Here is a preview from Hell Chose Me by Angel Luis Colón.
First Shot, Last Call—Now
1
Charlie Ryan’s head cracks against the bar top with a satisfying thud and snaps back up like a rubber ball—blood gushing from the shiny new gash on the bridge of his nose. He crumples to his knees. Sends the barstool his fat ass was resting on not moments ago flying back with a thud against the wall. A dartboard shakes loose and crashes down—darts, chalk, and all. A neon Coors sign vibrates on the nails holding it up—threatens to join the board on the floor.
We’re at Jimmy’s Bar and Grill in the Bronx—all bar and no grill. A day-drinker’s paradise. Low light. Three televisions showcasing horse races. The smell of smoke and week-old beer. There’s a jukebox in the corner that’s seen better days. No surprise this is the place Charlie hangs his hat. He’s one of those sad cases you think only exist in TV or a movie. Had a good job and a family. Never made many waves. One day he falls in love with the horses and the next—well—the next day there’s divorce, bitterness, alcoholism, and a little over eighty large owed to some interesting people.
Me? I work for those interesting people.
I pull my .22 from the inside pocket of my suit jacket. Realize I hadn’t brought my suppressor—that’s what I get for getting caught up with this asshole’s personal life when I did my research. I snatch a handful of his salt-and-pepper hair and yank hard, so he can look at me in the eye. “You screwed up, Charlie.” The space between us gets hot. I twist the fabric of his button-down shirt harder and the top button pops off.
“Please…” He’s a mess. The teary eyes and snotty nose are going full force. “I got an inside track and everything, man. I can make good, I can…” he gulps. “I have a little girl.”
The kid defense—always the motherfuckers who walk out on their kids. They love pulling that card. Probably the first time he’s really given the poor thing any real thought in years. I’ve got me a glorified sperm donor here.
“And you chose the ponies over her a long time ago.” I give him a gentle pat to the temple with the barrel of my gun. “Tell you what: you tell me how old that little girl is—to the very fucking day—and maybe I’ll have a talk with Paulie.”
I already know the answer—researched everything. Charlie Ryan, forty-two years old, divorced for three years now. Ex-wife: Rebecca—thirty-nine years old. Daughter: Kira—nine years, three months, eight days old. Good girl. Maintains a B average and goes to ballet twice a week. Thankfully, she’s looks like her mother. Thinking about her gets that white-hot rage in my belly going. These gigs should never be this personal, but deadbeats like Charlie bring out the worst in me. Any other schlub, it’d have been quick. Tag them in an alley or a parking lot after sunset. This asshole, no, he gets a chance to reflect on his sins.
“I know more about you than you know, Charlie.” I shove the gun against his temple hard. He struggles a little, but the four beers he had before I made my move have caught up with him. He’s a little sloppy. “I know that you’ve got a Master’s in Engineering, about the scar from the emergency appendectomy you had. Shit, I even know about the alleged sexual assault in college that was ‘sealed’ when they couldn’t prove you did it. I know the girl ended up taking a leap from the George Washington years back. You remember that one?”
“I’m sorry, please. I can fix this.” He tries to pull away from me and I reacquaint his face with the bar. “Billy!” He calls to the bartender who’s been suspiciously missing. Good luck. Billy’s too busy counting out a wad of cash I handed him this morning before he opened the bar.
I pull Charlie to his feet. “Let’s make a deal. You tell me how old your little girl is, and I’ll walk right out of here. You love her like you say you do then this is cake.” I shouldn’t be messing around like this. There should be a bullet in his head and I should be miles from here by now.
His wet eyes go blank and I feel his body tremble. “Oh God…” He makes a face like he’s swallowing a mouthful of sand. “Oh, fuck me, I don’t know. I don’t know.”
I shake my head. “If it’s any consolation, Charlie, I ain’t doing this entirely because you’re a shit father, though, not for nothing, that would be enough for me.” The .22 gets pressed behind his right ear. “Nah, this is all down to appearances. Can’t have the men you borrowed from looking like softies.” I squeeze the trigger; the force of the bullet rattles Charlie like a toy. I release my grip on him and gravity does the rest. Fish my phone out of my pocket and take a few pictures. I send the photos to the dummy email my handler provided me as proof of contract completion, then erase them. Gotta love the modern world.
