Part 22 (2/2)

For once, I had plenty of room in the trunk.

FADE TO ... BROOKLYN BY K KEN B BRUEN.

Galway, Ireland Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.

Man, isn't that a h.e.l.l of a t.i.tle. I love that. Pity it's been used, it's a novel by Thomas Boyle. I read it years ago when the idea of moving to Brooklyn began to seriously appeal. Don't get me wrong, I'm going, got a Gladstone bag packed. Just the essentials, a few nice shoirts shoirts. See, I'm learning Brooklynese, and it's not as easy a language as the movies would lead you to believe. I've had this notion for so long now, it's ”an idee fixe.” idee fixe.” Like that touch of French? I'm no dumba.s.s, I've learned stuff, not all of it kosher. I don't have a whole lot of the frog lingo, so I've got to like, spare it. Trot it out when the special occasion warrants. Say you want to impress a broad, you hit her with a flower and some s.h.i.+t in French, she's already got her knickers off. Okay, that's a bit crude but you get the drift. Like that touch of French? I'm no dumba.s.s, I've learned stuff, not all of it kosher. I don't have a whole lot of the frog lingo, so I've got to like, spare it. Trot it out when the special occasion warrants. Say you want to impress a broad, you hit her with a flower and some s.h.i.+t in French, she's already got her knickers off. Okay, that's a bit crude but you get the drift.

I'm hiding out in an apartment in Salthill. Yeah, yeah, you're thinking ... but isn't that, like, in Galway, Ireland? I like a challenge.

Phew-oh, I got me one right here. If only I hadn't shot that Polack, but he got right in my face, you hear what I'm saying? So he wasn't Polish, but I want to accustom myself to speaking American and if I don't practice, I'm going to be in some Italian joint and sounding Mick. How the h.e.l.l can you ask for linguini, fried calamari, cut spaghetti alla chitarra, ravioli, scallops with a heavy sauce, and my absolute favorite in terms of p.r.o.nunciation, fresh gnocchi, in any accent other than Brooklyn? It wouldn't fly. The apartment is real fine, huge window looking out over Galway Bay, a storm is coming in from the east, and the waves are las.h.i.+ng over the prom. I love that ferocity, makes me yearn, makes me feel like I'm a player. I don't know how long this place is safe, Sean is due to call and put the heart crossways in me. I have the cell close by. We call them mobiles mobiles-doesn't, if you'll pardon the pun, have the same ring. And the Sig Sauer, nine mil, holds fifteen rounds. I jacked a fresh one in there first thing this morning and racked the slide, sounds like rea.s.surance. I'm cranked, ready to rock 'n' roll. Sean is a header, a real headbanger. He's from South Armagh, they grow up shooting at helicopters, bandit country, and those f.u.c.kers are afraid of nothing. I mean, if you have the British Army kicking in your door at 4 in the morning and calling you a Fenian b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you grow up fast and you grow up fierce.

I was doing a stretch in Portlaoise, where they keep the Republican guys. They are seriously chilled. Even the wardens give them s.p.a.ce. And, of course, most of the wardens, they have Republican sympathies. I got to hang with them as I had a rep for armed robbery, not a very impressive rep or I wouldn't have been doing bird. Sean and I got tight and after release, he came to Galway for a break and he's been here two years. He is one crazy gumba. We had a sweetheart deal, no big design-like they say in twelve-step programs, we kept it simple. Post offices, that's what we hit. Not the major ones but the small outfits on the outskirts of towns. Forget banks, they've got CCTV and worse, the army does guard detail. Who needs that heat?

Like this.

We'd drive to a village, put on the balaclavas, get the shooters out, and go in loud and lethal, shouting, ”Get the f.u.c.k down, this is a robbery, give us the f.u.c.king money!”

I let Sean do the shouting, as his Northern accent sent its own message. We'd be out of there in three minutes, tops. We never hit the payload, just nice, respectable, tidy sums, but you do enough of them, it begins to mount. We didn't flash the proceeds, kept a low profile. I was saving for Brooklyn, my new life, and Sean, well, he had commitments up north. I'd figured on another five jobs, I was outa there. Had my new ID secured, the money deposited in an English bank, and was working on my American.

Sean didn't get it, would say, ”I don't get it.”

