Ken Bruen - Dublin Noir

“Herself asked for permission to bring you back here,” the big man said. “Or you’d’ve been killed in New York. Marty Ryan offered to take you out himself.”

“It was only once,” Dugan pleaded. “Just the one time, I swear. I was pissed. I was fuckin’ berco.”

“Well, you’re tainted now,” the big man responded.

The woman said, “The question is, you feckin’ piece of shite, is will you purr like a cat when Rusty pulls your bones from their joints, or will you wait until I cut you to feckin’ pieces?”

Welcome to Dublin, sir.”

“Get tae fuck.”

It was an hour from Edinburgh to Dublin, all cramped up in the belly of a Ryanair with attendants who didn’t bother to show us the escape doors. One of ’em had the pure blarney shite running free from his puss. I could tell he was a poof, likes. Graham Norton type, y’ken?

Then the cunt of a cab driver, same old shite. A leprechaun with fuckin’ eyebrows on his cheeks. He skinned us out of most of my funny money and dropped us off on O’Connell Street. Best Western, the Dublin Royal. I wondered how royal a three-star could be, got my answer when I saw my room: not fuckin’ very. I dumped the Head bag and switched on the telly. Couple of channels, they wasn’t even speaking fuckin’ English. I lit a Bensons and cracked open the bottle of duty free. Jack Daniel’s. Took a swallie and put the bottle on the bedside cabinet. Looked out of the window, felt sick. Call this culture? Princes Street, that’s culture. This is a motorway with a couple of fuckin’ statues of nobodies.

This country, man. I’d been here before, but that was thirty years ago. Hiding behind a wall in Belfast, trying not to shite my uniform. I had a gun then, mind. Thanks to yer man Bin Laden, the best I could manage this time was a Stanley the Big Yin give us when I was sixteen.

Big Yin. His name was Connolly, like the other Big Yin. And if the comedian had carried on drinking and being funny instead of marrying that blond piece, he’d have looked like our Big Yin too. Must admit, I fancied a wee shot at her when she was in that leotard in Superman 3, likes, but when I found out she was a head-shrinker, Wee Shug wilted.

Big Yin was the reason I was here. Him and a mick called Barry Phelan. A bunch of old scores to be settled and me buff apart from the Stanley.

It didn’t matter. A solid blade was all a Boyo needed.

Walking with Big Yin, him finding his feet slow. We was going down the chipper on Broughton Road. He had a winter coat on and his breath came out in short blasts of smoke. Ice on the pavement and I had to guide him over it.

“You got a name for us, Shuggie?” he said.

“Aye. Barry Phelan.”

“Away, I thought he was dried up.”

“That’s what I heard, Mr. Connolly. A man with a gun in his mouth doesn’t lie.”

“Good lad.”

I got the name from Lee Cafferty, a bristling big-fuck suedehead who’d been the leader of a gang of sawn-offs. This bunch of pricks had turned over a card game behind one of Big Yin’s massage-and-handjob places down London Road. And for a hard cunt, Cafferty was quick to piss his tartan boxers. Mind you, when you thumb back the hammer of a revolver, it’s like St. Peter slammed the book shut. Sorry, auld son, Big Cat says y’ain’t coming up.

“What d’you want done?” I said to Big Yin.

He coughed, shook his head. After he cleared his throat, he said: “I want the cunt deid is what I want, Shugs. Bastard thinks he can jump the pond and do over one of my places?” Big Yin pulled a face. His cheeks went hollow and in the glow of the streetlamp I could see right through the skin. “I want his balls. You do that for us, son. You go over there and you bring us back his fuckin’ balls while they’re still bleeding.”

“Okay.”

We went into the chipper. Big Yin got a poke of chips drowned in vinegar. About the only thing he could taste. He told the plooky lass behind the counter to keep the change and I escorted him out. The wind coming strong up the hill, I had to hold onto Big Yin’s arm as we went back to his house. He struggled with the chips, dropped a couple. I got him back home, took off his coat, and got him settled in his chair.

“You want a nightcap, Mr. Connolly?” I said.

“I widnae say no, Shugs.”

Poured him a double-dram of Glenlivet and sat the glass on the table next to him. He turned on the telly and caught the beginning of a Minder repeat. When I left, I could hear him humming the theme tune.

That night, I sat in the dark because my eyes hurt. I tanned a bottle of brandy, listened to Johnny Cash, and held the Stanley Big Yin had given us. I didn’t need light to know what was on there. My finger traced it out: “ Shuggie BTTE ”

Boyo To The End.

Aye, that’d be right. I slipped the Stanley into my pocket, went to pack my bag.

“You’re kidding us, you’re fuckin’ kidding us.”

“Honest, Shuggie. I widnae kid yez around on this, man.”

“You couldn’t have telt us before I got on the fuckin’ plane? Jesus Christ, man.”

“I didnae get a chance, Shugs. I only found out this morning. You got a black tie?”

“Fuck yersel’,” I said, and slammed the receiver back on the cradle. Missed, slammed it again. I could still hear Keith whining at the other end. Smacked the phone so hard, the speaker part came off in my hand. Left it at that and saw a young mick punk waiting to use the phone. Said, “Fuck you staring at?”

“You what?” he said.

I walked over to him. “How do I get to Mount Jerome?”

“You get him drunk enough, he’ll do anything.” The punk rolled his shoulders, reckoned hisself a piece of work with the nose ring and that stud in his eyebrow.

“Fuck’s that, eh? Irish sense of humor?” I grabbed the fucker by the arm, hauled him into the phone box. Pressed him up against the glass. “How’s about a Scottish joke, then? This smart cunt’s got no nose. How does he smell?”

“Wait a second-”

“He fuckin’ doesn’t.” I pulled the nose ring out, took the nostril with it. He tried to clap his hand over the ragged wound, but I held him fast.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said. “I’m just kidding around, man.”

“Stuff it up your arse . Tell us where the fuckin’ cemetery is or I’ll pan yer cunt in.”

“You get the bus from up the road,” he said. When he talked, he spat.

“Which one?”

“Sixteen. Get off at Harold’s Cross.”

I pushed him to the floor of the box. Pulled my hood up and wandered across the road to the bus shelter. Lit a Bensons, watched the white part get spotted with rain. The punk found his feet and took off. Run, Forrest, run.

Barry Phelan. Some radge bastard had already done the job for me, and His name was God. A stroke knocked Phelan into the Beaumont and a heart attack finished him off in the wee small hours. A shock for all concerned. Mostly me. And if I could take the Big Cat to task, I fuckin’ would. Just like Him to cheat a trying man, ken what I mean?

My man Keith was supposed to keep his ear to the ground. He was supposed to tell us where Phelan was when I got here. I’ll sort him out before I go. Useless fucker. Wouldn’t be surprised he got hisself hooked up with the wrong crowd, ken? It was getting that way. People didn’t have respect for tradition no more.

The Bensons tasted rank. I chucked it into a puddle as I saw the bus coming.

What’s the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?

One less drunk.