“I looked around the bar. There were five men in the

bar and no women. I was back in the American

streets.”

– CHARLES BUKOWSKI, South of No North

SLAN GO FOILL.

A common Irish term for “See you later” or . . . “That's it.” But there is an undercurrent, depending on the intonation. You hear the old people, at the graveside of a loved one, whisper the words with a sadness beyond articulation. The meaning hangs in the air, dances a little with the sway of the breeze, then is washed away by the rain. A faint echo lingering as the evening falls.

I was standing outside the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art. The showcase was a collection of old masters: Mantegna, Raphael, Titian, Dürer, Rubens, Rembrandt.

Not what you'd expect in Vegas, right?

Why I loved America, the rules only existed to be reinvented and if dollars could buy a dream, then bring it on. In my head was a DVD I'd watched of Bill Hicks . . . Jesus, his death, what a waste. I'd thought the paintings would part balm my wounded heart. But I'd flitted past them, my awareness of the beauty only intensifying my pain. The very first time, Siobhan, we'd made love, her lying in my arms and she turned her face up to me, asked,

“Will you mind me?”

Siobhan had never, never in her woesome life asked anyone for anything, and careless, without thought, full of afterglow, I said,

“I give you my word.”

She'd said,

“I'm going to keep you to that.”

What had I been thinking?

Siobhan was dead.

Everything pointed to that conclusion. Still, I'd have to go to Tucson lest she was somehow, against all odds, alive.

So I turned away from art, felt the heat from the desert brush my face, uttered,

“Slan go foill.”

An indication of my state of mind, I wanted to be in Brooklyn, to walk Third Avenue, stand on the corner of Fulton and Flatbush, trace the border between downtown and Fort Greene, stroll carefree (as fuckin’ if) on Nassau Street to McCarren Park, heading towards the Russian church, open a savings account at The Williamsburg and, in the evening, sit on the bleachers, pop a Bud, watch the neighbourhood kids play stickball.

I missed Brooklyn, how weird is that?

I come from a country steeped in culture and without a backwards glance, I'd have settled in Park Slope.

Or better, head for the Jersey Shore, my Walkman going, Bruce with “American Skin,” I'd be wearing a Yankees jacket, baseball cap riding low on my eyes, tan chinos and Docksiders on my feet, sifting the sand with my boat shoes, I'd sing along to the chorus, imagine Patti Scialfa giving me the enigmatic smile.

By fluke, I'd caught a classic episode of The Sopranos, when Tony and Christopher set up Adriana to be whacked by Silvio. It was the in-joke that made it so memorable. Silvio is played by Steve Van Zandt, original member of the E Street Band . . . Silvio is late, and Tony hollers,

“Where da fuck you been?”

Christopher, in a tone dripping with venom, says,

“The highway's jammed with broken heroes.”

From “Born to Run.”

There I'd be, minding my own biz, maybe get lucky, catch a glimpse of Bruce and Patti, out for a saunter with the kids, I'd be cool, go,

“How you doing?”

Not stopping or anything, cool with it, no biggie, try not to hum . . . “Into the Fire.”

Come evening, I'd be home, small house with a porch, me mates out there, shooting the shit, maybe catch a rerun of Monk on TV Siobhan would shout,

“Dinner in ten . . . you guys okay with burgers?”

She'd have only a hint of the brogue remaining, barely discernible. Me, I'd be deep under the American psyche, below radar, no remnant of the old sod. Just a regular joe, work on my car at the weekend, eat meat loaf on Saturday, shoot pool in the local tavern, hear the local band, a high school kid as babysitter . . . kids? . . . me ‘n’ Siobhan, always planned on two.

When the boy came of age, I'd bring him out the yard, throw slow ones for him to bat into the net, or shoot a few hoops before supper. In the window, the Stars and Stripes and on the fender of my beat-up Chevy, the logo, “Knicks kick ass.”

Let out a long, slow sigh, let the dream dance on the desert air, evaporate over the top of the Sands. Such a weariness enfolded me, soul sickness that choked my breathing. The heat was hitting me hard, and I walked into Circus Circus, thinking of Gretchen Peters's song, “Circus Girl.” That didn't help one little bit.

Vegas is the great timeless zone, in the casinos, no clocks, no windows, you stagger out and the sunlight kicks you in the teeth, you wonder, where'd that come from.

Right then, I wanted to suspend time. A waitress, impossibly beautiful, gave me a smile of miraculous perfection, asked,

“What would you like, sir?”

Not her and that was damn straight, said,

“Bottle of Bud, long neck and cold as you got it.”

That came and I overtipped her, she gave a gorgeous smile, said,

“You need another, you ask for Cindy.”