The gun goes back into the jacket and I make my way back to my stool. I polish off the Bushmills I nursed for nearly a half hour before and snatch a towel from behind the bar. Wipe down where I sat along with my glass. Inspect my clothes for any errant blood and gore. No stains—double win. I use the towel to push the door open and walk into the sunlight. I get that sense like I’m forgetting something, like someone’s behind me, and I turn around, but Charlie’s still laid out on the floor. I shake that chill out of me and get to moving.
Outside, not a soul has stopped. The six train runs above me on elevated rails, the sound drowning everything out. In the park across the street there are no kids playing, a few bums sleeping on the benches while the pigeons feast on clumps of day-old bread an old woman offers them. This far up the six line is mostly working class, but in the Bronx, the dirt always seeps in. I keep an eye out for any cruisers, but a neighborhood like this tends to get ignored this early in the morning. Walk over to a Jeep Cherokee and see Billy the bartender peek over at me while he gnaws on the fingernails of his right hand from behind the driver’s side window. I tap at the glass and he rolls down the window.
“All set?” he stutters. Jerks his head around to spit out a piece of fingernail.
I take a second to keep an eye out for any bystanders and to ignore how gross this guy is. “Keep the story straight and you’re good to go.” I slip Billy an extra hundred on top of the roll he I slipped him before.
Billy the bartender nods. “Great, well, uh…” he offers a hand—same one he’d been going at like a hamster.
I shake my head. “That ain’t how this works. Take the money and make good on what needs to be made good.” I raise a finger. “The way things are, I could pay you a visit next, got me?” It’s a lie, but he needs the fear of God in him. If Billy didn’t have a sterling reputation for being tight lipped, he and Charlie would have matching head wounds. Besides, I need someone to feed the cops some bullshit robbery story.
“Absolutely.” He looks toward the bar. “Then tell you-know-who I say hi.”
I turn to walk away. “Yeah, sure.” Don’t stick around to continue the conversation.
Three blocks south and two east until I get to my ratty old Taurus. That familiar feeling picking up. I get it every time I finish a job. Wouldn’t call it panic, maybe more like dread. Like the shoe’s about to drop. I’ve had some people in the business tell me that this is natural—we can get over the guilt, but hell, we still don’t want to get caught. There’s no getting over the fear of a cop around the corner. I’m not sure I prescribe to that. Not with what happens after my jobs. Not with what comes next.
I lean over and stare into my car. It’s dirty. Make a mental note to clean it up, like I did last week and the week before. I pop the trunk and toss my jacket and the bar towel in. I slip into the driver’s seat, ignite the engine, and take a long breath. It’s cold in the car—as if I’ve left the AC running the entire time. Close my eyes for a five count and open them. I hate this part.
Charlie’s seated on the passenger side of the car—or at least something like Charlie. The entry and exit wounds from the bullet that scrambled his brain are gummy and pink. The gash I gave him is still fresh and bleeding. The blood collects at the tip of his nose and balloons before falling. The drops fall toward Charlie’s lap, but dissipate before they make contact. There’s no color in his face. He’s staring at me with a rage I’ve seen before. The same kind of look I’d give a man who’d popped me in the head. I can see the muscles in his face and neck tighten.
“That bit about it not being personal?” I get a cigarette lit and offer it to Charlie with a smirk. “I lied. It was kind of personal.”
This comes with every kill. Guilt, I could live with, but no, they need to hitch a ride. Stick by my side for a while. They don’t last long, though. Maybe a week at most, but it’s enough to make a guy wonder a few things. For one, am I nuts, like in a medical textbook kind of way? The second question, why I even do this, I’ve already got the answer to.
Charlie loses his form a moment—his jaw stretching as he howls. He snaps back into reality and the look in his eyes is murder—tries to reach out and grab me, but the hand goes through my shoulder. That part always makes me wonder: if they can’t touch me, how in the hell are they sitting in my car?
Charlie runs his ethereal hands through his ethereal hair.
“Please…” His voice is strained. Creaks like a chair leg about to snap.
He loses his form again. Bits of him float away like smoke only to converge and reform the next moment. This is what they do—repeat what they told me before. Except it’s all static and broken up, like an old radio with a broken tuner.
“I have a little girl,” Charlie says it with the same desperation as before.
That riles me. Makes me wish I could pop him again.
“Get a grip, Charlie. You’re dead—a ghost. Man up.” I put the car into drive and we’re off—another notch in my belt and another passenger along for the ride.
