Searched for a word to convey utter contempt, got
“Retro.”
Sharp as a whip, I snapped,
“Retro is the new cool. Get with, dare I say, the game?”
While this brisk exchange batted back and forth, an overweight guy in a T-shirt with the logo
SIN AN SCEAL (That’s the story)
actually drooled as he eyed Joffrey. His hands in his dirty sweatpants, he actually groaned, muttered,
“Soon my love.”
You’d know the very last thing to do with the child of the woman in your life is to bring him to a pub.
Right.
I know that.
Brought him to the pub.
Sat him at a table in the back, him going,
“Mother won’t be pleased.”
Gee, you think?
I didn’t ask him what he wanted. I was all through with that gig. The bar guy peered over at him, asked,
“Your boy?”
Like fuck.
I said,
“Whatever else, mine he isn’t.”
A wag along the bar said,
“The clergy got in trouble for that kind of thing.”
I gave him the look.
Asked the bar guy for
Double Jay,
Pint back,
Bag of whatever flavor crisps,
Large Coke.
Guy asked,
“He want ice in that?”
“Shovel it in.”
I sank the Jay there and then, tasted like vague hope. Over to the kid with my goodies, said,
“Here you go.”
He pushed the Coke aside, said,
“That is equal to nine full spoons of sugar.”
I wanted so badly to wallop him.
I asked,
“And your point is?”
He sighed as in... Lord grant me patience with fools.
Said,
“My mother didn’t pay top dollar for dental work for some nincompoop to force pure sugar down my throat.”
Force?
Nincompoop?
The kid was like an escapee from a poor-rate Evelyn Waugh. In desperation I reached in my pocket and found the chess piece that Tevis gave me.
Joffrey’s eyes lit up, asked,
“A chess piece?”
I put it on the table and he picked it up, examined the writing on the base, the
2
4
J
I said,
“I dunno what that means.”
He scoffed, said,
“It’s obvious.”
Fuck.
Okay. Asked,
“What?”
“Two for Justice.”
I mulled that over, figuring, Some form of vigilante? Next time I saw Tevis, we’d have us a chat.
So I tried to cut some slack for the kid, asked,
“What would you like to drink?”
“Still water with a slice of lemon. Ballygowan or Evian at a pinch.”
I went to the counter, said to the bar guy,
“Glass of tap water, shove some lemon in it.”
He seemed puzzled, said,
“We have all the top brands.”
I stared at him, asked,
“You hard of hearing?”
Got what was not the cleanest glass and very wilted lemon, which, to no great surprise, the kid pushed aside, said,
“I called my mother.”
Oh, fuck.
I whined,
“Oh, no, c’mon.”
He smiled with devilish glee, said,
“You’re for the high jump.”
I leaned right into him, snarled,
“What is your fucking problem, son?”
He pulled back, said,
“I don’t like you.”
I smiled, threatened,
“Get used to it, punk. I’m here for the long haul.”
He stood up, said,
“I very much doubt that, mister.”
As I followed him out, I asked,
“Apart from the water, do you think it went pretty good otherwise?”
I followed him as he walked at a brisk pace toward the square. I wondered what he’d pull next.
A taxi.
I kid thee not. And he turned as he got in, gave me the finger.
I watched the cab head toward the docks.
Hate to admit it but I had a sort of sneaking admiration for the little bastard.
Removing the Defender
There are ways of removing your opponent’s defending pieces that leave others open to attack.
9
A second helicopter was lost.
Unbelievable.
Based in the UK, it contained a family flying to Ireland for a confirmation.
Unlike those from the first helicopter, the bodies were recovered quickly.
R 117, the search-and-rescue helicopter, still had two of the crew missing despite a massive search.
To see the families waiting reminded me of the widows in the Claddagh back in the harsh days as they awaited news of their husbands and sons.
Ochre ochon (woe is me indeed).
I was in my apartment, staring out at the bay and thinking how much the very ocean played such a part in our collective history.
The doorbell rang, a quiet ring as if the caller hoped I wasn’t home. I opened the door to Tevis, the man whose life I saved and who was now becoming a fucking nuisance. He offered a bottle, said,
“Old Kentucky sipping bourbon.”
And,
“Six genuine longnecks. If you read your crime fiction as much as you pretend to, you’ll know it’s the preferred tipple of Craig McDonald.”
I said,
“That is one long sentence.”
He laughed, moved past me, said,
“Like life.”
I followed him in, put the beers in the fridge, and turned to him. He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels, said,
“Eddie Bunker’s favorite.”
I asked,
“You came to educate me on the tastes of crime writers?”
He stood before the bay window, asked,
“Like glasses?”
Marion had given me a set of Galway crystal to spruce up the apartment, said,
“Taylor, you need some style.”
She used my surname when she was being playful. Jack when I was in deep shit. Alas, she was using my Christian name a lot more frequently. I took out two of those heavy babes, poured the bourbon, admired the way the light caught the glass, like a tiny whispered prayer.
Truth is, though, I’d have drunk out of a wellington if my need was great.
He said,
“Nice glasses.”
“My mother’s,”
I lied.
He said,
“Ah, Irish lads and the mammie.”
As fucking if.
He knocked back the drink in jig time. I went,
“Whoa, like what happened to the sipping bit?”
He gave me what he probably figured was a roguish smile, said,
“Partner, we’re a long ways from Kentucky.”
I took a sip, asked,
“What do you want?”
He did the mock-offended gig, said,
“You don’t like me.”
True.
I said,
“True.”
He asked,
“Is it because I’m gay?”
I said,
“I didn’t know that. I don’t care if you like sheep.”
A silence.
Then he asked,
“Sheep?”
Enough with the sipping, I walloped back the drink, gasped, muttered,
“Phew-oh.”
Gathered my thoughts somewhat, tried,
“What’s the deal with the chess piece and the message on the base, the
Two for Justice?”