“Once you get a feeling for handling nitroglycerine

fuses, you never lose it.”

– HUNTER s. THOMPSON, “Kingdom of Fear”

I WAS IN A CAB, had told the driver to take me to the East Village, and as it did, the vision rose up before my eyes:

Tommy’s broken body, his ruined face. I’d carried him to the water’s edge, fucking tears coursing down my cheeks, muttering,

“I’m not going to weep.”

Weighed him with stones, their weight as heavy as the lash upon my heart. Then, barely able to hold him, laden with the rocks, I waded into the water. The current pulled at us and the cold, my body going numb. Got as far as chest level, then let him go, said,

“Join your sentinel, mi amigo.”

In Irish, there is a lament, torn from centuries of poverty, oppression, violence. It goes . . .

“Och ocon.”

Hard to render the exact meaning, but woe is me comes close. Or, fuck this.

We Irish have the lock on melancholy, never happier than when we’re sad, rising to our finest moments on prayers of lamentation. Our best music, best writing has at its core a profound sense of grief. We’ve never been short of reasons why and the rain doesn’t help.

Bronach.

I love that word, the sound of it, literally it’s sadness but a step beyond, the place where you are broken. I shook myself, had to move out of the shadows, rid myself of spectres. If Galway had been absolute sadness, then let New York be about survival. I rolled the window down, let the sound of the city drown out the Irish echoes.

The cabbie asked,

“What about them Cubs?”

Treating me like I’d know, I wasn’t going to blow it, said,

“Man, isn’t that something?”

He bought it, energised, continued:

“The goddamn play-offs, first time in eighty-seven years, what a blast.”

He went into a long rap about the history and I finally gathered they came out of Chicago, am I quick or what? Tommy those last days, said,

“Tell you what, Steve, when I tire of New York, I’m getting my ass up to the Windy City.”

I was surprised, Irish people, eager to escape the damp, don’t plan on moving from one city of harsh winter to one that’s even worse; I asked,

“Don’t you want sun, to never see rain again?”

With the drugs, booze, Stapleton, the impending robbery, we hadn’t been easy with each other. For that brief interlude, our friendship was restored and he was animated, said in a near perfect American tone,

“Chicago is the hog butcher, it’s the American city. New York is like Hong Kong, limey and chink but then really neither. What I’m going to do, bro—”

He hadn’t called me that in a long time, it gave me the most treacherous of feelings, it gave me hope, he continued:

“—is get us into a really good hotel in Lincoln Park. We don’t want to be downtown, fuck that, we’re not tourists, you ever read anything about the city?”

I hadn’t.

“I’ll take you on a tour of the real Chicago. Forget Michigan Avenue, the shops and shit, we’re going to party, I’ll buy you a beer in Algren’s Rainbow Club at Damen and Division, I’ll show you county jail . . .”

He paused, sparks in his eyes, seeing it, seeing us, free and coasting. The buddy system in extremis. More . . .

“We’ll smoke a joint by Chicago’s PD and yes, we cannot forget a cappuccino on Tiger Street, in memory of Sam Giacana and Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo. Then up to Grand Avenue for an Italian beef at Salerno’s so we can talk to the ghosts of the Spilottro brothers. Hey, jeez, if the Bulls are in town, we might catch a game, what do you say, Steve, sound like something you can get your head round?”

What it sounded was great, I could almost see it, too, asked,

“How the hell do you know so much about Chicago?”

And the momentum began to leak away, I could see the light slowly draining from his eyes, creeping back into darkness, he said,

“I’m just blowing smoke, probably be too cold for you.”

I wanted him back, full of vim and devilment, tried,

“No, Tommy, sounds great, we’ll do it.”

And then he turned his head, the distant drummer was near, looked right at me, said,

“Truth is, Steve, you’re not a Chicago kind of guy.”

That hurt, like, a lot, and I’m still not fully sure I understood the meaning of what he said. I do know it was a farewell and it shut me down, shut me out . . . och ocon. Times, I’d hear his voice, especially if he was on the Chicago rap.

Like this.

“We will destroy the Florida Marlins at Wrigley Field. They will die horribly and (worse), without honour although if any team needs to be smote “without honour” it is the New York Yankees. Plus, I hope New York beats Boston like they do every year—the Boston Red Sox cry and cry and always fuck up when they get the chance for the series. But the Cubs, man, they’ve gotta win.”

Jesus. Tommy, like so many other things got that hopelessly wrong, the Red Sox took the World Series.

The cabbie was calling me,

“Yo, buddy, time to wake up and smell the coffee.”

Yeah.

I paid him, laid the mandatory five on top. He said,

“Have a good one.”

There’s a music store in the East Village that specialises in vintage stuff; the last thing I wanted to do was listen to music but I figured, if I ordered Siobhan’s favourites, she’d be delighted when she got to Tucson and found them waiting. The guy behind the counter was friendly, opened,

“Irish, right?”

