“The bellboy.”
“What, you palm him twenty bucks?”
She gave me a look of pure scorn, went,
“I don’t give men bribes, least not in cash.”
“So, you gave him some story, that it?”
She tapped the space beside her, said,
“Come on lover, I’m dying here.”
When I didn’t move, she said,
“I promised him a blow job, he near shot his wad right there.”
I wish I could say I threw her out. But she’d gotten under my skin. I knew little about love but plenty about heat and she was it. Later, dressing, she asked,
“You’re like outta here, am I right?”
“What?”
“You’re blowing New York, I can tell.”
I was tempted to say she was the expert on blowing but let it slide, too easy, said,
“No, I like it here.”
She was dressed now, her hand on the door, said,
“We call it Two-son.”
“What?”
“Where you’re headed, know why, no building over two stories, it’s a cowboy town, think you can handle that?”
Yet again I cursed the brochures on Tucson I’d left lying around. To distract her, I offered,
“Let me spring for cab fare.”
Implying a warmth I didn’t feel. She produced a hundred dollar bill, said,
“You already did.”
Not sure what this meant but fairly certain it meant only one thing, and not wanting confirmation, I stared at her. She said,
“I went through your wallet, who’s the babe?”
A photo of Siobhan, from a day on the beach at Spiddal, another lifetime, Sherry had the door opened, parted with,
“You go to Tucson cowboy, I’ll follow you.”
And was gone.
So was the photo of Siobhan.
Five hundred bucks, too. The term “bunny boiler” rose alarmingly in my mind, remembering Glen Close’s scorned, “don’t-fuck-with-her” character in Fatal Attraction. I went to the bathroom. In the toilet bowl were fragments of the photo. No two ways about it, I’d bought myself a shitpile of trouble.
In the corridor, late afternoon, I met the bellboy, stopped, said,
“You let anyone in my room again, I’ll throw you out the window.”
He looked round, as if for help, said,
“She said she was like, you know, your wife.”
He’d a whine in his voice, the eternal “blame it on the other guy scenario,” and I asked,
“We clear?”
He nodded. I got in the elevator, thought,
“Nice work, Steve, intimidating the help.”
New York was slipping away from me. The control I prized was frayed in all directions. As I got to the street, a limo pulled up, the driver leaned out, said,
“Yo, mister, Juan says I’m to drive you, wherever you wish.”
“Fuck off.”
Time to phone Siobhan. We’d agreed I’d wait a few days, let me get settled. Yeah, like I was already settled now. Bought a prepaid card and now, all I had to do was find a phone that worked. Third attempt, got one. Punched in the digits, waited, then heard the Irish lilt,
“Yes?”
Lit me up. I near gagged at how much I loved her. Guilt over Sherry was nagging away. I said,
“Hi, hon.”
“Stephen, are you okay?”
Lie, lie a lot, Tommy’s theme. I said,
“I’m fine but I miss you.”
Which I did and I’d spent my whole life guarding against such a vulnerability. You were vulnerable, they ate you up, spat you out. She sounded hesitant, something in her voice, and I asked,
“Hon, anything wrong?”
“No, it’s probably, I’m just being silly but,”
I locked on the money, thinking fuck, thinking it’s got to go through, asked,
“The transfers?”
“No, no, that’s fine, you know how good I am at my job.”
She was a financial whiz kid. When I’d told her the amount I needed “laundered,” she’d frowned and I figured she couldn’t do it till she laughed, said,
“This is so exciting.”
Now she paused, then,
“I saw Stapleton.”
I tried,
“Maybe you were mistaken.”
She considered and I could see her, the small frown she got when something was wrong, something her fiscal talent couldn’t fix, then,
“Yeah, maybe.”
Stapleton wasn’t really the kind of guy who looked like anyone else. He didn’t stand out in a crowd, he was too clever for that. You saw him, it was for one reason, he wanted it, I asked,
“We could move up the timetable, get you over sooner.”
I knew she wouldn’t go for that. She said,
“And screw up the transfer, I’ve worked hard on this, it’s going exactly as I planned. I leave it now, it could blow up. I need to be here, ensure I’m the one overseeing the deal.”
She was right, someone else might look a little too closely at the amount of money and worse, where the hell it came from. The whole delicate process rested on Siobhan being in charge. I said,
“You see him again...”
“I’m not sure it was him.”
“You haul ass.”
She laughed and I asked what was funny. She said,
“You’re doing it, talking American.”
“Yeah, it’s getting there.”
She laughed again, coquettish now, asked,
“Here’s one I learned, getting your ashes hauled, you miss that?”
“Do I ever.”
The credit was running low and I said,
“Gra go mor.” (huge love)
“Leat fein.” (you too)
Click.
Holding the dead phone, I had a moment of forlornness. Washed over me like the Galway rain when you’re least prepared. A guy waiting, went,
“You going to hog that all day, buddy?”
Automatically I said,
“Sorry.”
And he grabbed the phone, said,
“Yeah, everybody’s goddamn sorry.”
I moved away lest the temptation to make him eat it proved too attractive, stopped at a diner, grabbed a booth, and the waitress goes,
“How are you today, young man?”
A winner, right?
I granted I was good, ordered hash browns, eggs over easy, bagel, the ubiquitous coffee.
While I waited, a story came into my head, one Tommy had told me over hot toddies one evening. We’d gone to Furbo to hear a band, renowned for their mix of rock and traditional. Into the heart of Connemara, a turf fire in the lounge and a window overlooking the bay. Fields of granite and hardship in all directions, the band was hot, the bass guitar blending with the bodhran, a girl in her twenties belting out “She Moves Through the Fair” and the whole evening jelled. Tommy, the other side of three hot ones, asked,
“You hear about the guy who walked.”
He indicated the ocean, added,
“Out there.”
I was mellow, a nice buzz building, the music, the fire. Giving me the illusion of peace, I asked,
“This like a true story?”
“You care, the fuck it matters?”
He had a point, I didn’t care, this stage of the evening, it was a time for tales. Veracity didn’t register on the radar. A little testy, he went,
“You want to hear it or not?”
“Go for it.”
He knocked back most of his hot one, a clove caught in his tooth, he said,
“Fucking things, ruin a decent whiskey.”
Then,
“Some guy, who lived near here, single, with lots of land, the ceili on a Saturday night.”
I said,
“Living it large.”
“Shut up. Seems he had inoperable cancer, so he goes down to the beach.”
Tommy looked out at the wild horizon, pointed,
“Over there a ways. Wearing his best suit and get this... Wellingtons.”
I couldn’t help it, said,
“No outfit complete without them.”