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 cafés 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.”
He unbuttoned his heavy coat to reveal an ill-fitting
brown suit with a puke green waistcoat, said,
“I’m Mason. Been looking for your boss, Taylor,
but he seems to have disappeared. Probably
sleeping off his latest piss-up?” Took Stewart a
moment to grasp the cadence of the accent, British
but muted. He answered,
“He’s not my boss.”
Mason actually raised an eyebrow, then said,
“You seriously believe that?”
The coffee arrived, Mason took a sip, spat, asked,
“The fuck is that swill?”
The waitress beat a fast and faster retreat.
Mason pushed the cup aside, said,
“Trust me sonny, I’ve done my research; you’re the
gofer.”
Stewart applied all his Zen mastery, tried to
envisage a sunlit meadow, but the sheer bulk of
Mason blotted out the light. He asked,
“Who are you?”
Mason gave a deep smoker’s laugh, full of phlegm
and venom, reached in his
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 cafés 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.”
He unbuttoned his heavy coat to reveal an ill-fitting
brown suit with a puke green waistcoat, said,
“I’m Mason. Been looking for your boss, Taylor,
but he seems to have disappeared. Probably
sleeping off his latest piss-up?” Took Stewart a
moment to grasp the cadence of the accent, British
but muted. He answered,
“He’s not my boss.”
Mason actually raised an eyebrow, then said,
“You seriously believe that?”
The coffee arrived, Mason took a sip, spat, asked,
“The fuck is that swill?”
The waitress beat a fast and faster retreat.
Mason pushed the cup aside, said,
“Trust me sonny, I’ve done my research; you’re the
gofer.”
Stewart applied all his Zen mastery, tried to
envisage a sunlit meadow, but the sheer bulk of
Mason blotted out the light. He asked,
“Who are you?”
Mason gave a deep smoker’s laugh, full of phlegm
and venom, reached in his
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