He stood up, as if that would help, asked,
“I hate to do this but could you lend me some money?”
Before I could answer, he added,
“I’d pay you back, even add interest.”
I said,
“I could maybe go a hundred.”
He stared at me for a long minute then gave a harsh bitter laugh, said,
“A hundred? A fucking hundred? Are you kidding me? What the fuck would that do? Wouldn’t pay for one fucking day.”
I felt a vague string of rage, not spitting but there. I asked,
“What sort of figure had you in mind?”
He was near trembling with,
With,
Indignation?
He said,
“About ten grand.”
I took a deep breath, said,
“Maybe I should be flattered that you believe I have that kind of dough.”
Dough.
Well, I was a bit thrown. I tried,
“Sorry.”
He looked at me like sorry was the last fucking thing he wanted to hear, said,
“You know people.”
What did that even mean?
I asked,
“What does that even mean?”
He snarled.
“Don’t play fucking coy.”
I tried,
“You think some of the hotshots I have dealt with would give me the bloody time of day?”
He gave a slightly sinister grin, said,
“You have information on a lot of them.”
The whole experience was so bizarre that it took me a moment to grasp the implication, then I near shouted,
“Blackmail?”
For the very first time his English accent emerged fully as he said,
“You Paddies like to soft soap things, so let’s say persuade.”
Before I could savage him, he was on his feet, said,
“Don’t go anywhere, I have something.”
He rushed from my place, across the corridor, and spent about five minutes in his apartment, then back, clutching a large ornate box, put it on the table, opened it, and said,
“Voilà.”
Not sure what I expected but dueling pistols?
I asked,
“You’re challenging me to a duel?”
He nearly smiled, said,
“Those date back to the Crimean War and have been in our family for generations. Not only are they oiled and clean but...”
He paused for the final flourish.
“Fully loaded.”
Seeing my look of utter confusion, he said,
“Pull back the hammer and boom.”
That was clear enough but what wasn’t was why he had them on my coffee table. He said,
“Sell them.”
For fuck’s sake.
“To who, whom?”
He hadn’t completely thought it through but tried,
“Collectors.”
“In Galway, seriously?”
He checked his watch, asked,
“Do you have a train timetable?”
I was way out of patience, said,
“Check your phone.”
“That’s gone, like everything.”
Then he turned and was gone.
“In Irish folklore are two
Dueling ghosts.
The victor is returned to life.
The vanquished is left to melancholy haunting.”
31
Sometimes, for no rhyme or reason, we get a beautiful fine day, the sun just splitting the Galway rocks. It made us quite silly. We threw coats and caution to the West of Ireland wind.
Ice cream trucks rushed out of storage and made a rapid killing. Men in shorts, sandals with thick socks paraded their booty with élan. The shocking events of Syria, the Irish Olympic ticket scandal, the 13 billion that Apple owed us in tax all took a breather. Were we bathing in one day of delusion?
You fucking betcha.
I was sitting outside Garavans, a pint before me and my mind in a state of blank verse. I heard something whistle at turbo speed through my hair and then the large window behind me shattered. Way too late to duck, I muttered,
“God almighty.”
My phone buzzed, put it to my ear, heard Em say,
“Shite, missed.”
A beat, then,
“Your turn.”
A man behind me said,
“Freak accident.”
I didn’t say what I knew. A high-velocity bullet.
So she was indeed deadly serious about a duel and then I thought,
“Well, I do have dueling pistols.”
The world was in some dire strait. Trump seemed within an insult of the White House. Aleppo was being bombed mercilessly and a presidential candidate asked,
“What’s Aleppo?”
At home, a respected [sic] father of three children murdered them and his wife
With
A hammer
And
His hands.
Then the piece of shit left a letter arranging how the Guards were to be contacted.
Think that’s bad?
Many papers eulogized him as a
Great
Teacher,
Father,
Community organizer,
Sportsman,
And a guard of honor lined up as his coffin was brought in to the church.
Words fail me.
Mayo and Dublin were in the All-Ireland hurling final. Mayo hoped to finally lay its curse to rest.
What curse?
In 1951, Mayo won the All-Ireland and, returning home to the West in a victorious coach, they did not stop to allow a funeral to pass. The priest (them being the still glory days for the clergy) cursed them, uttering,
“Ye will never win another All-Ireland.”
Only in Ireland.
Nor had they won since.
As I approached my apartment, I wondered what fresh hell awaited me there. Of course my heart sank each time I realized the pup would not be greeting me with his wild and fierce welcome. I swallowed hard as I forced that image from my mind. I opened the door carefully and very slowly, of all the sights I could have envisaged, I never would have hit on what I now saw.
A dragon.
A green carving in balsam wood.
How do I know balsam? It said so on the dragon’s tail. It was about three feet in height and two in length. Truth to tell, it was a stunning piece of work. More impressive, a nigh perfect depiction of a girl on the creature’s back. Beside it was a green envelope. I opened it to find many pages of a letter.
Began thus:
Mon amour Jacques
Mea culpa for resorting to the ancient art of missive communication. Social media is so
2015. As you read, you will notice many accents and as you can be dense I will alert you as they pop up. Currently, I am utilizing a BBC quite posh one so do feel suitably inferior.
That is, after all, the point of accents. If you doubt this, listen to Boris Johnson.
Too, you will see rather than hear laughter, as in,
Ha ha.
Personally, I never found laughter in written form as the slightest bit amusing. There are many cinema references buried in the letter for your entertainment plus, of course, literary allusion. The main thrust of this missive is to GET YOUR FUCKING ATTENTION.
I, as they say, fired the first salvo and you seem oddly reluctant to engage.
But you will.
I feel your focus waning even as you read so here is a shot of adrenaline.
Will I kill the nun?
Ha ha.
I put the letter down, rage and disbelief fighting for ascendancy. I moved over to the cupboard, took out the Jay, and fast hammered a double shot. Felt it hit like worry and then