I said,
“Show me.”
Threw him.
He asked,
“You want to see it?”
“My money, my call.”
He pushed it over reluctantly.
It was looking good. I was very relieved. He said,
“You are earning very little interest in that savings account.
Might I suggest some shares you could buy?”
“No.”
He was confused, asked,
“You don’t want to make some money?”
I looked him straight in the eye, said,
“If I wanted to make more money, you think I might have mentioned it? I want to see my money. The newspapers, they seem to think you guys have stolen every euro in the land.”
He looked around but help was not to hand, tried,
“You’d like a printout of your account?”
Unheard of in banking circles it seemed, so no wonder they were getting away with frigging wholesale larceny.
I sat back, relaxed. You get to fuck with the banks, enjoy.
I said,
“Unless you want to bring me the actual cash-and I have no problem with that, believe me. Put it in a bin liner and I’ll stroll out of here as happy as a Galway oyster.”
He rose, said,
“I’ll get right on it.”
I don’t think he meant the bin liner.
I got the readout and said,
“You need to chill mate, get out, have a few brews and tell yer own self, tis only money.”
He didn’t wish me God bless.
No wonder the fucks are in trouble.
It was pissing like a bastard, rain that is.
My dad was a lot on my mind those days. Probably the only hero I still had. I’d given up on wanting to be him. But it was a comfort while living in a new land of vultures and predators to think of him. He’d worked on the railways and to my surprise taken early retirement. I never asked him about it but I knew it weighed heavily on his mind.
He’d said to me one time, when per usual the banks were threatening the wrath of God as our mortgage fell behind,
“Jack, if you owed the bank fifty quid, they’d take the house from under you.”
I never forget that.
I never forget him.
Stewart was sitting in one of the very few authentic vegan cafes in the city. Situated but a lovely grilled T-bone steak from the Augustine Church, it was fundamental in its strict no-meat policy. Word was, a guy was turned away for wearing a leather jacket. Urban myth.
And footwear: canvas was, dare I utter, kosher. Stewart was wearing his winter crocs, differed from the summer style in that you wore socks.
A guy telling me about the Irish wardrobe during the summer, said,
“Roll up the sleeves on your sweater.”
Stewart was intent on his new venture. Investing in the growing boom of head shops. Legal highs in the High Street. He had a wedge of cash invested in one and was fretting about the government threats to close down the loopholes that allowed the shops to sell dope in all varieties. But clouds were gathering. Two students had died as a result of the products and the public was becoming volatile about the virus of new outlets.
One had even been burned out in Dublin.
Plus, the dope gangs were mightily pissed off about the loss in revenue this was costing them. He was seriously considering cashing out before the axe fell. That was his main gig, getting out before the shite hit the fan.
A shadow fell across his notes. He looked up, a heavily built man in his fifties was staring at him. The man had a face of sheer granite, with old acne spots across his upper jaw. Heavy tissue around his eyes testified to some time as a boxer. The broken nose confirmed it. He was wearing a very smart Crumby coat, collar turned up, with a fedora perched rakishly on his head. He asked,
“Mind if I join you?”
Pause.
“Stewart.”
Stewart nodded and the man sat, his heavy bulk straining the chair. A waitress appeared, asked,
“May I get you something sir?”
He gave her a lazy look, full of total uninterest, said,
“Yeah, coffee, black.”