Adrian McKinty: Dead I Well May Be

You vile bastard, I screamed and attempted to nut him in the face but before further damage could be done we were separated by the others. Both of us were bleeding and I was furious.

Darkey was yelling at the pair of us, but I couldn’t hear him and even when my ears stopped ringing I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Sunshine was holding out my hand and Darkey was holding out Scotchy’s and I could see that we were supposed to shake. I shook my head and backed away.

That wee shite can keep his handshake, Sunshine. He’s a no-good wee turd, from a skitter family full of them, and he’s the fucking runt, I said.

I heard that, Bruce, you bastard, Scotchy yelled at me.

Aye, there’s more where that came from, I shouted.

Aye, well bring it on, cuntface, Scotchy screamed, almost hoarse now.

That’s enough, the pair of you, Darkey said.

Darkey was holding back Scotchy, Big Bob was holding me. All this, somewhere near to Madison Square Garden, though not on a game night, so not too many prying eyes or peelers.

Sunshine grabbed me by the shoulders.

Listen, Michael, you will shake Scotchy’s hand. You’ll be sorry about all this tomorrow and you’ll call me up and apologize and say that you couldn’t believe that anyone could have acted in such an infantile manner and if anyone could take a joke it was you. Everyone knew it.

Not touching him, I muttered, pride rather than the booze backing me up.

Sunshine, though, knew he had to end it right here if he wasn’t to start losing face. He smiled and spoke calmly, but loud enough for all to hear.

If I have to put a gun to your head, Michael, you will shake his hand, Sunshine said.

I looked at him. Sunshine, five foot eight, skinny, that insane comb-over hairdo and mustache, almost no eyebrows. Really, he looked a bit like an egghead from a 1950s science-fiction movie. You could very easily see him explaining to Steve McQueen that the Blob was coming. The thought of this made me lighten up. I grinned at him.

Is that an order? I asked.

He nodded and his eyes tightened in what for him wasn’t a cold expression but rather one of empathy.

I relaxed. Sunshine had given me a way out. It was usual for him. You could trust him. Sunshine looked out for us, and lived not in the moment but in the tomorrow and in the next week too. I went over to Scotchy and stuck out my hand. To my surprise, Scotchy pulled me in and hugged me.

You really are a fucking cunt, he whispered in my ear, his voice cracking with emotion. I thought he was going to cry actually, so I grinned at him and pushed him off.

Jesus, now he wants to fuck me, I said to the audience and Scotchy took a swipe at and managed to connect with the top of my head. But we were old pals now and inseparable until two bottles of Dewar’s later Scotchy collapsed in the outside bog of the Mat Bar, an old speakeasy in the West Village that still had sawdust on the floor and pictures of famous prewar writers and several bar dogs to slurp your beer.

Leaving Scotchy off was now a priority, so we had to make a long detour up to the Bronx, and as we were going past 123rd I mentioned that it was getting late and might I also be excused, but Darkey was having none of it.

We stopped outside Scotchy’s place and Bob and myself lugged the wee shite up the stairs. We threw him on his bed, and while Bob helped himself to stuff from the fridge, I adjusted Scotchy into the recovery position so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. We left him and drove back to the Village, this time the East Village, where Darkey knew a good place for a stout. The bar, unfortunately, was closed, as it was late, and so we made do with somewhere close in Alphabet City, a trendy place that was loud and full of pretty girls going to NYU.

On my shout, I met at the bar an amazingly cute Israeli girl, with the cropped black hair, beautiful dark eyes, and large gravity-defying breasts wonderfully typical of the type. I’m not a bad-looking chap myself and I figured the gloominess of the surroundings would no doubt conceal the sleep rings around my eyes and any residual trace of the earlier murderous violence in my countenance.

I told her she looked Irish and asked if there was any Irish in her and when she said no, I said, all ironic and postmodern, Well would you like some? What worked for Bono worked for me, and she said, The chutzpah of you, and I said, Bless you. I spun her some yarn about being an exchange student from Queen’s University, Belfast, up at Columbia for a year. I was studying tensile loss in large mechanical apparatae (which I guessed was the plural of apparatus). It turned out to be an unfortunate choice of major because she, apparently, was a sapper in the Israeli Defense Forces and knew quite a bit about such things. She said she was a lieutenant, and I was disinclined to believe her and told her so, but she convinced me by her officerlike offer to get me a drink. I sent back my round to the lads via the barkeep and retired to a shady corner with Lieutenant Rachel Narkiss. I was not keen to mention my own undistinguished army career, which had lasted less than a year and ended up ignominiously in the brig on Saint Helena.

Lieutenant Narkiss had grown up on a kibbutz near the Lebanon and had had a wry old time of it up there dodging Katyushas and running through the mountains of northern Galilee. She was studying history at NYU and aside from Hebrew, she spoke English, Arabic, Yiddish, and French and a smattering of other tongues. She was clever and she was funny and for some reason my drunken Paddy chatter wasn’t wearing thin.

We talked about the pictures and travel and she pretended to be absurdly fascinated by a holiday I’d taken in Spain once. A riot had started between British and German football hooligans on the Canary Island of Tenerife. I’d been kept out of it by older friends, but in this new version of the story I got swept up in the trouble, and it ended with me saving the life of a lost shepherd boy and getting a minor bravery award from the Spanish government. She bought not a word of it, but she was curious about the landscape (being a photography buff), wondering if it was at all similar to the Negev. I said I’d no idea, although I did mention that The Good, the Bad and the Ugly was filmed around there, so all she had to do was to rent the flick.

So you see, the bank at El Paso wasn’t really at El Paso, I added helpfully. She said that the bank at El Paso was in a different film completely. For a Few Dollars More , she thought.

That killed that subject, but there were many more and we talked about Belfast and Jerusalem and the kibbutz, where she had worked in the machine shop. Of course, we also drew parallels between the situation in Israel and Northern Ireland, and by dint of common sense and hasty maps drawn on the back of a drip mat, we solved both problems to the satisfaction of all parties. She wasn’t a name-dropper, but she did let slip that her brother worked for Rabin. I wasn’t a name-dropper either, and most of the names I could drop, although famous in Ireland, were a little less savory: Johnny “Mad Dog” McDuff, “Chopper” Clonfert, “Bloody Boy” Halrahan. I sensibly chose to leave them undropped and instead waxed eloquent on the delights of university life. She asked me about the Columbia Core Curriculum, and I had no idea what it was but said that I wondered about its relevance in these changing times, which seemed to work well.

We chatted for a long time and finally she asked if I’d like to come back to her room at NYU. It wasn’t a dorm, and so we wouldn’t have to sneak in, but apart from that, it would still be quite fun. She had just bought a brand-new device for making tea. It was a little wire-mesh ball into which the tea leaves were put, mesh small enough to keep the leaves in but big enough to allow water to pass through, hence allowing for improved infusion… I’d stopped listening to the tea explanation and was lost completely in her eyes, which, as I’ve previously said, were dark and bewitching.