“Dere’s a fierce head on it, begob. You’re a great man to pull a pint, Dinny.”
Junior’s ample backside was well settled into his usual bar stool. He leaned forward to pick up his drink. His T-shirt proclaiming, “THE INDEPENDENT REPUBLIC OF CORK”, rode up, revealing a hairy builders bottom. Straightening up, he contemplated his third pint of the night, anticipating the satisfaction ahead by the time he would have it lowered to the dregs.
Foxer began a rambling story.
“For Gawd’s sake,” said Lar, “will you get to the point with your tuppeny-halfpenny stories.”
“Well, the gist of it is that I got a bad pint on Saturday night.”
“What’s new there? I suppose it had nothing to do with the six that went before it?” said Junior.
“Well you didn’t get it here,” interjected Dinny.”
“Indeed, I didn’t; wasn’t it in the Beacon. Beacon how are you! I was as sick as a dog Sunday, but didn’t she drag me all the way down to Popes Quay, for Mass at the Dominicans. Dey calls demselves the order of preachers and, be the holy, his nibs on the altar didn’t half fancy himself. Wasn’t me head splitting. It was the longest sermon I ever had to endure.”
“What was it about,” asked Dinny.
“’Twas something to do with a happy death, I tink.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t at the North Cathedral: didn’t the Canon take an hour and a half, mainly because he repeated himself three times in the sermon,” said Lar.
“De same as Peter denied Jesus,” said Dinny
“Yerrah, I do think, at times, it is all a cod. I mean, in and out three times to get an indulgence of forty days and forty quarantines – what’s a quarantine anyway?” said Foxer.
Lar arched his Denis Healy like eyebrows saying, “You will appreciate dat woman of yours on de day of judgment, when St. Peter is weighing things in the balance.”
“Did you hear the news of Boyler?” asked Dinny leaning forward confidentially.
Junior and Foxer eyed him up expectantly. Lars gaze swivelled up, to contemplate the tobacco-stained ceiling. Dinny could not disguise his satisfaction at getting their attention. Slowly, with deliberation, he lifted an empty glass, inspecting it against the fluorescent light.
“Begob, is it the Third Secret of Fatima or what? Out with it, man,” said Junior.
“What’s up with Boyler?” asked John Joe from the adjoining snug.
“Well, be the hokey and you telling us you are getting deaf. ’Tis like a miracle that you cop on when dere’s gossip to be heard,” said Dinny.
John Joe got to his feet slowly. The arthritis in his hip was getting worse. Mind you, he thought, with some satisfaction, it is ten years since Buckley had told him.
“It’s like a rusty gate – take out your cheque book and I will put it right.”
“I’ll hold on to the cheque a bit longer,” he had said.
He picked up the blackthorn stick and, planting the ferrule carefully, leaned on it, hoisting himself upright. He picked up his double Paddy and joined the others in the public bar, slowly lowering himself onto the brocade-covered settle by the back wall.
Dinny’s big, flat countryman face broke into a slow smile. He wrinkled his brow in mock seriousness.
“Come on, take that smile off your gob and spit it out,” said Junior.
“If that’s your attitude, I dunno if I will tell ye at all,” said Dinny, now knowing they were all firmly hooked on hearing his news.
“God blasht it, didn’t I leave me fine sate in the shnug to hear it and now, you are playing games with us,” said John Joe.
“’Twas Maggie Cronin told me – she had it straight from Boyler’s ma,” said Dinny.
Lar pitched in, “Dat wan has more intelligence sources than Michael Collins ever had.”
“Hold your whist, or we will be here until the cows come home before we hear it,” said Junior.
“Well ’tis like this – as ye all know, Boyler went out to his uncle, the priest, in Chicago.”
“The Windy City,” chimed in Lar adding, in a confidential tone, “Dey say dat the uncle is a millionaire.”
“Well he’s long gone from there. Hasn’t he got very grand? Daniel Boyle, Attorney at law – no more, Danny. He’s really come up in the world.”
