“Sherry, she’s muy bonita, sí?”
Testing me? I could play, fuck, had to, said,
“You’ve a good one there, she’s... devoted.”
His left leg was tapping out a rapid beat, not to the music, which mercilessly droned on, least not any external tape, this was pure nerves, fuelled on coke and adrenaline, he said,
“Sherry, she don’t take to many hombres, they bore her, comprende? But you, you, amigo, she likes you, is good, no?”
I was in a minefield, tried,
“You guys been together long?”
Like I gave a goddamn.
Clicking his fingers, checking out his boots — looked like lizard skin, some creature’s precious hide — he was off somewhere, then clicked back:
“Like a year, maybe, but is, you know, siempre, always, I got me some señoritas on the Lower East Side, no big thang (pronounced it thus) they is like... fuck babes, Sherry, she’s my main event, she’s my rock.”
Some foundation.
I finished the coffee and he grabbed the cup, hit a button, and the window slid down, he chucked it out. Registering my surprise, he laughed.
“They can’t take a joke, fuck ’em, right?... is important the limo is clean, is like life, keep the garbage outside.”
I couldn’t resist, said,
“Some philosophy.”
He put up his hand, for the high five, I gave him my palm, feeling like a horse’s ass, and he went, “We’re simpatico, you and me, bro, we gonna kick some ass.”
Which was about as depressing news as I’d ever heard. There was a briefcase on the floor and he nudged it with his boot, said,
“Open it, my friend.”
I gave him the look, said,
“Juan, I’m Irish, I don’t open things without the bomb squad.”
Took him a while to get it, then a display of teeth, the cokehead’s smile, which has no connection to warmth. He tapped the case with the heel of his boot, so I picked it up, set it on my lap, lifted the top.
Guns.
Guys and guns.
Could be a musical.
Tommy was fascinated by them, always talking about getting a piece. I asked the obvious:
“Why?”
And got a look of total confusion, he said,
“You were in the army, don’t you love weapons?”
I let out a deep breath, said,
“It’s the very reason I have no use for them, put a dick-head and a gun together, you have a recipe for disaster.”
The day I finally left the army, I’d figured on never having a gun in my possession again. Like so many other resolutions, it was only a matter of time. Tommy’s love of weapons came from the movies; he said
“Man, if I was packing, I’d never be afraid.”
I wanted to say that’s when you most need to be afraid, asked,
“What are you afraid of?”
He gave the Irish answer:
“Bringlodi.”
That’s the Irish word for dreams. I was lost, asked,
“I’m not sure what you mean?”
He gave me the hangdog look, part anger, part sorrow, said,
“Steve, you’re never sure what I mean, fuck, I’m not sure me own self, all I know is, my dreams scare the bejay-sus out of me, and I’m afraid that one La Brea (fine day), the dreams will come true.”
I’d heard him in the grip of his dreams, his body twisting and writhing, his teeth grinding, sweat rolling in torrents off him. There are few more awful sounds than the grinding of teeth, you know that deep trauma is the cause. Though his continued descent into the maelstrom of dope and booze pissed me off and alarmed me, I could understand why. Alas, comprehension didn’t mean compassion or tolerance.
In a futile effort to get him off the fascination of guns, I’d said,
“Knowing you, you had a gun, you’d probably shoot yer-self.”
He’d gone real quiet and I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me till he said,
“Not the worst scenario.”
Tommy reached some basic part of me, some primitive need to protect. I’d promised his father I’d always watch out for him, and a pledge to a dying man in Ireland is the most binding contract you’ll ever take. Seeing his face that time, contemplating suicide as an option, I made an oath to do whatever it took to keep him, if not safe, at least protected.
What gods there be, I think they especially love when you make such an undertaking. They send such grief down the pike that your very words will lodge and strangle in your throat.
As Juan displayed the hardware, the gleaming metal, I felt my throat muscles constrict. Making a supreme effort, I managed to actually look at the assembled tapestry of carnage.
I recognised a Glock 9 mill. The shiny black finish; holds seventeen rounds. One of those odd coincidences, I’d had one during the robbery. I lifted the second, heavy and made of silver aluminium alloy. A German SIG-Sauer, serious firepower. Juan said,
“Take your pick.”
I said,
“Aren’t we like, going to dinner?”
He didn’t follow, gave a dubious,
“Sí.”
“So what, we’re going to shoot them if the food sucks?”
He lunged at the case, grabbed the SIG, worked the slide, and feverishly jacked a round in the chamber, said,
“Fifteen rounds.”
And I thought of one of my favourite Springsteen songs, “American Skin (41 Shots).”
I echoed,
“Fifteen rounds, what are you expecting?”
He ignored that, said,
“Pick one.”
“No thanks.”
He couldn’t believe it, went,
“You’re in America, you don’t want to be armed?”
I shook my head, he hefted the SIG, trying to make sense of me, said,
“Not to have a gun... it’s un-American.”
Oh I wanted a gun, just not from him, asked,
“Where are we?”
All I could see was people wearing Gucci sneakers and rip-off Stella McCartney designs; he said,
“West Fifteenth.”
“Didn’t this used to be a shithole, meatpacking and male hookers?”
He shrugged.
“It changed, what are you going to do, now it’s goddamn boutiques and freaking artists.”
His cell phone chirped and he answered, launched into a spitting frenzy, banged it against the window, said,
“Amigo, I gotta take a rain check, one of my homies is in trouble.”
“No big thing.”
Truth is, I was relieved, I said,
“Drop me off here, I’ll walk, get a feel again for the city.”
He indicated the SIG and I shook my head.
The limo pulled over, I got out. Passersby didn’t give me a second look, I could have been P. Diddy but no response; Juan said,
“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”
Yeah, right.
I knew not taking the gun had been an insult. Too, I figured it had been some sort of test and I failed, like I gave a fuck. Ate in a diner, of all the reasons to live in America, they top the list, them and Johnny Cash.
“I feel the need. The need for speed.”
— TOM CRUISE, “MAVERICK,” Top Gun
Stapleton was in a safe house in Monaghan, he’d recently hijacked a shitpile of weapons. A bloody affair, he lost three men and took two Brits down. Bad trade-off. He was in serious stir with the Organisation, he was, to coin a phase, a little too loose a cannon. And, he was hemorrhaging money; men they could get, always another sucker willing to lie down for the cause but money, that was the life pulse. One other man in the house with him, a Derry guy named Dubh... the Irish for black... he was well-named, his eyes were as dark as the mercy of the Paras. Like Stapleton, he’d started with the Stickies, the official IRA, then when the split happened he’d joined the Provos but they were bleating for peace, too, so he’d joined the newest most ferocious offshoot, the Patriots. He was fascinated by hardware and spent hours cleaning the weapons, studying the manuals, loading and unloading. He actually polished the ammunition, with loving care. Stapleton had joked,