He meant my whole American love affair. Especially Brooklyn. We'd been downing creamy pints one night, followed by shots of Bushmills, feeling mellow, and I told him of my grand design. We were in Oranmore, a small village outside Galway, lovely old pub, log fire and traditional music from a band in the corner, bodhrans, accordions, tin whistles, spoons and they were doing a set of jigs and reels that would put fire in the belly of a corpse. I'd a nice buzz building, we'd done a job three days before and it netted a solid result. I sank half my pint, wiped the froth off my lip, and said, ”Ah, man, Fulton Ferry District, the Brooklyn Bridge, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, Park Slope, Bed-Stuy, Bensonhurst, Bay Ridge, Coney Island.”

These names were like a mantra to me, prayers I never tired of uttering, and I got carried away, let the sheer exuberance show. Big mistake, never let your wants out, especially to a Northerner, those mothers thrive on knowing where you're at. I should have heeded the signs-he'd gone quiet, and a quiet psycho is a fearsome animal. On I went like a dizzy teenager, saying, ”I figure I'll get me a place on Atlantic Avenue and you know, blend.”

I was flying, seeing the dream, high on it, and he leaned over, said in a whisper, ”I never heard such bollixs in me life.”

Like slapping me in the tush, cold water in my face. I knew he was heavy, meaning he was carrying, probably a Browning, his gun of choice, and that occurred to me as I registered the mania in his eyes. 'Course, Sean was always packing-when you were as paranoid as him, it came with the territory. He'd always said, ”I ain't doing no more time, the c.u.n.ts will have to take me down.”

I believed him.

The band were doing that beautiful piece, ”O'Carolan's Lament” ... the saddest music I know, and it seemed appropriate as he rubbished my dream, when he said, ”Cop on, see that band over there, that's your heritage, not some Yank bulls.h.i.+t. You can't turn your back on your birthright. I'd see you dead first, and hey, what's with this f.u.c.king Yank accent you trot out sometimes?”

I knew I'd probably have to kill the c.o.c.ksucker, and the way I was feeling, it would be a G.o.ddamm pleasure.

Clip Whack Pop Burn All the great terms the Americans have for putting your lights out.

Sean ordered a fresh batch of drinks, pints and chasers, and the barman, bringing them over, said, ”A grand night for it.”

I thought, little do you know.

Sean, raising his gla.s.s, clinked mine, said, ”Forget that nonsense, we have a lot of work to do. There's going to be an escalation in our operation.”

I touched his gla.s.s, walloped in the Bush, felt it burn my stomach, and wanted to say, ”Boilermakers, that's what they call it. You get your shot, sink the gla.s.s in the beer, and put a Lucky in your mouth, crank it with a Zippo, one that has the logo, 'First Airborne.'” ”Boilermakers, that's what they call it. You get your shot, sink the gla.s.s in the beer, and put a Lucky in your mouth, crank it with a Zippo, one that has the logo, 'First Airborne.'”

What I said was, ”G.o.d bless the work.”

And got the look from him, supposed to strike fear in my gut. He asked, ”You f.u.c.king with me, son?”

Son ... the condescending p.r.i.c.k, I was five years older, more probably. I raised my hands, palms out, said, ”Would I do that? I mean, come on.” ... the condescending p.r.i.c.k, I was five years older, more probably. I raised my hands, palms out, said, ”Would I do that? I mean, come on.”

Sean had the appearance of a starved greyhound, all sinewy and furtive. He didn't take drugs, as the Organization frowned on it, but man, he was wired, fueled on a mix of hatred and ferocity. He belonged to the darkness and had lived there so long, he didn't even know light existed anymore. He was the personification of the maxim, retaliate first retaliate first, always on the alert. His eyes bored into mine and he said, ”Just you remember that.”

Then he was up, asking the band for a request. I was pretty sure I could take him, as long as his back was turned and preferably if he was asleep. You don't ever want the likes of those to know you're coming. They live with the expectation of somebody coming every day, so I'd act the dumb f.u.c.k he was treating me as. The band launched into ”The Men Behind the Wire.” Sean came back, a s.h.i.+t-eating grin in place, and as the opening lines began, ”Armored cars and tanks and guns ...” ”Armored cars and tanks and guns ...” he joined with, he joined with, ”Came to take away our sons ...” ”Came to take away our sons ...” Leaned over, punched my shoulder, said, ”Come on, join me.” Leaned over, punched my shoulder, said, ”Come on, join me.”

