The guy was killed two weeks later on a botched job in Derry, Stapleton shed no tears, muttered,
“Let that be a lesson to yous.”
His legend was ensured when they captured a British major outside of Fermanagh. The man, a veteran of eighteen months on the streets of Belfast, had been taken at dawn, he was not intimidated by his captors, regarded them with scorn, so they sent Stapleton to have a wee chat with him.
The major was seated on a hard chair, a wooden table before him. Stapleton took the chair opposite, said,
“How are they treating you?”
The major had undergone extensive training in subversive warfare and was not impressed by the good guy routine. He reached into his tunic, extracted a pack of Rothmans, a gold Zippo, and fired up, blew the smoke at Stapleton. Stapleton didn’t flinch, let the smoke invade his face, asked,
“Mind if I have one of these, I’m trying to quit but what the hell.”
The major, control reined tight, pushed the pack over, said,
“Knock yourself out, Paddy.”
Stapleton slowly lit the cig, studied the Zippo, it had the logo, “Queens finest.” As Stapleton downed a lungful of smoke, like an addict who hasn’t imbibed for a time, he asked, pointing at the logo,
“That a nancy boy thing?”
The major laughed, not quite believing this was the best the Boyos had to offer, said,
“You’d probably know, you look like a nancy boy yourself.”
Stapleton gouged the cig into the major’s right eye, saying,
“Jaysus, they’re right, those yokes are bad for your health.”
A few hours later, having garnered all the information the major had, he dragged the man outside, hung him from a tree near the road, said,
“It’s a slow knot, going to take a while to croak.”
He kept the Zippo, got a fellah on the Falls to erase the logo and put... “No Surrender” on there. It never ceased to amuse him that this was the war cry of the UDA.
“The drinks are free and everything, but they hit you
up at the door on the way out.”
The nun was shaking my arm, said,
“We’re about to land.”
My mouth tasted of metal and my eyes hurt, I glanced at the window, darkness, punctuated by a huge array of lights. She said,
“They gave us a lovely dinner.”
“I’m glad.”
Anxiety was sitting in my gut like acid. The wheels hit the Tarmac and the nun blessed herself. Within fifteen minutes, the doors were open and passengers began to move. The nun put out her hand, said,
“A little something as a memento of our trip.”
A relic of Padre Pio, she said,
“He’s a saint now.”
Did you go,
“Yeah, way to go bro... or congratulations?”
I said,
“Thank you.”
She gave me a look full of what my mother used to call devilment, her eyes dancing,
“ ’Tis the oddest thing, you were talking in your sleep.”
I waited, fearful of what I might have disclosed and she added,
“You had such a strong Irish accent, isn’t that the quarest thing?”
Then she moved into the aisle, said,
“God keep you safe.”
I intended buying a gun as backup, lest the Lord didn’t hear her.
“You are a foreigner; you do not feel our national
animosities as we do.”
Outside the terminal building, the humidity hit like a hurly. Got my jacket off and loosened the tie, joined the queue for cabs, or as I’d now have to say,
“Got in line.”
Moved quickly and then I was in the yellow vehicle, a sense of unreality about it. From hundreds of movies, TV series, the cabs were as familiar as rain. I expected Travis Bickle at the wheel but got a black, wiry guy, asking,
“Whereto, dude?”
Told him and we were out of there. Siobhan had booked online, found a place at special rate for ten nights. That was as long as I planned on staying, pick up a piece and head for Tucson, armed and dangerous. The American dream. The hotel was on West Fifty-third, between Fifth and Sixth. I loved just saying the address, it had that shorthand ring, as if you were an old hand. The fare was forty dollars, or forty bucks. Alas, he said dollars, I put ten on top, seemed to do the job. As I got out, I tried,
“Have a good one.”
He checked me in the mirror, lazily asked, as if he really couldn’t give a fuck,
“You Irish, Bro?”
Shit.
We Irish are supposed to have the lock on hospitality, the warm welcome, all that blarney crap. The Americans have it down pretty tight. At reception, the staff seemed delighted to see me and downright dizzy that I’d chosen to park there. How would I be paying? In Ireland that means cash or charge? Here it was which credit card? Went with American Express.
“Keep it country.”
A bellhop carried my bag and he acted like my new best friend. Okay, I could roll with that. Showed me to a large spacious room and I laid a ten on him. E. B. White said you need to be lucky? Better be loaded too. I’d forgotten the whole scam of tipping. Shit, you’d need a second occupation to keep the services running. He told me to have a good evening and I wanted to go,
“Yeah, whatever.”
I was getting a headache from the conflict of accents. I unpacked, didn’t take long, he who travels light is an ex-army brat.
Then cracked the Bush, poured a large one and took a hefty belt, stood by the window, letting the whiskey warm my stomach.
It did.
Red Rock West, one of my favourite movies, was unreeling in my head, part of my whole fuzzy notion of the West. I finished the drink and dumped the travel clothes in the laundry bag, rang room service, and they pledged to come get them.
Worked for me.
Showered, shaved, did some exercises from my Brit days. Siobhan had given me Aramis, slapped it on, had a Home Alone moment as it burned like fuck. Got my address book and picked up the phone, rang a bit then,
“Sí?”
“Juan... How you doing?”
A moment of silence then,
“Jesús Maria Cristos... Stephan... is you?”
“None other.”
“You are in Nuevo York?”
“Alive and kicking.”
“And Thomas, he is with you?”
Alive and kicking seemed now to have been the very worst expression, I said,
“No, he didn’t make it.”
We arranged to meet at Dino’s, a restaurant in the East Village, I asked,
“I don’t know it, is it new?”
“Amigo, in the village, they’re all new.”
Juan, Tommy, and I had worked on a building site off Lexington Avenue, upholding the Irish tradition of the navy. Our countrymen had built the railways, the roads in the U.K and to hear the Prods tell it, we were now determined to detonate everything we constructed. The pay was amazing and it didn’t hurt that the union was Mick. The Italians might have the rep for the service industry, but we had a solid grasp on the building game. Overtime was the best scam, you stayed an extra ten minutes and they clocked it as like, five hours. How rich is that? Tommy was probably the most unsuitable person for manual work ever, but I covered for him and plus, he had a way with him, people just liked having him around.
After work, we’d go for a few cold ones and Juan began to tag along. He had the best dope I ever smoked. Santa Marta gold, the jackpot for potheads, known as blond, it came from the coast of Colombia, had a distinctive aroma, colour, and gave a high that other pot only imitated. You did a spliff, you were paralysed. I wasn’t much taken with dope, I like to stretch my relaxation, slow beers over an evening, conceding control very gradually, settling for a mild buzz.