2
It’s a fifteen-minute drive to the Rainbow Academy Daycare Center in the Parkchester section of the Bronx. Charlie’s still going on with all the shit he said before I plugged him. Nothing new, nothing I don’t already know. As he jabbers on, he keeps breaking apart and reforming. The last bits to reappear are always the wounds. First the bullet hole, then the gash over his nose. As soon as they’re back, they bleed fresh and gum back up in moments.
At least the neighborhood’s alive. There are two maintenance workers for the condominiums power washing the sidewalk to the right of my car. I spot another two fellas smoking cigarettes three cars up. They’re too well dressed to be loitering. Guess Paulie’s in need of a little more protection lately. Across the street, I spot an undercover vehicle five cars back. That one’s a decoy. The real undercover cops are in a van marked “Panetta’s Bakery.” Par for the course. I used to see this all the time overseas, and the cops in America are infinitely worse at hiding than the ones in the UK and Ireland. Paulie’s a known commodity in the organized crime scene. One good lawyer, though, and a thousand vice cops mean shit. If I were a smarter man, I’d ask Paulie for a reference—maybe the rates to retain one of them. Wait—scratch that. If I were a man with a glimmer of extra cash, I’d ask Paulie about retaining a lawyer. Problem is my money’s spent as fast as it comes.
“I don’t know…” There’s a little emotion when Charlie says it—like he’s mustering the nut to be mad at me. “Little girl…” It’s strange. He can emote, that much I see, but he’s stuck with a limited script. He follows me as I get out of the car and feed the meter. If this were real, if Charlie were stuck as some broken record while chained to me, how pointless would life be? We all suffer, fight, and scratch for our last moments in any existence to be an echo. To watch the schmuck responsible for our end go about his boring, useless day.
That’s some depressing shit.
I eye Charlie. He’s giving me a hell of a staring at—knives and all that. “Get in line,” I tell him. I check my watch. It’s near one o’clock. Need to make this quick. I’ve got a hospital visit to make.
Behind me, two Spanish ladies push long carriages filled with toddlers down the block and toward a playground. It’s the first day this year over sixty-five degrees—perfect for the little ones to play. I smile and wave back at the kids as they wave to me. Watch them go by and try to recognize any of the cartoon characters on their shirts. One kid’s got a Bugs Bunny T-shirt on. Decide he’s the only one of the group with cool parents. I light a cigarette and inhale—close my eyes. Get my game face on. Abandon the smoke after three more puffs. It goes sailing into the concentrated water stream coming from the power washer a few feet ahead. One of the maintenance guys scowls at me.
Charlie gets in my face. There should be noises coming out of him. I keep moving and he passes through me. He goes slack-jawed and stutters: “Fuck…” He bucks forward—the same way he did when I pulled the trigger before—and snaps back into focus as if nothing happened. His wounds knit back together and tear apart fresh. The amount this bastard’s bled, he’d have filled a bathtub by now.
I hold my smile and ignore him. “First relevant thing you’ve said since I shot you.”
There’s a cheap doorbell by the entrance to the daycare. Jab my index finger against it three times and wave to the women manning the front desk. There’s a high-pitched buzz and I pull the door open. The inside of the place smells like baby wipes and lemon-scented floor cleaner. It’s not enough, though. The undertone of used diapers and stale baby formula catches me off-guard. There’s a mural behind the reception desk with backwards letters and cartoon characters climbing all over them. It spells out rainbow daycare. The reception desk is littered with flyers detailing all sorts of reading, sports, and family activities for kids ages two and up.
“Good morning ladies.” I wave. “Is Mr. Gigante in?”
The younger one, the one goes by Gina—I think—smiles back and nods. “He’s in his office.” She’s pretty. In another life, I’d try to charm my way into her pants. I take care not to admire her for too long. I don’t want to come off as creepy—don’t care how secure Paulie feels about this place or any of his employees—I’d rather they not commit me to memory for any negative reasons.
I ignore the older lady. She frowns like an old hound—keeps her eyes half closed and pointed down at the slate grey finish of the reception desk. I can tell she’s got me figured out and wants nothing to do with a guy like me. Paulie isn’t exactly secretive about his status. It’s the details that get left out.
“Is it cool to go in?”
Gina—I think—answers, “Yeah, the kids are all eating lunch, so he should be free.”
