through Six in one slam dunk until,
Bleary-eyed,
Dizzy,
Souped
And the wild, crazy world of firefighters seems more real than the wet dreary days of a cold Galway November. Tommy (Denis Leary) could have been Jack,
alcoholic,
screwup,
addict,
violent,
Catholic,
smoker.
Halfway decent shell of a human being. Too, in one way or another, Jack had been putting out fires all his befuddled life.
Starting them, too.
And shards, snippets of the Brooklyn catalog banged around in Jackâs head. More real than any lame conversation heâd attempted in any given Galway pub.
âIâm doing you a solid.â
Yeah.
Save Jack hadnât, nohow, done anyone âa solidâ for a very long time. So, ridding the world of scum like de Burgo might be his very own
White Arrest.
October 28, 2013: Jack heard of the death of Lou Reed at Âseventy-one on the very day heâd resolved to yet again try a spell of sobriety. He didnât of course confuse sobriety with sanity. The nondrinking patches heâd endured simply seemed to spotlight his areas of madness in stark relief. Back in the day as a Guard, through subterfuge and bribery, heâd landed the security gig for a Reed concert in Dublin. It was a small venue and Lester Bangsâs description of Reed as a deformed, depraved midget seemed cruelly apt. It was the high or low of Reedâs heroin daze. Dressed in black leather jacket, skintight leather pants, black boots, and the obligatory black shades, heâd mumbled, stuttered, and pretty much failed to deliver a version of âWalk on the Wild Side.â He resembled a crushed tarantula devoid of any sting. Helping Reed limp to his dressing room, sweat washing away the white makeup, Jack had ventured.
âGood gig, Mr. Reed.â
A mumbled response.
Only later, while he was sinking a Jameson and creamy pint in Doheny & Nesbitt on Baggot Street, did the mutter crystallize.
It was,
âYa cunt.â
Jack smiled, whispered,
âWild side me arse.â
The classic murder victim, if you like,
in todayâs terminology:
A single, middle-aged man, socially
marginalized with a serious alcohol dependency.
(Leif G.W. Persson, He Who Kills the Dragon. Your standard piss-head, basically, was how Detective Backstrom described the victim.)
Part II
Jackâs Back
Owen Daglish was a guard of the old school.
Rough,
Blunt,
Non-PC,
and one hell of a hurler.
My kind of cop. Unlike me, he hadnât walloped anyone in authority.
Yet.
But it was there, simmering. His superiors knew it, so he was never going to climb the ranks. He didnât arse-kiss, either, so he was doomed to uniform. He and I had some history and most of it was pretty decent. A big man, he was built on spuds, bacon, Guinness, and aggression. Why we got along.
I met him on Shop Street, his day off, and he said,
âJack, we need to grab a pint.â
âSure, how you fixed this evening?â
He glanced furtively around. Fragile as his job prospects were, it definitely wouldnât help to be seen with me. He grabbed my arm, insisted,
âNow.â
Anyone else, heâd have lost the hand from the elbow. I asked,
âIâm presuming something discreet?â
He nodded.
Close to the docks is one of those rare to rarest places. A pub without bouncers and probably without a license. Under-the-radar business is its specialty. That plus serious drinking. No
Wine spritzers,
Bud Lite,
Karaoke.
We got the pints in, grabbed a shaky table in a shaky corner. No word until damage was done to the black. Owen, the creamy top of the Guinness giving him a white mustache, sighed, said,
ââTis a bad business.â
No one, not even Jimmy Kimmel, can delay a story like the Irish. The preparation is all. Bad business could mean a multitude:
The government,
The economy,
Priests,
X Factor,
The weather.
I waited.
He said,
âA young girl found murdered a few days back, part-time
Bleary-eyed,
Dizzy,
Souped
And the wild, crazy world of firefighters seems more real than the wet dreary days of a cold Galway November. Tommy (Denis Leary) could have been Jack,
alcoholic,
screwup,
addict,
violent,
Catholic,
smoker.
Halfway decent shell of a human being. Too, in one way or another, Jack had been putting out fires all his befuddled life.
Starting them, too.
And shards, snippets of the Brooklyn catalog banged around in Jackâs head. More real than any lame conversation heâd attempted in any given Galway pub.
âIâm doing you a solid.â
Yeah.
Save Jack hadnât, nohow, done anyone âa solidâ for a very long time. So, ridding the world of scum like de Burgo might be his very own
White Arrest.
October 28, 2013: Jack heard of the death of Lou Reed at Âseventy-one on the very day heâd resolved to yet again try a spell of sobriety. He didnât of course confuse sobriety with sanity. The nondrinking patches heâd endured simply seemed to spotlight his areas of madness in stark relief. Back in the day as a Guard, through subterfuge and bribery, heâd landed the security gig for a Reed concert in Dublin. It was a small venue and Lester Bangsâs description of Reed as a deformed, depraved midget seemed cruelly apt. It was the high or low of Reedâs heroin daze. Dressed in black leather jacket, skintight leather pants, black boots, and the obligatory black shades, heâd mumbled, stuttered, and pretty much failed to deliver a version of âWalk on the Wild Side.â He resembled a crushed tarantula devoid of any sting. Helping Reed limp to his dressing room, sweat washing away the white makeup, Jack had ventured.
âGood gig, Mr. Reed.â
A mumbled response.
Only later, while he was sinking a Jameson and creamy pint in Doheny & Nesbitt on Baggot Street, did the mutter crystallize.
It was,
âYa cunt.â
Jack smiled, whispered,
âWild side me arse.â
The classic murder victim, if you like,
in todayâs terminology:
A single, middle-aged man, socially
marginalized with a serious alcohol dependency.
(Leif G.W. Persson, He Who Kills the Dragon. Your standard piss-head, basically, was how Detective Backstrom described the victim.)
Part II
Jackâs Back
Owen Daglish was a guard of the old school.
Rough,
Blunt,
Non-PC,
and one hell of a hurler.
My kind of cop. Unlike me, he hadnât walloped anyone in authority.
Yet.
But it was there, simmering. His superiors knew it, so he was never going to climb the ranks. He didnât arse-kiss, either, so he was doomed to uniform. He and I had some history and most of it was pretty decent. A big man, he was built on spuds, bacon, Guinness, and aggression. Why we got along.
I met him on Shop Street, his day off, and he said,
âJack, we need to grab a pint.â
âSure, how you fixed this evening?â
He glanced furtively around. Fragile as his job prospects were, it definitely wouldnât help to be seen with me. He grabbed my arm, insisted,
âNow.â
Anyone else, heâd have lost the hand from the elbow. I asked,
âIâm presuming something discreet?â
He nodded.
Close to the docks is one of those rare to rarest places. A pub without bouncers and probably without a license. Under-the-radar business is its specialty. That plus serious drinking. No
Wine spritzers,
Bud Lite,
Karaoke.
We got the pints in, grabbed a shaky table in a shaky corner. No word until damage was done to the black. Owen, the creamy top of the Guinness giving him a white mustache, sighed, said,
ââTis a bad business.â
No one, not even Jimmy Kimmel, can delay a story like the Irish. The preparation is all. Bad business could mean a multitude:
The government,
The economy,
Priests,
X Factor,
The weather.
I waited.
He said,
âA young girl found murdered a few days back, part-time
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