Lotta work to do on that accent.

I ordered Planxty, Rory Gallagher, Clannad, The Saw Doctors. The guy was nodding, liked the selection, and I asked,

“Can you ship them to Tucson?”

He was a New Yorker, he could ship them to China. I gave the address of the Lazy 8 in Tucson and his interest perked, he said,

“That’s like a dude ranch.”

I agreed and then he asked,

“You mind me asking? What’s with Tucson, what’s that about?”

I had to smile, Americans, right up front, they’ll ask you your business, and they know you, maybe, all of five minutes.

In Ireland, you know someone for years, and I mean years, and still, you’re hesitant to ask them the exact nature of their life. I said, only half kidding,

“Always wanted to be a cowboy.”

He took my credit card, did the deal, then, as I left he cautioned

“Watch for them sidewinders.”

The rest of the day, I walked the city. In my head was Aimee Mann, jeez, when had I listened to her? Where did she spring from, unless her songs of guilt were related to my shame, my agony at the callous betrayal of Siobhan.

She remains among the great underrated, the true unappreciated. As Tommy often said.

“Fuck, she rocks.”

Ain’t that the truth.

On pure impulse, I called Kaitlin, Siobhan had given me her number, said,

“If you get a chance, give her a call, see how she’s doing, she’d love to see you.”

Wasn’t so sure how smart it was, she was intuitive or maybe I was just guilty but would she spot I’d been, what’s the word, unfaithful? Women have this sense of betrayal, maybe because they’re so accustomed to it. Rang the number, her apartment number, and hoped I’d get the answering service, then my duty would be done and I’d say, what, sorry I missed you. Pity we couldn’t have got together, maybe when Siobhan arrives.

She answered her own self and was thrilled to hear me. Her day off, talk about poor timing. Arranged to meet her for lunch on Lexington in two hours, she ended with,

“Dying to hear all your news.”

Jesus.

I was standing outside the restaurant she’d selected in plenty of time, get my face composed to hide the lying I’d been doing. A slender woman stopped, smiled, and I did a double take, croaked,

“Kaitlin?”

She’d lost a ton of weight, her hair was cut short, and she was dressed in casual but expensive jeans and trainers. A soft suede jacket that roared money draped on her arm. She held out her arms, asked,

“I don’t get a hug?”

She did.

We went into the restaurant and a line was already formed, I said,

“Shit.”

Kaitlin laughed, said,

“I booked.”

We were escorted to a table, seated, and I marvelled at the change in her. Before I could ask, she said,

“Atkins.”

I shook my head, went,

“Miraculous.”

And meant it, it wasn’t just the weight she’d lost, though that was startling enough, it was her whole demeanour, she had a whole poised confidence. A waiter took our drinks order, sparkling water for her, Miller for me. Kaitlin had been plagued with bad skin, not unrelated to the greasy food she’d such a liking for. Siobhan had told me that she fretted constantly, had tried everything to clear it.

Now, her skin was luminous, shining in its health. She touched her face, wonder in her eyes, said,

“I’ve even new skin.”

What I was trying to achieve. I said,

“You’re transformed.”

We ordered steaks, lean, and nothing else for her, with fries and all the lashings for me. She studied me, said,

“You look tired.”

Whoops.

I sighed, went with the,

“New city, takes a time.”

She laughed, said,

“Tell me about it.”

Jeez, she even sounded American with the Irish lilt just coasting beneath. The food arrived and between bites, she told me about her job, a promotion already, her apartment, cramped but close to work, and a guy she was seeing. He was, she said, something in the city, meaning, lots of bucks and though a little bland, he was good to her. She used the throwaway line of dismissal,

“He’ll do.”

Till somebody more exciting came along, she obviously registered my expression and asked,

“You think that’s mercenary?”

I did, but hell, was I going to admit it, nope. She launched,

“What you and Siobhan have, you think that’s common, it’s so rare as to be nonexistent and where is she, what the devil are you doing here on your own?”

I gave her the song and dance about me getting everything settled, having all arranged. She didn’t believe a word of it, said in complete American,

“What a crock.”

I gave a last lustre defence but she shook her head, said,

“There’s something you’re not telling me but I won’t push it, all I ask is you don’t screw her around.”

The word screw causing me more than a moment’s fright. Then a thought hit her and she asked,

“Your surname, Blake, didn’t you guys used to be Prods?”

I kept my tone light, said,

“A long time ago.”

Now she was completely Irish:

“Ary, them crowd, they never change.”

Before I could argue, if argument there is, she asked,

“What about that creature, that demon who follows you around, what rock is he hiding under?”

Tommy.

