Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

Aye, that’s me. In the goddamn rubbish. At home here.

In Belfast.

In Dublin.

And back.

I fall way back.

Across countries. Oceans. Years.

Lima.

Los Angeles.

Farther.

All the way to a cold January in the Bronx, where my mind wants to take me for reasons that I don’t get now but I’ll understand by midnight.

Tsssfffff… We came running down the lane, between the railway tracks and the security fence. A red number 2 train approaching and Andy afraid that we were going to be sucked over onto the line the way Goldfinger got sucked out of the plane in the Bond flick.

“There’s no way,” I tried telling him. “It’s all to do with pressure.”

“Aye, you say that, and when I’m mashed up against the carriages you can tell my ma.”

The train was accelerating and we still had about fifty yards until we got to the steps at the platform.

“We’re not going to make it,” Andy said. Fergal was leading us, but he was so looped on paint thinner he thought he was back in the OC, hare coursing or something, screaming and hooting and generally spooking Andy and me.

“Will you shut it, you big glipe,” I told him, but he was uncontrollable.

The train was bearing down and those buggers in the MTA never stop.

“We’re gonna die now,” Andy said behind me.

“We’re not going to die,” I assured him.

But the gap between the line and the security fence was only about a yard wide and for the first time I began to think that Andy might be right. Maybe the bloody thing was going to hit us. It was coming at a fair oul clip, that was for sure.

“If we cut over to the other side of the tracks, there’s more room,” Andy suggested.

“Go and you’ll trip and fall and get bloody electrocuted and then beheaded and I’ll have to explain that to your ma,” I said.

“Well, big Fergal’s going to get it first, the way he’s carrying on.”

“And he deserves it, his idea.”

I looked up the track to see where Fergal was, but everything was absorbed into the train’s headlights. It couldn’t be more than ten feet in front of us. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

It sounded its horn and I found myself screaming.

“Oh my God,” Andy yelled out and then the thing was on top of us.

“It’s sucking me in,” I heard myself shrieking. “Sucking me in, so it is.”

Couple of people staring at us from their seats, lights, clattering wheels, sparks. In a few seconds the train was past. Fergal was giving it the fingers from the side of the track. I was hyperventilating. Deep breaths, I told myself, deep breaths.

Andy put his hand on my back. I shook my head.

“That boy is going to get us killed,” I said, pointing at Fergal.

“More than likely,” Andy agreed.

We headed up the line, caught Fergal, grabbed him by the jacket, and trailed the useless ganch after us. We exited the subway station and found the steps down the hill. Sure, it saved us about fifteen blocks by going over the fence and along the tracks, but it had taken years off our lives.

A minute later we walked into the brightly lit bar, more or less in one piece. Fergal looked at his clunky digital watch and told us that it was exactly nine o’clock.

“My shortcut paid off. We’ll be able to get a seat now,” he said, sliding his way among the patrons. Andy gave me a disgusted glance and I validated it with an eyebrow raise.

We walked to the bar, but before we got five paces a bouncer tapped me on the shoulder.

“How old are you boys?” the bouncer asked in a monotone.

“How can you ask me that question?” Andy said. I groaned. Just answer, you bloody big stupid eejit. “Can’t you see that I’m twenty-five?” Andy continued. The bouncer looked at him with skepticism as Andy rummaged for the fakest of fake IDs. Fergal waved his hand in front of the bouncer’s face.

“These are my mates,” he said.

Fergal was five or six years older than Andy and myself, but even so, that wouldn’t matter to the bouncer. I sighed. All this way into the heart of the Bronx and then risking death on a shortcut along the elevated subway tracks. All for some mythical bar that would probably be shite. Moot, anyway, because it looked like we were going to get chucked out after just two seconds inside the establishment.

“I’m twenty-five,” Andy insisted and showed the ID.

The bouncer looked at Fergal for a second.

“Wait a minute. Do you work for Sunshine and Darkey White?” the bouncer asked.

Fergal’s eyes narrowed. He drew himself up to his full height.

“Aye, I do,” Fergal said.

“And these are your mates?” the bouncer asked him.

“Aye, they’re tagging along. Andy here has been with us about six months, and for young Michael, this is his very first week in America.”

The bouncer looked upset and then afraid.

“Sorry, I had no idea, I had no idea,” he said apologetically.

“It’s ok,” Fergal said.

He backed away.

“Sorry for grabbing you on the shoulder, pal. I didn’t know you were working for Darkey White,” he said to me.

“Forget it,” I muttered. “It’s nothing.” Although it wasn’t nothing, and Fergal suddenly gained stature before my eyes.

We walked upstairs to the top bar, our ultimate destination.

Of course, we could have gone drinking anywhere in Riverdale or Manhattan but what was special about this place, allegedly, was that it was full of underage Fordham girls, who, Fergal claimed, were gagging for it all the bloody time. Beer, underage girls, Fergal on paint thinner. Quite the mix.

“My prediction,” I told Andy, “is that it’s going to end in tears.”

“Lucky if it’s only tears.”

We opened the door of the top bar and went in. But for once, Shangrila wasn’t over the next mountain. It was right bloody here, if your particular utopia was heavily made-up seventeen-year-old Catholic girls, in slut skirts, heels, jewels, and perfume from their ma’s closet.

There were mirrors everywhere and bright interrogation-style lights. MTV was playing on two TV screens, the music so loud that everyone except the bar staff had to shout. The girls had attracted a rough crowd of ne’er-do-wells from Long Island-surly suburban kids, looking for action of any description: girls or fights, either would be acceptable.

Fergal sussed a vacant table near the corner right under one of the TVs. He led the way, his big arms swinging wildly at his sides, terrifying me into thinking that he was about to knock over someone’s pint. He could handle himself, but it was inevitable that Andy and me would be drawn in to any fracas. A couple of silent prayers and mantras kept him safe all the way to the corner. We sat down and took off our jackets.

“My shout,” I said, and asked the boys what they were having. Everyone was on lagers, so that was easy to remember. The barman caught my eye as soon as I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. Part of the advance Sunshine had sent me to bring me over from Belfast to New York.

I ordered three pints. I paid with the bill, got the change, and put the three pints into a triangle. I weaved my way back through the tables, avoiding obvious booby traps in the shape of extended legs or handbags or the belts of folded-up coats.

“Cheers,” Fergal said, grabbing his pint right out of my hand and drinking half of it in one gulp and then belching. It was tough to be seen with Fergal. He played quite the rube. Eccentric one too. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and trousers and tatty woolen waistcoat. He had a red beard that looked like a case of scrum pox gone awry. Andy claimed that Fergal was a sophisticated thief back in the OC, but it was hard to credit.