Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I could give you that,” the bulky man admitted. “It’s not as if we’d really be running the show, is it? You know we’d only have a seat or two at the table.”

“So we’d be a bloody minority again, you’re saying?”

“It’s not the numbers, Mickey, it’s the strength. Look at Korea. The war’s supposed to be over, but America’s still standing between two raging forces, to keep them from each other’s throats. Just like the Limeys say they’re doing back home.”

Ignoring the smaller man’s puzzled look, the emissary opened another organ stop in his mesmeric voice. “Now listen close to me, Mickey Shalare. Because that’s the key I gave you, right there. That’s what has to change. Not just at home, all over the world. You have to know your enemy. And the Brits, all we ever need to know about them is that they’re colonialists in their hearts. It’s in their very souls. Right this minute, they’ve got far more troops in Africa than they’ll ever have in Ireland. It’s the bloody British Empire, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Shalare agreed. “But you make it out as if they’re the only ones.”

“Who? The Americans? They’re done with all that.”

“Are they, then? Wasn’t it you just talking about Korea?”

“Ah, but the Yanks don’t think Korea’s part of America, do they?” The bulky man said, sweeping away the comparison. “They don’t want to stay there. You know how many bloody Koreans there are? Occupying that country, why, it’s just impossible. They’d have to slaughter everyone first, like they did the Indians, here, and then they’d have to persuade enough Americans to go over there and live. Or transport them, the way the Brits did the Aussies. No, the Yanks have a different scheme. They want to do as they did in Japan. Put their lackeys in power and get the hell out.”

“Sure,” Shalare said. “And that’s what the Brits would like to do, too. But the very moment they leave…”

“And that’s where the change has to come, Mick. We have to show them a different model.”

“Speak plainly,” Shalare said, his tone matching his words.

“All right, then,” Sean said, squaring his shoulders. “Every time the Brits pull out of a place they once controlled, what happens? The country they leave behind celebrates with a civil war, doesn’t it? Look, they’re supposed to be leaving Nigeria soon. Now, that’s a big country. I’ve been there. I swear to you, if you closed your eyes and couldn’t see skin color, you’d think you were in England. They speak English like the Brits, they have a parliament like the Brits. Why, even their money is in pounds. Lagos, that’s their capital city, it’s got buildings as tall as London’s. Very… cosmopolitan, I’d call it.”

The bulky man paused a beat, then said, “All that, it didn’t come from farming, Mickey. What they have there is oil. A lot of oil. Just like the Arabs, maybe more. British Petroleum probably pumps more out of Nigeria than anyplace else on earth. And the minute, the very minute the Brits take their troops out of there, there’s going to be bloody chaos. You know why?”

“Because they’re a pack of fucking savages,” Shalare said, folding his oversized hands.

“No, my son,” the bulky man said. “It’s because the Brits picked one tribe out of all the different ones to be their pet. The same way they picked the Ulstermen to be their darlings in our country. So it was one tribe that got all the businessmen. And the lawyers and the doctors and the judges and the politicians and the… Well, you see, don’t you?”

“I do,” Shalare said. “And when we finally drive them out of-”

“No, no, no,” the bulky man said, his ruddy face set in hard lines. “Not drive. Induce. How long now have we been trying to force them off? It’s been twenty years since the S Plan, and what has changed? What good have the border wars done for us? Operation Harvest? It’s been almost three years now, Mickey Shalare. And all we’ve gathered from it is blood and tears.”

“The Jews managed it,” Shalare said, stubbornly.

“In Israel, you mean? Sure, they got the Brits out. But you’re not saying that’s a country at peace, now are you? I mean, they’re bloody surrounded, aren’t they?”

“So what’s the answer, then?”

“America,” the bulky man said, his voice heavy with the weight of the word. “We can do from here what we could never do from home.”

“So-we should all emigrate, then?” Shalare said.

“No,” Sean said, ignoring the heavy sarcasm. “We should build a power base inside a country that can call the shots. This isn’t about the righteousness of our cause; it’s about the power we need to prevail. And that won’t come from gunfire, not in the end.”

The bulky man leaned back in his chair, as if to withdraw from the smaller man’s level stare. “Am I wrong, Mickey Shalare? Am I wrong to say that, for all our sacrifices, for all the Irish mothers and wives and sisters who mourn our soldiers, we’ve nothing to show?”

“If it wasn’t for those sacrifices, we’d all be living under the yoke of the-”

Sean filled his chest with air, injecting power into his voice without raising the volume. “Damn, man, won’t you see? We’ve put all our strength into trying to drive them out. And come up short. But what if America were to side with us?”

“Against the Brits? You can’t be that drunk this early in the day.”

“The next president is going to owe a lot of debts, Mick. And we’re going to be holding some of that paper. Our cause has taken… aid, shall we say, from other governments all along. But when we take it under the table, it’s always much less by the time it reaches us, isn’t it? On the black market, every hand that touches the goods, a little sticks to it. But if we could get it direct, think of the possibilities! That’s a stake worth playing for, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see it,” Shalare said. “The Yanks aren’t going to arm us, no matter what we do in this damn election.”

“Not arm us, Mick. Support us. Stand with us. Push the Brits out with political pressure, as we were never able to do with guns and bombs.”

“Sean, it sounds sweet, like I said. But I can’t see it, much less taste it.”

“Ah,” the bulky man sighed, “will you give me a listen, Mickey Shalare? Our cause, we say it’s for a united Ireland, do we not? But we don’t mean a word of it, no more than the tribes in Nigeria really want to live together. There’s plenty that could call themselves ‘Irish,’ yes? But how many of us are there in that big stew?”

“Most of the-”

“Nah, Mickey. Don’t fall into that trap, now. You think every Catholic in Ireland is with us?”

“No,” the smaller man said, coldly.

“No,” the man opposite him agreed. “And here? In America? There’s those who send us support, sure. They’re with us, but they’re not of us. But in this election, we’re playing a role all out of proportion to our numbers, if you follow me.”

“Yes, but-”

“But damn nothing! I’m telling you, straight out, they cannot put their man in power without us doing our part. And when it’s over, it’s not those ‘Irish-Americans’ they’ll owe, Mickey. It’ll be us. Because, inside every local political machine that can bring the Irish vote, we’ve got those of our own.”

“Sean…”

“Will you listen? I said our own, Mickey Shalare. Because they’ve got the talkers and the poets and the dreamers. They’ve got the precinct captains and the police chiefs. They’ve got the silver tongues and the greasy palms. But what they don’t have is the soldiers. Men of commitment. One of us is worth a thousand of them, and the people trying to make this happen, well, they understand that.”