If I’d said,

“Under the whole of the Atlantic Ocean,”

Would she have felt bad? I don’t think so, and she definitely wouldn’t have been surprised. I said he hadn’t made this trip and she didn’t respond. We were finished with the meal and she declined coffee or anything else. I called for the cheque and she protested but not too strongly. Outside, she immediately lit a cigarette and I was astonished, she looked at me, went,

“What?”

“You’re smoking.”

A flush of anger hit her cheeks and she said,

“You think a complete transformation like I’ve achieved is without price, you live here, it’s stressful.”

She suddenly looked on the verge of tears, said,

“I miss home.”

And I said,

“Go home.”

She ground the cig under her expensive trainers with a ferocity, vowed,

“Not if it was my dying wish.”

I hugged her and she whispered,

“Mind that girl, she’s priceless.”

I promised and said I’d call her soon.

For a moment she looked up the sky, seeing what, I don’t know, Galway Bay, the pubs of the town, and then she said,

“You have a cold spot, Steve, you probably can’t help it, but Siobhan, she lights you up, try not to be the usual gob-shite and fuck it up.”

I wanted to part from her with a lightness, to leave with a good feeling and asked,

“You think I’m a gobshite.”

She stared right into my face, said,

“You’re a man, it’s your nature.”

Got back to the hotel, tired, recognised the limo outside. Juan’s driver, smoking, leaning against the hood, I was tempted to pun,

“Boy on the hood.”

Maybe not.

He clocked me, flicked the cig, and rapped the glass of the back window. Juan peered out, said,

“Bro, need you.”

I sure as fuck didn’t need him, I was sick to death of him, said,

“Not now.”

Juan was wearing a pale leather jacket, Calvin Klein jeans, Bally loafers, designer git.

He looked at the driver, an expression passing between them, hard to decipher but warmth was not on its agenda. Juan smiled, a new gold molar gleaming, said,

“I’m in a jam here, bro, you gonna diss me?”

Diss, fuck.

I was seriously tired but said,

“Okay, but can we get to it, I’m like, beat.”

He nodded and the driver relaxed, I slid in beside Juan, his cologne overpowering, he slapped my knee, went,

“Muchas gracias, amigo.”

He leaned over to a briefcase, opened it, took out a cellophane bag, the white powder heavy in its weight, began to roll a line on the cover of the case, asked,

“Hit you?”

“No thanks.”

He raised an eyebrow, mocking,

“Set you right up, bro.”

I shook my head. He did two fat ones, then went into that snorting, nose pulling, wheezing they do. What it is, is fucking annoying. Finally, he leaned his head back, went,

“Ah, Dios mio, here comes the ice.”

He uttered little sighs of near-orgasm then sat bolt upright. Pulled the leather jacket aside, asked,

“You know what this is, bro?”

It was a gun, a big one, I said,

“Looks uncomfortable is what it is, you ask me.”

He laughed, then in bullet Spanish, repeated my hilarity to the driver. He, not a fun guy like Juan, just grunted. Juan said,

“Ramon no like you.”

Gee.

I stared straight ahead, deadpanned,

“What a shame.”

Juan used his index finger to tap the gun’s butt, said,

“This a Walther PPK 3805 automatic, like them CIA dudes got themselves.”

What was I to say . . . congratulations? Went,

“And you need it for?

Gave me an evil smile. There’s a line in the Johnny Cash song about a guy going round taking names.

Always seemed threatening to me and seemed appropriate for whatever direction this conversation was headed. We arrived at Clinton Street, another song, Leonard Cohen, another heartbeat. We got out and Juan indicated a building on the other side of the street, said,

“Ees my office.”

Heavy on the “ees.” Ramon fucked off with the limo, I’d miss him. Juan had a shitpile of keys, got various locks opened and we were in, got an elevator to the third floor, Juan was a ball of energy, all of it strung. His fingers clicking, foot tapping, a tic below his left eye, I was tempted to ask,

“You ever audition for Riverdance?”

Then into the office, two large rooms, with leather furniture, massive TV, and box upon box of electronic equipment. Juan indicated I should sit down so I did, in a leather armchair, the fabric creaking as I sat. Juan moved to a cabinet, pulled open the door. Bottles of booze, every brand you could imagine. He got two glasses, then kicked a mini fridge, shovelled some ice in the glasses, held up a bottle, asked,

“Tequila good for you, mi amigo?”

I could be wrong but I swear it had the worm in the bottom or was that Juan? I asked,

“Got seven and seven?”

I was John Cheever in the flesh, the suburban ideal, Juan squinted, went,

“Qué?”

“Segram’s and 7UP.”

It pissed him off, he held up the tequila like some holy relic, asked,

“You no like my country’s drink?”

The phony accent was getting on my nerves, urging me to go,

“The Bronx is a country?”

Yeah, drop that into the already loaded atmosphere, see how it jelled. I settled for Wild Turkey, on the rocks. Juan had his back to me as I took a sip, then he turned, the Walther in his hand, said,

“You cocksucker, you put the meat to my old lady.”