“Great. Thanks.” I walk past them and down a hall with multiple decorated doors flanking me at each side. I hear a hodge-podge of nursery rhymes surrounding me. There are squeals of happiness and grumpiness, depending on which room I pass. At the end of the hall is a half-open wooden door with a small, square window. Above the frame is a huge sheet of yellow poster paper with a dozen little hand prints spelling out “We love Mr. Paulie”—fucking adorable.
Paulie’s bald head pokes out from the right side of the doorframe. “Bryan, come in.” He’s serious—always serious—also, impeccably dressed for a man in a daycare center. The suit on him is worth more than everything in my closet. That’s a conservative assessment.
I stand at the doorframe. Look around his office. “Is it okay to talk shop in here?”
Paulie scribbles on a pad and paper. Goes back to staring at his computer screen. “Yeah, yeah. I check it every morning for any bugs.”
I close the door behind me and take a seat in a cheap office chair. The phone in my pocket is out and I slide it over the desk. “Dumped the SIM and battery on the ride over—as usual. You get the pictures?”
Paulie opens a desk drawer and slides a new burner phone over to me. He snatches the phone I used to take the pictures of Charlie and tosses it in a small bucket next to the trash can with a flyer taped to it that says, phones for our troops. He does this every time, even if I reset the entire phone to factory settings. I think it’s overcautious—borderline paranoid—but I don’t voice that opinion. Not like I owned the phone, and hell, maybe Paulie knows more about this stuff than I do.
“Fantastic.” Paulie looks up to me. “How’s it going with you?”
I nod and lean back. “It’s going. Need to visit Liam in a few.”
“How’s he holding up?”
“Still not talking, eating, walking—you know—all vegetable.” I understand Paulie’s trying to be polite, but all I want is to collect my pay and leave. Talking about my brother’s condition before I get to see it in person only darkens my mood even more.
“Your mom?”
“Please. No need to invoke storm clouds on a nice day.”
Paulie arches his brow and folds his hands on his desk. There’s a poster behind him with a racial rainbow of smiling children. “All right, well…”
Charlie pops up behind Paulie’s shoulder. Paulie doesn’t bat an eye; he can’t see or feel Charlie. That’s all on my shoulders. I’d like to tell him to cut it out, that he’s all in my head and nobody else gives a damn about him anymore, but Paulie’s already given me enough side-eye during our partnership. Last thing I need is mental health being an even bigger factor in his concerns over me.
So I ignore it. It works better if I’m the only one who knows I’m all sorts of crazy and that the corpses of the people I’ve recently killed hang around with me for a few days. Charlie will keep on with the gore show. Pull some shock magician bullshit on me. Appear whenever the lights go out in the apartment. Then, he’ll start to fade away. Before I know it, he’ll be a fingerprint smudge in my peripheral. It’ll be another job I barely remember. Then it’ll be time for the next job.
“Okay, standard fee for debt collection—minus my cut.” He makes a big show of typing on one of those old-school calculators. I imagine him with one of those visors and a stogie between his lips like a bookie in a black-and-white movie starring James Cagney.
“How’s the daycare business? Getting more than one computer anytime soon?” I might as well lighten the mood in the room. Ghost Charlie’s running amok in a fit of rage. The ghosts have a habit of doing that, even if nothing gets accomplished. They stretch and pull at themselves. It’s all the physics of a cartoon, but unnerving with the textures of the real world.
Paulie smiles. “Smart ass.” Shakes his head. “Not too bad. Some of these kids…” He looks around like one of them could be skulking in corner. “…they can be little motherfuckers. Can’t do much on account of the parentage and all.”
That’s about right. More than half the kids here are the spawn of the mafia glitterati of the Bronx. Future paesan kings and Jersey Shore queens are being cultivated by a man who acts as a handler to most of the hit men in the Bronx and lower Yonkers. I don’t bother to know any of the parents’ personal details. Would be too a big a headache at some point. Much better to keep the relationship simple. I talk with Paulie—only Paulie—and I keep my nose and identity out of anything with potential stickiness. When he decided to move forward with this daycare idea of his, I questioned his sanity. Then I realized the son of a bitch not only had a front, but he literally had a massive human shield. Nobody in their right mind would come after him so long as he was holed up in here.
“You try sending a letter home to their parents?” It’s empty advice. Makes me sound interested.
Paulie slaps at his calculator. “Yeah, but some of the parents are worse. Tell you something. You’re better off doing what you do. At least when someone lips off to you…” He makes his hand into the shape of a revolver and puts the “barrel” to his temple. “Know what I mean?”