Don't hold your breath.

I was putting the bills back in my wallet when I saw a tiny pocket I'd never noticed, the secret compartment Tommy had mentioned, I opened it and a scrap of folded paper in there. Unfolded it and it was Tommy's spidery writing, some lines of a poem . . .

Took a long pull at the long neck, it was cold, read,

Legacy

Leave you

The leavings of

An inarticulated thanks

Will to you

The echoes of the lines

As yet . . . un-writ

Term you

The keeper of my conciliatory heart

That heart as mortgage

Hold

My throat felt constricted, my heart like a void, the line about keeper of my conciliatory heart. Asked meself, were we reconciled, had we renewed our deep and deepest friendship, did he die knowing I loved him?

One thing was for sure, I hadn't been my brother's keeper.

Later in the day, I realised I'd left the lines with the tip on the counter at the bar.

Seemed fitting, I was unable to hold on to anything.

When I'd asked Bob for help, took me a time to articulate the exact detail, asking is not my gig. Time later, the happy side of bourbon, I said,

“I need a piece.”

He laughed, asked,

“You taking down a casino?”

When I didn't respond, he got focused, said,

“You can get anything in Vegas.”

And then I smiled, said,

“Prove it.”

He stood, a tad unsteady, nodded and was gone.

A full hour till he returned, carrying a McDonald's bag, I asked,

“You got hungry?”

He handed me the bag, said,

“I held the mayo.”

Could feel the weight, raised an eyebrow, he said quietly,

“Browning automatic, full clip, ready to roll.”

I reached for my wallet, he blew that off, said,

“Just don't tell me about it, okay?”

Seemed fair.

Brace's song . . . “You're Missing” was reeling in my head, time to head for Tucson, should have been Tombstone but I guess they already had their showdown. I had no plan, only show up, kill Stapleton, keep it simple. ‘Course, if he saw me first, I wouldn't need a plan. In my hotel room I packed and wondered how my wife, ex-wife was doing. Jesus, marriages and shootings, this was a low profile? I'd hate to think what would have gone down if I'd been headlining.

Deeply regretted losing Tommy's poems . . . not to mention, Siobhan's life . . . some lines of Tommy's had lodged:

“Make a go of it

the roar

was roared enough

to be nigh . . . meaningless.”

I said aloud,

“Got that bang to rights, buddy.”

I zipped the bag, looked round the room, then walked out quickly. Like the man said, you can buy anything in Vegas, save peace, and perhaps the easiest item was a car. Guys go belly up on the tables, they sell that first. Not much advertising about the men who walk out of the Strip, all that’s waiting is the desert.

I bought a Buick, keep the American flag blowing. Dark blue, like my aura, almost new, the salesman said,

“Check under the hood, that engine is primed.”

I took his word for it, haggled the price though my heart wasn’t in it, got five hundred bucks off the marked one, the salesman grinned:

“You’re a player.”

Like either of us believed it, I began to drive off the lot, he added,

“You have a full tank of gas, you’re good to go.”

The American dream, me in my car, top down, Highway 66, times I so wanted to get right under the skin of the very soil and then the Irish in me would whisper,

“The Marlboro man died of cancer.”

The radio blasting, country station, Kimmie Rhodes and Willie Nelson with the Waits song “Picture in a Frame.”

Beautiful song, darkened my heart that was already in shadow. I’d woken one morning way back, to find Siobhan staring at me, I’d asked,

“You okay?”

Her face a mix of melancholy and longing, she’d nodded, said,

“I love looking at you.”

Fuck, how do you respond to that, especially as the feeling is not reciprocated.

Coming out of a deep sleep, I was not at my sharpest, gave some bland reply, mercifully lost to me, and she asserted,

“I’d stand in the rain to catch a glimpse of you.”

Hell.

I’d wanted to go back to sleep, sidestep the whole gig, but no, she continued,

“When I was at school, I was I think . . . eight. . . things were very bad at home, I mean, ferocious and I guess I was suffering from stress.”

She laughed.

“Stress! Eight years of age and crushed by worry. In assembly, I wet myself, the headmistress made me stand in front of the school, confess my shame.”

Now I was awake, reached for her, but she was somewhere else, not touchable, she continued,

“ ‘Course, that added to my burden, wet knickers, it became habitual, and I don’t need to tell you what the other children were like?”

I tried to hug her but she was rigid, carved in stone, asked,

“The headmistress, you know why she hated me?”

I didn’t, couldn’t imagine, what would make a grown woman hate a damaged child and Siobhan said,

“Because I was poor.”

I definitely had no reply, and she concluded,

“So money, that’s the only answer, you want to get seriously even, get seriously rich.”