“How’s dat,” said John Joe.
Head neck and tail of the IRB, collecting money in Americay for the New Ireland – didn’t he share a platform with Dev.”
Junior scowled, “Id bate him across town for dat – dey still say Dev pulled the trigger dat day in Beal na Blath.”
Dinny continued sotto voce, “Well, begob – ”
“Speak up,” said John Joe.
“Isn’t he romancing a Mehican.”
“Christ, you can’t be serious,” said John Joe. “Don’t dey practise human sacrifice dere.”
“Yerra JJ, you are way out on that one.”
“Well, dey definitely scalp people – didn’t we see it often enough in de fillums in de Palace,” countered John Joe.
“Are you a fecking eejit or what?” said Dinny in exasperation. “Dey were Red Indians – Mohicans I’m talking about a Mehican, from Mehico. Dere completely different.”
“Well deyer the ones who has a resolution every five minutes,” said John Joe, defensively.
“You mean revolutions surely?” said Junior adding, “Hold aholt with the story, Dinny – I need the jax,” as he poured himself sideways off the bar stool.
“Be the hokey, you are lowering the tone with that language,” laughed Dinny adding, “I suppose I’ll have to put a sign up for Rest Rooms, as they call them in Americay, if Boyler ever comes home.”
“’Tisn’t here he will be having a slash,” said Foxer. “I’d say, it won’t be Muskerry either. ’Twill be the Island, hobnobbing with the Crosbies and the Cantillons.”
Junior surveyed the toilet. A piece of string still replaced a chain and graffiti covered the walls. Washing his hands in cold water, he dried them on the roller towel, crossing back to his stool, humming south of the border, down Mexico way.
“As sure as de Pope’s in Rome, I knew someone would come out with dat song,” said Dinny, “but did ye know, it was written by an Irishman – Jimmy Kennedy?”
“No kidding boy,” said John Joe. “Be the hokey, ’twoud take one of our own to compose such a good song.”
“Didn’t I nearly meet a Mehican once,” said Junior.
“You did in your eye,” said Lar.
“God’s truth – wasn’t Movita getting on the Dublin train in Glanmire Station.”
“Did you introduce yourself,” said Lar sarcastically.
“Indeed, I didn’t – wasn’t she hooked up with Jack Doyle and I didn’t fancy a flake from him, and he almost the heavyweight boxing champion of the world.”
“Yerra, he couldn’t hit a cow’s backside with a banjo,” said Dinny. “He was a better singer and drinker than a boxer.”
Lar joined in with a touch of bravado, “I’d say I could hit someone harder with a swipe of de Echo.”
“Begob, you wouldn’t say that in Cobh, or you’d be flattened,” said Junior.
Good-natured banter broke out about the exploits of Jack Doyle, “the Gorgeous Gael”. A gust of cold wind made them look towards the street door, as Tim Pat Murphy entered. Through the open door, Shandon struck the quarter hour.
“Close out that door quick, or we’ll all freeze,” said Junior adding, “How’s tricks, Murph, auld stoch?”
“A pint of your best Murphys when you’re ready, Junior,” said Tim Pat, settling in on a bar stool. “Any news lads?”
Junior canted an empty pint glass under the draught tap and pulled the lever slowly.
“Did you hear about Boyler and him romancing a Mehican princess in San Francisco?”
Tim Pats face creased with laughter.
“What’s funny about it “asked Junior
“Yee have been taken in by Maggie’s version. Princess me eye; it’s a Mehican Queen. Isn’t he as gay as Christmas – dat’s why he left the uncle and moved to California.”
In silence, they stared at their pints. John Joe drained his short. “Another double Paddy for me,” he said.
“I dunno what the world is coming to,” said Junior, resuming the pint pulling. “I knew our own Micheal MacLiammore was one of them, but it only happened when he met that Edwards fellow in Dublin – wasn’t he as right as rain in Cork.”