“Not as much as good ol’ Charlie there, but yeah, I get it.”
That brings Charlie back to us. “I can make good…” He paces back and forth behind Paulie, throws his arms in the air and his fingers lose form. Fade out like smoke from ten dying cigarettes. I track Charlie’s head wound and count how many times I spot a kid’s smile peeking through from the poster behind him.
“So how long does it take to calculate my take?” I’m tired of waiting.
Paulie clears his throat. “Well, looks like it’s gonna be seven K this time. I had to tack on a few more fees.” He gives me this bullshit grin. “Didn’t have a choice.”
“More fees?” This crap again. Paulie pulled this garbage two gigs ago, but he at least had a reason—I made a mess of the hit. I fight the urge to pistol whip the bastard, but there’s not much choice in the matter. An illicit career doesn’t give a guy much leverage, especially if he does the dirty work.
“Fuck…” Charlie stomps over to me and tries to get in my face. Seems he’s only relevant when he curses.
I keep eyes on Paulie. “You didn’t say a damn thing about new ‘fees’ when I took the gig. Figure I’d be seeing at least nine.” I was depending on that extra to keep my nose out of the water for at least an extra week. I fight the urge to throw my chair at the bastard’s bald head.
“Shit’s getting complicated. I got a bigger stable to take care of. Papa’s had some issues lately, incurring operational costs and all.”
Bullshit. The guy Paulie is middle man for, Tony Papa, is cutting back—going cheap and handing work over to off-the-boat kids from the rougher patches of the planet. Past few years, the wet work scene’s been flooded with these poseurs. They’ve been getting a strong rep for quick work, but you get what you pay for. Hardly the level of professional that can keep things discrete if everything goes pear-shaped.
“So, you’re lowering my rates.” It’s as simple as that. I’ve been undercut. “Without warning.”
He raises his hands. “Not like that, it’s been a tight month. Look, I got another gig here.” A folder lands on the desk in front of me. “A couple of strippers been loose-lipped about a party they were hired to work a few weeks ago. It’s giving a few very important friends agita. You’ve done something like this before. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
It’s a tempting offer, wouldn’t hurt to feel it out. “Is what the strippers saw a need-to-know deal?”
Paulie shrugs. “Eh, drugs, a few girls at the paygrade above them—of the non-English-speaking variety, of course.”
No way. Those are the darker alleyways, and while, yeah, my career isn’t exactly sunshine and sparkles, I’m not about to go playing in that sandbox so soon after a simple gig. I push the folder back to him. “You know I don’t go back to back. All these years, and I look green to you?” I should know better to even entertain this. I bend once for Paulie, and he’ll press in harder the next time.
“No, but you’re as prickly as a fucking rookie today.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m offering you a means of cash flow to handle your family commitments. I know keeping Liam half robot costs an arm and a leg. I’m doing you a solid here.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I stand up. “Give me what I’m owed, and I’ll be on my way.”
Paulie opens a drawer to his left and fishes out two stacks of bills. “Throwing in an extra two fifty since I’ve offended your sensibilities.” The money lands on my lap. Wrapped tight with dirty rubber bands.
I stare down at the cash. “You got an envelope or something for me to put this in? Or do you expect me to slip this down my ass crack?”
“On top of the extra two fifty? Jesus.” He’s busting my balls—trying his hand at easing the mood. The envelope appears next to the job folder. “You interested in this extra gig or not?” His eyebrows rise in the kind of way that always makes me nervous. He’s working an angle—I know it.
I shake my head and squirrel the cash into the envelope. “I said no back-to-back gigs. Call me in a month or two once you got something good—something expensive.” I stand up. Charlie’s right next to me and staring daggers again.
“I can always set you up with something meatier. Ain’t any shortage of high-priority assholes that need taking care of.” He jabs a stubby, sausage finger at me. “Payout’s twenty-five grand minimum.”
“Nope. That’s for the younger fellas ain’t got a problem with lighting fires in paper houses.” It’s a personal policy. I’ll hit losers and nobodies—folks that won’t be missed. I can wash away that guilt quickly, for the most part. It also keeps me and Liam safe. High-priority targets like stoolie button men or disgraced criminal middle managers? No way. That kind of heat follows you home no matter how fast you run.
“I’ll talk to you soon then. Try to look on the fucking bright side at some point.” He gets back to scribbling on papers with a pen that has a comically oversized moose head bobbing on top of it on a spring.