I did, sounding almost like I meant it.

Maybe he's found out by now dat he'll neveh live long enough to know duh whole of Brooklyn. It'd take a life-time to know Brooklyn t'roo an' t'roo. An' even den, yuh wouldn't know it at all Thomas Wolfe said that in ”Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.”

I'd never been out of lreland but I was getting to know Brooklyn. I had a pretty good notion of it. In my bedroom there is a street map, place names heavily underlined in red. I've pored over it a hundred times, and with absolute joy. Using my finger, I'd take a few steps to the corner of Fulton and Flatbush, check the border between Downtown and Fort Greene, I'd glance at Brooklyn's tallest building, the Williamsburg Savings Bank, smile at the idea of taking it down, but I'd be a citizen then, running a small pastry shop, specializing in babka babka, the polish cake. I learnt that from Seinfeld Seinfeld. Then maybe stroll on Na.s.sau Street to McCarren Park, heading for the south end to the Russian Church of the Transfiguration, light a candle for the poor f.u.c.ks whose money I stole.

As well as the books on Brooklyn, I managed to collect over a long period the movies. Got 'em all I think.

Whistling in Brooklyn.

It Happened in Brooklyn The Lords of Flatbush Sophie's Choice Moscow on the Hudson Waited ages for the top two to come on TV, I mean those were made in 1944 and 1942.

Sat.u.r.day Night Fever? ... Bay Ridge, am I right or am I right? ... Bay Ridge, am I right or am I right? Last Exit to Brooklyn Last Exit to Brooklyn, book and movie, yeah, got 'em. yeah, got 'em. Red Hook, a fairly barren place is ... lemme see, give me a second here ... Ah, that's easy, Red Hook, a fairly barren place is ... lemme see, give me a second here ... Ah, that's easy, On the Waterfront. On the Waterfront.

Writers too, I've done my work.

Boerum Hill? Was.h.i.+ngton Irving and James Fenimore Cooper lived there. I'm on a roll here, ask me another. Who's buried in Greenwood Cemetery? Too easy, Mae West and Horace Greeley.

When I was in the joint, other guys did weights, did dope, did each other. Me, I read and reread, became a fixture in the library. I didn't get any grief from the other cons. Sean had my back, better than a Rottweiler. What happened was, he'd got in a beef with the guy running the cigarette gig, the most lucrative deal in the place. I heard the guy was carrying a s.h.i.+v, fixing to gut Sean in the yard. I tipped off Sean only as this guy had come at me in my early days. He was trailer trash, a real bottom-feeder-if it wasn't for the cigs, he'd have been bottom of the food chain. Mainly I didn't like him, he was a nasty f.u.c.k, always whining, b.i.t.c.hing, and moaning, bellyaching over some c.r.a.p or other. I hate s.h.i.+vs, they're the weapon of the sneak who hasn't the cojones cojones to front it. Sean hadn't said a whole lot when I told him. He nodded, said, ”Okay.” to front it. Sean hadn't said a whole lot when I told him. He nodded, said, ”Okay.”

Effusive, yeah?

The s.h.i.+v guy took a dive from the third tier, broke his back, and the cigarette cartel pa.s.sed to Sean's crew. From then on, he walked point for me.

Back in the eighties, a song, ”Fade to Gray,” blasted from every radio-it launched the movement, ”New Romantics,” and guys got to wear eyeliner and s.h.i.+t. You knew they always wanted to, but now they could call it art.

Gobs.h.i.+tes.

But I liked the song, seemed to sum up my life, those days, everything down the c.r.a.pper, a life of drab existence as gray as the granite on the bleak, blasted landscape of Connamara. That's when I met Maria.

Lemme tell you straight up, I'm no oil painting. My mother told me, ”Get a personality 'cos you're fairly ugly.”

I think she figured the ”fairly” softened the blow.

It didn't.

Nor was I what you'd call a people's person. I didn't have a whole lot of them social skills.

I was at a dance in Seapoint, the ma.s.sive ballroom perched on the corner of the promenade, the Atlantic hurling at it with intent. Now, it's a bingo hall. That night, a s...o...b..nd, eight guys in red blazers, bad hairpieces, with three bugles, drums, trombone, and a whole lot of neck, were ma.s.sacring ”Satisfaction.” They obviously hated the Stones. Those days, there was a s.a.d.i.s.tic practice known as ”ladies' choice.”

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