Adrian McKinty: Dead I Well May Be

I was going to say something comforting and bland but just then Fergal saw me at the top of the steps and shouted down:

Hey, Michael, get your arse up here pronto.

I excused myself and went up the stairs. It’s diverting to think that if Fergal hadn’t picked that particular moment to see if I was off the train yet I might have investigated Mr. Berenson’s claim a little more carefully and maybe he wouldn’t have gotten killed by some character looking for a hidden stash a week or two later. But Fergal did so intervene and I went up. (The final burglar, incidentally, was one of Ramón’s lieutenants, and if you think this is a coincidence you don’t know Ramón, for even back then, clearly, he was making stealthy incursions into Darkey’s territory, testing its limits, finding its boundaries, plundering its goodies.)

What’s the craic , Fergal boy? I asked him, using the Gaelic word for fun or happening, which is pronounced the same as “crack,” so you could see how it could lead to confusion in some circles.

The craic , Michael, is all bad, he said sadly.

Fergal shook his big head at me. Fergal was tall and brown-haired, with a disastrous russet beard covering cadaverous cheeks. He wore tweed jackets in an attempt to appear sophisticated. It was a look that he just might have carried off at, say, a Swiss tuberculosis clinic circa 1912, but it was hardly appropriate for a hot summer in New York eight decades later.

I said it was a shame about young Andy, and Fergal nodded glumly and we went across to the Four Provinces. Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to speak tonight, which was good because when he did it only annoyed people.

The Four P. is such a prominent place in all our lives that it deserves description. Alas, though, if you’ve seen one faux Irish theme bar you’ve seen them all. The original Four Provinces burned down in a mysterious fire a few years back and the reconceived version lost the snugs and the back bar and sawdust floor and instead took on an open-plan Cheers look with vintage Bushmills whiskey posters, Guinness mirrors, pictures of aged Galway men on bicycles, a “leprechaun in a jar” next to the dartboard, and above the bar, in a glass display case, a large stringed harp that undoubtedly was made in China. It was normally unobservant Andy who noticed that the shamrock carvings on the wood paneling had four leaves, which made them four-leafed clovers and not shamrocks at all-Saint Patrick having used the three-leafed shamrock to explain the Trinity. The best you could say about the place was that at least Pat and Mrs. Callaghan kept it clean.

I nodded to Pat tending bar and followed Fergal up the stairs. Scotchy was there waiting for me, eating a bun, cream all over his nose. Andy was lying in the bed. He looked all right. Bridget was bathing his forehead with water like I suppose she’d seen Florence Nightingale do in some picture. She looked at me and I tried to make it seem as if it was just a casual look, which of course made everything much more suspicious.

There’s cream all over your big nose, I said, under my breath, to Scotchy.

He wiped it on his sleeve and looked at me, irritated.

How is he? I asked Bridget kindly.

A little better, she said, and her breast heaved after she stopped speaking. She was wearing a tight T-shirt that said on it a bit confusingly: Cheerleader Leader ’89. It was very distracting and I would have asked her what the T-shirt meant to cover the fact that I was staring at her breasts, but in the circumstances of Andy being at death’s door and all, it seemed inappropriate.

Fucking finally arrived. Right, we’re going right now, Scotchy said.

Here I should point out that every time you hear Scotchy speak you must remember that each time I put in the word fuck there are at least three or four that I’ve left out. You’ll have to take my word for it that it would begin to get very tedious hearing Scotchy the way he actually speaks; for instance, a sentence such as the one above in reality was much like:

Fucking finally arrived, fuck. Fucksake. Right, we’re fucking going, right fucking now.

Shouldn’t I pay my respects or something? I asked.

Bugger can’t hear you, can he? Scotchy said, tense, and tight all around the edges. He had that wee-man syndrome though he was only a couple of inches shorter than me and I’m nearly six foot.

Shouldn’t we get a doctor at least? I suggested.

Fucksake, Michael, would you shut the fuck up and come on, we’re taking care of it, Scotchy said.

I looked at Bridget but the wee girl was lost in the high drama of it all. She was clueless about anything medical. I knew that for a fact from when she tried to take a tiny wood skelf out of my finger with a hot knitting needle. I still have the fantastically large scar. Poor oul Andy could have a goddamn hemorrhage or anything, she wouldn’t know. Still, it was Scotchy’s call.

Ok, I said, and went downstairs with Fergal and Scotchy.

Scotchy began: So the plan is-

I interrupted him with a hand.

Scotchy, listen, before we go and do anything stupid, shouldn’t we talk to Darkey? I asked gently.

Aye, Scotchy, really we should talk to Darkey, Fergal said, for once erring on the side of sensible.

Scotchy was angry.

Jesus Christ, youse boys would ask Darkey if it’s ok to take a shite and ok afterwards to wipe your fucking arse. Didn’t you see Andy up there?

As a matter of fact, both Fergal and I probably would have asked permission to take a shite if Darkey were around. Darkey White didn’t get to be Darkey White by putting up with kids thinking they could run the show when he was off the stage. Don’t think of Darkey as Brando in The Godfather , think of him as Brando slumming it as Jor-el in Superman , all full of himself, overacting, clever, pretentious, and clearly a bit fucking bonkers. But still a heavy presence, distorting the well of gravity around him. Even when, like now, he was off the screen.

Scotchy, look, I began, I just don’t want us to get in trouble. Sunshine told me everything was off for today and-

Fucking Sunshine, are you afeared of him, too, ’fraid of your own shadow, Bruce? Now come on.

Fergal looked at me and shrugged. I sighed and followed them outside.

We piled into Scotchy’s brand-new brown Oldsmobile Something-shite, which was very uncomfortable and extremely uncool besides. The window wipers would come on every time you put on the left turn signal, but this was never a problem for Scotchy because he never used the turn signals. We drove for about ten minutes, up into some winding streets in Riverdale, into not a bad area but not a great one either. None of us said anything except for Scotchy, who was busy muttering to himself.

We were nearly there. Like I say, if it were me I wouldn’t have done anything until I’d talked to Darkey or at least Sunshine, but Scotchy wasn’t built that way. He wanted to show that he could handle things. He couldn’t but he wanted to show that he could. That was why we were the lowest members of the totem pole. That was how we ended up with the rubbish jobs and Bob’s crew ended up with the money jobs.

We stopped outside Shovel’s apartment building. This was the point for me to make a final plea for a quick wee phone call to Darkey, a minute, that’s all it would take. One of us had to be the grown-up and if it meant me, the youngest, taking on that role then so be it. I was going to do it too, but Scotchy got out of the car too fast and by the time I’d caught up to him, the moment was gone and I’d lost my nerve.

Got your pieces? Scotchy asked us. I nodded.

Ach, shite, I left it at home, Fergal said.

Dumb-ass fucker, Scotchy said, furious. See if there’s one in the glove compartment.