“Yeah, well, shooting drunks in the head makes that tough.”
Yeah, Charlie mutters from behind me. Something feels off, but I ignore it. I’m tired.
I open the door and nearly step on one of the little munchkins crawling all over Paulie’s school. She looks up to me and snorts back a gallon of snot. Her eyes are wet with tears. “You’re not Mr. Paulie.” She says it coldly—I’m clearly an interloper and breaking whatever protocol she’s set out in her kid brain. Look at her shirt. Don’t recognize the gawping cartoon animal. Kid’s got lame parents.
“He’s right in there, sweetheart.” I step aside to let her into the office. She watches me the entire time she makes her way past the threshold. That stare crawls straight up my ass and climbs my spine—too familiar—so I double-time the hell out of there.
“Little girl…” Charlie is two steps behind. If he had breath, it would be make my neck moist.
“That one’s too young to be yours, Charlie, try again.” I whisper.
No answer.
I wave to the ladies at the front desk and dodge a few dozen rug rats playing tag and tugging helium balloons around. I wait to get buzzed out and step back into daylight. Get to the car and what a surprise—a ticket. The parking meter was busted. I tear the ticket up and toss the shreds into the wind. My own personal ticker tape parade to my failings.
Back in the car, Charlie grins.
I get the car started. “Really? You think a ticket’s giving you one over on me? I ain’t the one with lead rattling in that empty skull.”
That gets him sulking good. I get the car on the road. “You did that to yourself, not me—not Paulie or his employers. Just you.”
“I can make good,” he whispers.
“None of you ever understand. When a guy like me shows up, it means you burned out all the chances you had.”
He stares out the passenger window. Plunges a finger into his bullet wound and picks at it like a scab or hangnail. This is a first, a sullen ghost. Maybe this idiot was a closet philosopher or something.
“You think I want you here with me?” I slide a cigarette from the pack I have holstered on my visor. Light it with a Zippo I keep in the center console. “The sad truth of it, Charlie, is that you’re not the first. Won’t be the last, either. At least you get to fade away.”
Charlie’s lips move. “Please…”
“Please yourself.” I blow a stream of smoke toward him. “Guess you’re riding with me to the hospital to visit Liam. That’ll be nice. Maybe you can meet a nice, sort of pretty coma victim—settle down. Then you can leave me the hell alone sooner than everyone else.”
We pull up to a red light and I light a fresh cigarette with the old one. Scratch the spot between my eyes. I’ll make the hospital trip quick. Maybe pick up a bottle of something strong. Then catch a day of sleep and bad TV. That sounds about right.
Paulie called Liam a robot and for some reason that sticks with me. I laugh. Liam was always a tough son of a bitch—he would have gotten a kick out of being called a robot or Terminator. Always loved those bullshit movies.
“You know, what I did to you, Charlie. That was for family. That was the extreme I went to in order to stand by my blood and protect them.” I pull my foot off the brake and let the car roll forward. This light is taking forever. “Guys like you are fucking worthless. You don’t leave your family—especially a little kid. Now you’ll never amount to nothing for your daughter and she’ll remember you as some kind of shadow in her life.” I’m getting too personal. This isn’t real. I need to calm down.
I toss my smoke out of the window. The driver next to me is staring. Oh, yeah, I’m talking to myself. I give the guy a smile and a wave. He pretends like he can see right through me. Does that little tough guy thing where you lean to the side and stroke your chin. Then he drives off. Of course, I’m distracted and the asshole behind me leans on his horn three milliseconds after the light turns green.
In the mood for some music. I turn on the CD player and The Wolfe Tones’ “Celtic Symphony” starts. Old school rebel Irish music. Flutes and banjos and brogues. The song’s a bunch of pandering gibberish, but it gives me the warm and fuzzies nonetheless. There’s not much about my time in Ireland that ever makes me smile, so I take these moments as a small treat.
Charlie makes a face like someone farted.
“Deal with it.” Turn the volume all the way up. I sing along at the top of my lungs—dance along the way I used to in the pubs of Killarney and Newry. I think of half-drank pints and smoking two packs of cigarettes in a single night. Of nights with girls that never told me their names but showed me everything else about them. For all the bad, there was some good in Ireland—or at least plenty to distract me. Here, though, I have none of that. I came back to New York and life was waiting to deck me with concrete gloves.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Charlie hold his head in his hands.
At least that makes me smile.
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