He was fucked.
I lied,
“Great to see you Gerry.”
He looked furtively around, then confided,
“I’m hoping to get a big claim out of this.”
I ground my cig under my boot, said,
“My fingers crossed for you.”
He licked his bottom lip, a gesture like the onset of dementia, said gleefully,
“If they cut off my right leg, I’m set for life.”
OK.
Before I could hazard,
“Good luck with that,” he asked,
“Jack, could you spot me a twenty? You can see I’ll be rolling in it so no worries about payback.”
An arm and a leg as they say.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
I gave him the note and as I limped away, he shouted,
“Big hug to your blessed mother.”
I waved… yeah.
She was dead five years but I had a feeling he might be able to deliver the hug in person sooner than he reckoned.
A lapsed Catholic is simply one who is hedging his bets.
– Ken Bruen, from
“Reading at Random,” in Collected Essays, 2001-2005
I arrived at the pub, a long fifteen minutes after Gabriel. He’d found the corner table, and a lone ray of sunshine was beaming through. Did it illuminate him?
No.
Seemed to emphasize the aura of darkness around him-or maybe I just needed a frigging pint.
He was finishing their famous handmade soup, dabbing at the corners of his mouth like a petulant nun. A lone pint of Guinness, forlorn in its solitariness, opposite him, like a sin he’d refused to absolve. I indicated the chair across from him and he waved me to it. The waitress, a rarity-she was Irish-approached, greeted,
“Hiya Jack.”
He gave me the look, like, how often are you in here?
I gave her my best smile and meant it. She turned to Gabe, asked,
“Father, have you decided on your main course?”
He had.
Demanded, not asked,
“The Dover sole, lightly grilled. Are the vegetables fresh?”
“Yes, Father, we had a fresh delivery just this morning.”
He never looked at her. This guy was accustomed to hired help. He said,
“I’ll have the brussels sprouts, a side salad of coleslaw, red onions, and, of course, in olive oil dressing.”
She risked a glance at me, her eyes saying,
“Bollix.”
She asked,
“Usual Jack?”
“That would be great and thanks.”
He looked up, queried,
“You eat here regularly?”
“Drink, I drink here… regularly.”
Like this was news to him. He reached down, fetched a beautiful brown leather briefcase with a symbol on it:
T. B. E.
I thought I knew it but couldn’t bring it to mind then.
I would later, ruefully… as I learnt it meant The Brethren, Eternally.
I said,