Adrian McKinty - The Dead Yard

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.

“Aye,” he said cautiously.

“What happened to the two geezers who were with Gerry that night in Revere Beach? Are they still inside? I know they shot their guns and I’m sure the peelers lifted them.”

“No, no, both made bail. It was a real fuckup, though. The serious charges are against Seamus. Worried about him.

They’re charging him with attempted murder. Even though it was obviously self-defense. He doesn’t want to plea, wants to fight it, and Gerry says ok. Seamus is a good bloke.”

“What about the other guy?”

“We won’t talk about Big Mike. That weasel went yellow on us, heard nothing from him since we paid his bail, fucked off the next day, didn’t even leave a place where we could forward his wages. He’s gonna cost Gerry fifty thousand if he doesn’t show for court, which he won’t.”

“Don’t blame him getting scared, it was pretty intense.

Local, was he?”

“Aye, ex-Boston PD.”

“There you go, he didn’t grow up with it,” I said, hinting that I, by contrast, had grown up with it.

“I should have been there,” Touched said, clenching his fist at the thought of the assassination attempt.

“I wish I hadn’t been there, except for being able to help Kit,” I said and took a long drink. Touched smiled.

“You did well, anyway, for a civilian,” he said and slapped me on the back.

“It was just something I had to do, get the wee lass out of there,” I said.

Touched leaned over, grabbed my hand, shook it deliberately.

“Well, we’re all happy that you did,” he said.

“Don’t even need to say it, mate.”

Touched reflected for a few seconds, tapped his nose, and pulled his shaggy locks into a ponytail. He tied back his hair and looked at me.

“What do you make of this?” he asked and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of the legendary Irish hero Cuchu-lainn, the Hound of Ulster. Except that the Cuchulainn of the tattoo did not resemble the famous statue in the GPO in Dublin. This one had been done in prison with a needle and smuggled ink by an artist of questionable skills. With big hair and equine features, he actually bore a strong resemblance to the queen of England-an unfortunate circumstance for Touched, a staunch Republican and anti-Royalist.

“What’s that mean to you?” Touched asked, pointing at the tattoo.

“It’s not Queen Elizabeth, is it?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he said furiously.

“Looks like her, or some member of that selective breeding program they have over there for picking the royals. Wait a minute, it’s not the Queen Mother, is it?”

Touched was boiling with rage. I’d pushed him too far. He let go of my hand.

“For your information, mate, that is Cuchulainn, hero of the Táin, Hound of Ulster, greatest Irishman since Finn McCool. Clearly, you are one very fucking uninformed bog Paddy.”

“Sorry, no offense meant, I’m just not a big history buff,” I said.

“Aye, well I can see that,” Touched said, finished his drink, and poured another from the pitcher.

“So in school you never even read the Táin Bó Cúailnge?” he asked after a long pause.

“Sorry, no,” I said.

“Aye, I forgot you said you were a laborer, despite your protestations you probably didn’t learn your letters at all, did ya?”

“I read just fine,” I said angrily, letting him see that I had limits too.

We sat in silence for a minute, Touched glaring at me and shaking his head. I took a big drink from my glass.

But then his anger began to slip and he looked at me and suddenly laughed.

“Well, I suppose it is a bit of a fucking shite tattoo,” he said.

The break in the tension made me laugh too.

“No, it’s good,” I insisted.

“It’s shite. The guy who did it, did a lot of murals but he couldn’t work in miniature. He bollocksed it up.”

“I was only joking with that queen remark. I knew it was Cuchulainn, sure I seen that statue of him on O’Connell Street,” I said.

“Taking a hand out of me were ya, ya wee shite,” Touched said with a huge attractive grin playing over his face.

“A wee bit,” I said.

“Jesus, have to watch you. You’ve got back doors to you, haven’t you? Well, ok, Sean, we’ll drop it now. Change the subject, bit of a sore topic for me and I’m trying to fucking relax.”

“Are you into music?” I asked, trying to think of some other conversational opening.

“Nah. Not really.”

“What do you like to do?”

“You like to gamble?” Touched asked. Touched, I recalled, grew up near Down Royal racetrack. Maybe this was a place to butter him up.

“Well, I haven’t really had much opportunity, but I have bet on the gee-gees now and again. It’s fun,” I said.

“Oh aye? What do you prefer, flat or the fences?”

“Flat,” I said. “Fences is too much of a lottery. Jesus, any punter could win the Grand National, but the Derby or the Triple Crown, that’s more of a science.”

Touched liked my answer.

“Aye, you’re right there, Sean,” he said. “I used to go over to the Cheltenham Gold Cup all the time and then sometimes the Derby. I went to Ascot one time; Jesus, do you know they don’t search you going in there? Talk about the queen. I swear to God, if I’d brought a wee revolver in there with me I could have bloody assassinated half the British establishment.”

He waited to see what my reaction would be. I didn’t hesitate.

“Aye, and half the world would have thanked you,” I said.

He smiled. His large gray-blue eyes relaxing, radiating genuine affection for me.

“I couldn’t then, you see, didn’t have the authorization. Actually had a few problems back in the Old Country. Little local difficulty, had to come to America, you know.”

“What was the problem?” I asked, to see how far he was going to trust me on a first meet.

“Well, since you’ve asked, mate, it was fucked up for a start, totally fucked up. I was sent out here under sentence. Told not to come back,” he said bitterly, his face growing white with anger. I let the rage boil in him for a while and decided to probe a little deeper. I knew the story but I wanted to see how much he would give me.

“Why?” I asked.

“You heard of Corky Cochrane?”

“Yeah, IRA man in South Armagh, everybody’s heard of him. He’s inside.”

“Aye, hardly the most bloody discreet of characters; anyway, I was doing Corky’s ex. Divorced. All legal like and everything. Seeing her. All aboveboard. Jesus, one night, dragged me from my bed down to Corky’s house. His two brothers there waiting for me. Went at me with pistol butts, the bastards, said I’d raped Corky’s old lady or something. Anyway, long story short, either I go to America or England or I was going to get a bullet in the fucking brain.”

“Jesus.”

“Aye.”

“So you came here and started working for Gerry?”

“Nah, I see it more like working with Gerry, subtle difference,” he said.

“I see that,” I agreed.

Across the bar I spotted Gerry and Jackie coming back from the toilet. They were having a heated discussion about something. Gerry looked pained. Jackie, animated. They had to be talking about sports or kung fu movies or some other tedious thing in which Jackie considered himself an expert.

“Believe me. I’m telling you, corned beef in Ireland comes from Brazil or Argentina,” Gerry was saying despairingly.

“Saint Patrick ate corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes,”

Jackie was insisting. “That’s why you eat it on Saint Patrick’s Day.”

“Hardly likely, since potatoes are also from South America.