— Ah fuck off, will yeh.
— The fuckin’ meat. Good Christ. It stuck its head ou’ from between the bread an’ it said, Are The Tremeloes still Number One?
He put his face to the opening and sniffed.
— Yeh can still smell it. The lazy little bastard. Annyway, Jimmy, he said. — Compadre mio. How many bambinos have yeh got that are goin’ to school.
— Eh — three. Why?
Bertie took three Casio pocket calculators in their boxes out of the bag.
— Uno, dos, tres. There you are, my friend. For your bambinos so tha’ they’ll all do well for themselves an’ become doctors.
— Are yeh serious? said Jimmy Sr.
He picked up one of the calculators and turned it round.
— Si, said Bertie.
He explained.
— There’s a bit of a glut in the calculator market, yeh know. I took three gross o’ them from a gringo tha’ we all know an’ think he’s a fuckin’ eejit—
— An’ whose wife does bicycle impressions when he isn’t lookin’?
— That’s him, said Bertie. — I gave him fuck all for them. I was laughin’ before I’d the door shut on the cunt, yeh know. Only now I can’t get rid o’ the fuckin’ things. No one wants them. I even tried a few o’ the shops. Which was stupid. But they were gettin’ on me wick. I can’t live with failure, yeh know. So I’m givin’ them away. Righ’, Bimbo. How many do you need?
— Five, said Bimbo.
— Five!?
— He only has four, said Jimmy Sr. — He wants one for himself.
Bimbo held up his left hand. He pointed to his little finger.
— Glenn.
He moved on to the next finger.
— Wayne.
The middle one.
— Jessica.
— Okay okay, said Bertie. — There’ll be six by the time you’ve finished.
He dealt the boxes out to Bimbo.
— Uno, dos, tres, four, five.
— Thanks very much, Bertie.
— No problem, said Bertie. — See if yeh can get them to lose them, so I can give yeh more. I still have two gross in intervention. A fuckin’ calculator mountain. — Cal-cul-ators! We don’t need your steenking cal-cul-ators! I speet on your cal-cul-ators! — Paddy?
— Wha’?
— How many?
— I don’t want your charity.
Bertie, Jimmy Sr and Bimbo laughed. Paddy was serious, but that made it funnier.
— None o’ those kids he has at home are his annyway, said Jimmy Sr.
The stout in Bimbo’s throat rushed back into his mouth and bashed against his teeth.
— My round, compadres, said Bertie.
He stood up.
— Three pints, isn’t that it? he said.
They looked up at him.
— Do yeh want me charity, Paddy, or will yeh stay on your own?
— Fuck off.
— Four pints, said Bertie.
Jimmy Sr and Bimbo laughed and grinned at each other. Paddy spoke.
— Fuck yis.
Bertie took two more calculators out of the bag.
— For my amigos, the barmen.
When he got back from the bar Bimbo had one of the calculators out of its wrapper.
— The round costs five pound, forty-four, he told them.
— Go ’way! said Jimmy Sr.
— That’s very fuckin’ dear all the same, isn’t it? said Bimbo.
— It was just as dear before yeh got the calculator, said Bertie.
— I know, I know tha’. It’s just when yeh see it like tha’ in black an’, eh, silvery grey it makes it look worse. — I think annyway.
— My Jaysis, said Paddy.
He looked at Bertie.
— Fuckin’ hell, said Bimbo. — If there was six of us the round’d cost—
— Put it away, Bimbo, for fuck sake, said Jimmy Sr.
— I’ve got two kids in school, Paddy told Bertie.
— Is tha’ righ’? said Bertie.
— Yeah.
— Well, I hope they’re good at their sums, said Bertie. — Cos they’re not gettin’ anny calculators.
— Young Sharon’s after gettin’ herself up the pole, Jimmy Sr told them.
He rubbed his hands and picked up his pint.
— Is tha’ YOUR Sharon, like? said Bimbo.
— That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr. — Gas, isn’t it?
— One calculator for Sharon, said Bertie, and he passed one across to Jimmy Sr, and then another one. — And one for the bambino. A good start in life.
— She’s not married, said Bimbo.
— I know tha’! said Jimmy Sr.
— Is tha’ the tall girl tha’ hangs around with Georgie Burgess’s young one? Paddy asked.
— That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.
— Is she gettin’ married? said Bimbo.
— No, said Jimmy Sr. — Why should she? They’ve more cop-on these days. Would you get married if you were tha’ age again these days?
— I think I’m goin’ to cry, said Bertie.
— I’d say I would, yeah, said Bimbo.
— What’re yeh askin’ him for, for fuck sake? said Paddy. — He brings home little umbrellas for his kids. He goes to meetin’s. He brought his mot to the flicks last week.
— Only cos her sister’s in hospital, said Bimbo. — She usually goes with her sister, he told Jimmy Sr. — The Livin’ Daylights, we went to. The James Bond one.
— Is it anny good?
— Ah it is, yeah. It’s good alrigh’.—There’s a lovely lookin’ bird in it. Lovely.
— Oh, I’ve seen her, said Bertie.
— Isn’t she lovely?
— Oh si. Si. A little ride.
— Ah no. She’s not. She’s the sort o’ bird, said Bimbo, — that yeh wouldn’t really want to ride. D’yeh know wha’ I mean?
— No.
Paddy shook his head and looked at Bertie, and grinned.
— Is she a cripple or somethin’?
— No! said Bimbo. — No.—She’s TOO nice, yeh know?
— You’d give her little umbrellas, would yeh?
— Fuck off, you, said Bimbo.
Bertie put a calculator in front of Bimbo.
— Give her tha’ the next time yeh see her.
— Who did the damage? Paddy asked Jimmy Sr.
— We don’t know, to tell yeh the truth, said Jimmy Sr. — She won’t tell us.
— Well, you’d want to fuckin’ find ou’, said Paddy.
— What’s it you who it is? said Bimbo.
— I couldn’t give a fuck who it is, said Paddy. — It’s Jimmy. I’m not goin’ to be buyin’ food for it, an’ nappies an’ little fuckin’ track suits. Jimmy is.
— I am in me hole, said Jimmy Sr. — Hang on though. Maybe I will be.
He thought about it.
— So wha’ though. I don’t care.
— Good man, said Bimbo.
— An’ she’ll have her allowance, said Bertie.
— Will she? said Jimmy Sr. — I don’t know. I s’pose she will. I don’t care.
— Of course yeh don’t, said Bimbo. — Such a thing to be worryin’ abou’! Who’s goin’ to pay for it!
— Will yeh listen to him, said Paddy. — The singin’ fuckin’ nun.
— Fuck off.
— I believe Gerry Foster’s young fella’s after puttin’ some young one from Coolock up the stick, Bertie told them.
— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr. — Jimmy’s pal? What’s this they call him? Outspan.
— Yeah. Him.
Jimmy Sr laughed.
— I’d say tha’ made his hair go curly.
— Is he marryin’ her? Bimbo asked.
— Yes indeed, said Bertie. — A posse came down from Coolock. Mucho tough hombres. They hijacked the 17A. Take us to Barrytown, signor.
They laughed.
— I believe the poor fucker’s walkin’ around with half an 8 iron stuck up his arse.
— Where’s he goin’ to be livin’?