“Dying to hear all your news.”
Jesus.
I was standing outside the restaurant she’d selected in plenty of time, get my face composed to hide the lying I’d been doing. A slender woman stopped, smiled, and I did a double take, croaked,
“Kaitlin?”
She’d lost a ton of weight, her hair was cut short, and she was dressed in casual but expensive jeans and trainers. A soft suede jacket that roared money draped on her arm. She held out her arms, asked,
“I don’t get a hug?”
She did.
We went into the restaurant and a line was already formed, I said,
“Shit.”
Kaitlin laughed, said,
“I booked.”
We were escorted to a table, seated, and I marvelled at the change in her. Before I could ask, she said,
“Atkins.”
I shook my head, went,
“Miraculous.”
And meant it, it wasn’t just the weight she’d lost, though that was startling enough, it was her whole demeanour, she had a whole poised confidence. A waiter took our drinks order, sparkling water for her, Miller for me. Kaitlin had been plagued with bad skin, not unrelated to the greasy food she’d such a liking for. Siobhan had told me that she fretted constantly, had tried everything to clear it.
Now, her skin was luminous, shining in its health. She touched her face, wonder in her eyes, said,
“I’ve even new skin.”
What I was trying to achieve. I said,
“You’re transformed.”
We ordered steaks, lean, and nothing else for her, with fries and all the lashings for me. She studied me, said,
“You look tired.”
Whoops.
I sighed, went with the,
“New city, takes a time.”
She laughed, said,
“Tell me about it.”
Jeez, she even sounded American with the Irish lilt just coasting beneath. The food arrived and between bites, she told me about her job, a promotion already, her apartment, cramped but close to work, and a guy she was seeing. He was, she said, something in the city, meaning, lots of bucks and though a little bland, he was good to her. She used the throwaway line of dismissal,
“He’ll do.”
Till somebody more exciting came along, she obviously registered my expression and asked,
“You think that’s mercenary?”
I did, but hell, was I going to admit it, nope. She launched,
“What you and Siobhan have, you think that’s common, it’s so rare as to be nonexistent and where is she, what the devil are you doing here on your own?”
I gave her the song and dance about me getting everything settled, having all arranged. She didn’t believe a word of it, said in complete American,
“What a crock.”
I gave a last lustre defence but she shook her head, said,
“There’s something you’re not telling me but I won’t push it, all I ask is you don’t screw her around.”
The word screw causing me more than a moment’s fright. Then a thought hit her and she asked,
“Your surname, Blake, didn’t you guys used to be Prods?”
I kept my tone light, said,
“A long time ago.”
Now she was completely Irish:
“Ary, them crowd, they never change.”
Before I could argue, if argument there is, she asked,
“What about that creature, that demon who follows you around, what rock is he hiding under?”
Tommy.
If I’d said,
“Under the whole of the Atlantic Ocean,”
Would she have felt bad? I don’t think so, and she definitely wouldn’t have been surprised. I said he hadn’t made this trip and she didn’t respond. We were finished with the meal and she declined coffee or anything else. I called for the cheque and she protested but not too strongly. Outside, she immediately lit a cigarette and I was astonished, she looked at me, went,
“What?”
“You’re smoking.”
A flush of anger hit her cheeks and she said,
“You think a complete transformation like I’ve achieved is without price, you live here, it’s stressful.”
She suddenly looked on the verge of tears, said,
“I miss home.”
And I said,
“Go home.”
She ground the cig under her expensive trainers with a ferocity, vowed,
“Not if it was my dying wish.”
I hugged her and she whispered,
“Mind that girl, she’s priceless.”
I promised and said I’d call her soon.
For a moment she looked up the sky, seeing what, I don’t know, Galway Bay, the pubs of the town, and then she said,
“You have a cold spot, Steve, you probably can’t help it, but Siobhan, she lights you up, try not to be the usual gob-shite and fuck it up.”
I wanted to part from her with a lightness, to leave with a good feeling and asked,
“You think I’m a gobshite.”
She stared right into my face, said,
“You’re a man, it’s your nature.”
Got back to the hotel, tired, recognised the limo outside. Juan’s driver, smoking, leaning against the hood, I was tempted to pun,
“Boy on the hood.”
Maybe not.
He clocked me, flicked the cig, and rapped the glass of the back window. Juan peered out, said,
“Bro, need you.”
I sure as fuck didn’t need him, I was sick to death of him, said,
“Not now.”
Juan was wearing a pale leather jacket, Calvin Klein jeans, Bally loafers, designer git.
He looked at the driver, an expression passing between them, hard to decipher but warmth was not on its agenda. Juan smiled, a new gold molar gleaming, said,
“I’m in a jam here, bro, you gonna diss me?”
Diss, fuck.
I was seriously tired but said,
“Okay, but can we get to it, I’m like, beat.”
He nodded and the driver relaxed, I slid in beside Juan, his cologne overpowering, he slapped my knee, went,
“Muchas gracias, amigo.”
He leaned over to a briefcase, opened it, took out a cellophane bag, the white powder heavy in its weight, began to roll a line on the cover of the case, asked,
“Hit you?”
“No thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow, mocking,
“Set you right up, bro.”
I shook my head. He did two fat ones, then went into that snorting, nose pulling, wheezing they do. What it is, is fucking annoying. Finally, he leaned his head back, went,
“Ah, Dios mio, here comes the ice.”
He uttered little sighs of near-orgasm then sat bolt upright. Pulled the leather jacket aside, asked,
“You know what this is, bro?”
It was a gun, a big one, I said,
“Looks uncomfortable is what it is, you ask me.”
He laughed, then in bullet Spanish, repeated my hilarity to the driver. He, not a fun guy like Juan, just grunted. Juan said,
“Ramon no like you.”
Gee.
I stared straight ahead, deadpanned,
“What a shame.”
Juan used his index finger to tap the gun’s butt, said,
“This a Walther PPK 3805 automatic, like them CIA dudes got themselves.”
What was I to say... congratulations? Went,
“And you need it for?
Gave me an evil smile. There’s a line in the Johnny Cash song about a guy going round taking names.
Always seemed threatening to me and seemed appropriate for whatever direction this conversation was headed. We arrived at Clinton Street, another song, Leonard Cohen, another heartbeat. We got out and Juan indicated a building on the other side of the street, said,
“Ees my office.”
Heavy on the “ees.” Ramon fucked off with the limo, I’d miss him. Juan had a shitpile of keys, got various locks opened and we were in, got an elevator to the third floor, Juan was a ball of energy, all of it strung. His fingers clicking, foot tapping, a tic below his left eye, I was tempted to ask,