Ken Bruen: Dublin Noir

Looked like he might applaud, then, “I’m taking a shot here, but I’m figuring you know zilch about art.”

I stayed in role, asked, “Art who?”

Didn’t like it, I noticed. When he was bothered as he was now, the accent dipped. I smiled, thinking, Notso focused now, and certainly not American .

He gritted his teeth, grunted, “Art is… everything. All the rest is… a support system.”

I leaned on the needle, said, “You like art, yeah?”

Thought he might come across the table, but he reined in, took a breath, a drink, said in a patient clipped tone, “Lesson one, you don’t like art, you appreciate it.”

I kept my eyes dull, and that’s an art.

He snapped, “You want to pay attention, fella, maybe you can learn something. I’m going to tell you about one of the very finest, Whistler.”

I resisted the impulse to put my lips together and like… blow.

He began: “There is a portrait by him, a ‘painted tribute to a gentle old lady.’ The lady looks old, but that’s because he was old when he did it. A time, 1871, when the railroads were about to replace the covered wagons. You see a white light wall, then…

“Straight curtain…

“Straight baseboard…

“Chair, footrest… straight …

“Everything is straightened out, the only roundness is her face. He titled it, Arrangement in Gray and Black . Moving along, you’ll see a silk curtain, in Japanese style, with a butterfly as decoration-his tribute to a country he admired. There’s a picture on the wall, and this is significant, as it’s the brightest white spot in the painting. The woman’s hands are white, her handkerchief is white, contrasting the black dress. Her bonnet has different shades to make her face benign, kindly. The entire ensemble is an homage to this lady, his mother, whom he adored.”

He waffled on for maybe another ten minutes, then finally stopped. Looked at me. I was going to go, I’m straight , but instead asked, “I need to know this… why?”

Now he smiled, said, “Because you and me, buddy, we’re going to steal it.”

The Musée d’Orsay had loaned it to the city of Dublin for six months. Had been on display for three now… in Merrion Square, the posh area of the city-a detail of Army and Gardaí were keeping tabs. Once the initial flush of interest and fanfare died down, the crowds dropped off. More important events like the hurling final, race meetings, took precedence. Security, though in evidence, was more for show than intent. An indication of the public losing interest, the picture had been moved to Parnell Square, the other side of the Liffey, damnation in itself.

Bow said, “Lazy fuckers, last week they didn’t even bother to load the CCTV.”

“How do you know?” I asked. And got the frost smile, superior and not a mile from aggressive.

He used his index finger to tap his nose, said, “A guy on the museum staff? He’s got himself a little problem.”

Did he mean cocaine or curiosity?

He continued: “I’ve helped him… get connected… and he’s grateful… and now he’s vulnerable. In ten days there will be a window in the security-the patrol is to be switched, the CCTV is to be revamped, there’ll only be two guys on actual watch. Can you fucking believe it?”

We hadn’t had a drink for over half an hour, the lecture was lengthy, so I injected a touch of steel, asked, “And the two, the ones keeping guard, they’re going to what, give it to us?”

Now he laughed, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse. “How fucking stupid are you?” Shaking his head, like good help was hard to find, he said, “We’re going to give them the gas.”

That’s what we did.

Dream job-in, out. No frills, no flak.

… Unless you count the dead guy.

We’d donned cleaner’s gear, always wanted to don something, gives that hint of gravitas. Bow said, “Help us blend.”

Especially in my case, sign of the new Ireland, black guy riding a mop, no one blinked an eye.

We’d become America.

Them janitor blues, pushing dee broom, miming dee black and sullen-translate: invisible.

The guards, one in mid-yawn. We hit them fast, tied them up, tops, four minutes. I didn’t glance at the painting, was fearful it might remind me of my mother. Bow did, I heard the catch in his breathing. Then we were almost done, reached the back door, when a soldier came out of nowhere, a pistol in his hand, roared, “Hold on just a bloody minute!”

Bow shot him in the gut. I’d been going for the gas. I stared at Bow, whined, “No need for that.”

The smirk, his mouth curled down, he put two more rounds in the guy, asked, “Who’s talking about need ?”

The heat came down

Hard

Relentless

Like the Dublin drizzle, rain that drove Joyce to Switzerland

With

… Malice aforethought.

We kept a low-to-lowest profile. A whole month before we met for the split, the rendezvous in an apartment on Pembroke Road, not far from the American embassy, an area I’d have little business in. Bow had rented the bottom floor, wide spacious affair, marred by filth, empty takeaway cartons, dirty plates in the sink, clothes strewn on the floor, the coffee table a riot of booze. He was dressed, I kid you not, in a smoking jacket, like some Agatha Christie major. Not even David Niven could pull that gig off.

Worse: on the pocket, the letter… B.

For… Bollocks ?

He was wearing unironed tan cords and flip-flops, the sound slapping against the bare floor. I was wearing a T, jeans, Nike trainers with the cushion sole. A logo on my T… Point Blankers.

Near the window was the painting, dropped like an afterthought. I took my first real appraisal. The old lady did indeed look… old. She was nothing like my mother-my mother had never sat down in her wretched life.

I heard the unmistakable rack of a weapon and turned to see Bow holding a pistol. He said, “Excuse the mess, but decent help, man, it’s impossible to find.”

I stared at the gun, asked, “You’re not American, right?”

Winded him, came at him from left field, I added: “You’re good most of the time, you’ve it down and tight, almost pull it off but it slips, couple of words blow the act.”

His eyes gone feral, he moved the weapon, pointing at the center of my chest, asked, “What fucking words?”

I sighed theatrically (is there any other way?), said, “Okay, you say… mighty, fierce… ”

He put up his left hand. Not going to concede easy, protested, “Could have picked them up, been here a time.”

I nodded, then, “But you use fierce in both senses, like terrific , and like woesome -gotta be Irish to instinctively get that. You can learn the sense of it, but never the full usage.”

He went to interrupt but I shouted, “Hey, I’m not done! The real giveaway, apart from calling a pint a pint of stout , is me fags … Americans are never going to be able to call cigarettes gay .”

He shrugged, let it go, said, “Had you going for a while, yeah?”

I could give him that, allowed, “Sure, you’re as good as the real thing.”

Used the gun to scratch his belly, said, “Long as we’re confronting, you’re not Homer Simpson either, not the dumb schmuck you peddle. The Bukowski, it was yours, and the way you didn’t look at the painting, you’d have to be real smart not to show curiosity.”

I reached in my pocket, registered his alarm, soothed, “It’s a book, see…” Took out the Bukowski, Ham on Rye , flipped it on the floor, said, “A going-away present, because we’re done, right?”