“Thine own words hath described it so.”
Connie said,
“Go do it.”
In a tone that Brid had never refused. She tried,
“What’s a fucking ‘libation’?”
When she’d gone, Benjamin gave Connie what might actually be interpreted as a flirtatious grin and Connie, if cash dollars were on the horizon, would fuck a pope.
He produced a small book, said,
“If I may be so bold, I presumed to risk buying you a book.”
Connie was intrigued and already feeling something of a hot flush, and phew-oh, that was a long time dormant. She said, coquettishly,
“As long as it’s not Jane Austen, you’re in with a shout.”
Bang.
They were on each other.
Benjamin, as might be said, gave good wood.
Connie virtually swooned, screamed,
“You glorious animal.”
From such random couplings have dynasties begun. See any story line in Game of Thrones as proof.
Think Lady Macbeth meets the psychopath from The North Water.
Spent, Connie fell back on the only comfortable armchair, gasped,
“What’s the book?”
Benjamin, looking like he’d not a hair out of place, adjusted his trousers, crease intact, handed her
Scary Nuns.
Complete with photographs of “Brides of Christ” toting AK-47s.
Connie muttered,
“I think I’m in love.”
“In
Greek
Tragedy
They
Fall
From
a
Great
Height.
In
Noir
They
Fall
From
the
Curb.”
Quotes of the week
February 24, 2019:
“I heard on the radio that there was a win in Ireland and I caught the last three numbers. I checked the numbers online.
And
I was
Numb.”
“Sweatpants are a sign of defeat.”
“By ‘too big’
I don’t mean ‘too famous.’
I mean
Too fat.”
“I get up
And then, you know,
I sit down.
I don’t do none of this trotting around.
I think it’s bad for me.”
Benjamin and Connie were in bed again, after trysts
In/on.
The hallway.
The front garden.
The kitchen table (shades of The Postman Always Rings Twice).
And Brid sulked, drank, fumed, despaired, and raged.
Smashed furniture, slammed her head into the wall (headbanger?).
Wept.
Oh, wept bitter tears of abandonment.
Connie was oblivious and Benjamin could, if you’ll forgive the pun, give a fuck.
Smoking in a rare moment away from their frenzy, Connie asked,
“Are you rich?”
He told the truth.
“Very.”
She was thrilled, asked,
“How?”
For the second time in years, he told the truth, said,
“I’m a forensic accountant, a financial investigator: I do some very creative shady bookkeeping for extremely shady folk.”
She mulled that over, then,
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
He laughed, said,
“God, I hope so.”
She now flat-out fucking adored him. He asked,
“You like movies?”
Oh, yeah.
He said,
“I liked They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
She didn’t know it, said,
“Loved it.”
He knew she lied, but so what?
He said,
“I’m working on a new version, They burn horses, don’t they?