That was the real beginning of our relationship. Notice I don’t say friendship.
I don’t do friends.
And I very much doubt that anyone in their right mind would consider Sheridan a friend.
We did a lot of penny-ante stuff for the next few months, nothing to merit any undue attention but nothing either that was going to bankroll the kind of life I hoped for.
Which was
Sea
Sun
And knock-you-on-your-ass cash.
An oddity, and definitely something I should have paid real attention to. I’d pulled off a minor coup involving some credit cards I had to dump within twenty-four hours. With Sheridan’s help, we scooped a neat five thousand dollars. And at the time when the dollar had finally kicked the Euro’s ass.
See, I do love my country.
You’re thinking, “Which one?”
Semper fi and all that good baloney. It pays the cash, it gets my allegiance.
So, we were having us a celebration; I split it down the middle with him, because I’m a decent guy. We flashed up as Sheridan termed it.
Bearing in mind that the Irish seven-course meal is a six pack and a potato, we went to Mc Donagh’s, the fish-and-chipper, in Quay Street.
We sat outside in a rare hour of Galway Sun; Sheridan produced a flask of what he called Uisce Beatha, Holy Water. In other words, Irish Moonshine, Poteen.
Phew-oh, the stuff kicks like one mean tempered mule.
Later, we wound up in Feeney’s, one of the last great Irish pubs. Here’s the thing: I’d sometimes wondered if Sheridan had a woman in his life. I didn’t exactly give it a whole lot of thought, but it crossed my mind. As if he was reading my mind he said, “Morgan, what day were you born on?”
I was about to put it down to late night-drink speak, but I was curious, asked, “That’s a weird question, what day, how the hell would I know what day?”
He looked sheepish, and when you add that to his rodent appearance, it was some sight, he said, “See, my girl, she has this thing about the nursery rhyme, you know, Monday’s child is fair of face and am… Thursday’s, is, yeah, has far to go, she judges people on what their day of birth is.”
My Girl!
I was so taken aback by that it took me a moment to ask, “What are you?”
No hesitation, “Thursday’s child.”
We laughed at that and I don’t think either of us really knew why.
I asked, “Who is the girl, why haven’t I met her?”
He looked furtive, hiding something but then, his whole life seemed to be about hiding stuff, he said, “She’s shy, I mean, she knows we’re mates and all, but she wants to know your birth day before she’ll meet you.”
I said, “Next time I talk to Mom, I’ll ask her, ok?”
As Mom had been in the ground for at least five years, it wasn’t likely to be any time soon.
Another round of drinks arrived and we moved on to important issues, like sport. Guy stuff, if ever you reach any sort of intimacy, move to sports, move way past that sucker, that intimacy crap.
I meant to look up the nursery rhyme but, as far as I got, was discovering I was born on a Wednesday.
Told Sheridan it was that day and he said, “I’ll tell her.”
He was distracted when I told him, the speed he took turning him this way and that, like a dead rose in a barren field.
I’d noticed he was becoming increasingly antsy, speed fiends, what can I tell you? But he was building up to something.
It finally came.
We were in Garavan’s, on Shop Street; still has all the old stuff you associate with
Ireland and even… whisper it, Irish staff.
And snugs.
Little portioned off cubicles where you can talk without interruption.
Sheridan was on Jameson; I stay away from spirits, too lethal. He was more feverish than usual; asked, “You up for the big one?”
I feigned ignorance; said, “We’re doing ok.”
He shook his head, looked at me, which is something he rarely did, his eyes usually focused on my forehead, but this was head on; said, “Morgan, We’re alike, we want some serious money and I know how we can get it.”
I waited.
He said, “Kidnapping.”
Without a beat I said, “Fuck off, that is the dumbest crime on the slate.”
He was electric, actually vibrating; said, “No, listen, this is perfect, we… well me really, snatch a girl, her old man is fooking loaded and you, as the consultant you are and known, as such, you’re the go between; we tell the rich bastard the kidnappers have selected you as the pick up man, you get the cash, we let the girl go and hello, we’re rich.”
I picked up the remnants of my pint; said, “No. Kidnapping never works. Forget it.”
He grabbed my arm, said, “Listen, this is the daughter of Jimmy Flaherty; he owns most of Galway; his daughter, Brona, is the light of his life and he has no love of the cops; he’ll pay, thinking he’ll find us later, but we’ll be in the wind and with a Yank as a broker for the deal; he’ll go along, he’s a Bush admirer.”
I let the Bush bit slide.
I acted like I was considering it, then said, “No, it’s too… out there.”
He let his head fall, dejection in neon, and said, “I’ve already got her.”
It’s hard to surprise me. You live purely on your wits and instincts as I’ve always done; you have envisioned most scenarios. This came out of left field.
I gasped. “You what?”
He gave me a defiant look, then, “I thought you might be reluctant and I already made the call to Flaherty, asked for one million and said I’d only use a neutral intermediary, and suggested that Yank consultant.”
I was almost lost for words.
Almost.
Said, “So I’m already fucked; you’ve grabbed the girl and told her father I’m the messenger.”
He smiled; said, “Morgan, it’s perfect, you’ll see.”
I was suddenly tired; asked, “Where’s the girl now?”
His smile got wider; he said, “I can’t tell you, see, see the beauty of it, you really are the innocent party and… here’s the lovely bit, he’ll pay you for your help.”
Before I could answer this he continued, “You’ll get a call from him asking you to help, to be the bag man.”
I asked, “What if I tell Mr Flaherty I want no part of this?”
He gave me that golden tooth smile; said, “Ah Morgan, nobody says no to that man; how he got so rich.”
I left early, said to Sheridan, “I don’t like this, not one bit.”
He was still shouting encouragement to me as I left.
I waited outside, in the doorway of the Chinese café a ways along. Sheridan had never told me where he lived, and I figured it was time to find out.
It was an hour or so before he emerged and he’d obviously had a few more Jamesons. A slight stagger to his walk and certainly, he wasn’t a hard mark to follow.
He finally made it to a house by the canal and went in and I waited until he’d turned on the lights.
And I called it a night.
Next morning, I was the right side of two decent coffees, the Financial Times thrown carelessly on my desk, my laptop feeding me information on Mr Flaherty when the door is pushed open.
A heavily built man in a very expensive suit, with hard features and two even heavier men behind him, strode in.
I didn’t need Google search to tell me who this was.
He took the chair opposite me, sat down, opened his jacket, and looked round.
The heavies took position on each side of the desk.
He said, “What a shit hole.”
I asked, “You have an appointment?”
He laughed in total merriment, and the two thugs gave tight smiles; said, “You don’t seem overrun with business.”
I tried. “Most of my business is conducted over the phone, for discretion’s sake.”
He mimicked, “Discretion… hmm, I like that.”
Then suddenly he lunged across the desk, grabbed my tie, and pulled me halfway across, with one hand, I might add. He said, “I like Yanks, otherwise, you’d be picking yer teeth off the floor right now.”