little VW. His students had made fun of him, of course, but he’d managed to include it in his lesson on World Culture and Politics and the fact that this car was called a beetle all over the world, but a bug in their home country, had earned him the new name. It was a damn sight better than Mr. Blob, which is what they used to call him. He didn’t really like his students. They scared him. In fact he didn’t really like being a teacher.
He arrived at his car and felt instantly happier. This was the first time he’d had his own transport and it was so much better than the bus and the subway. He never felt safe there and people were always glowering at him. It wasn’t his fault he took up two seats when he sat down. Now he had his own car and it was a lovely little motor. Great gas mileage and he even liked the colour. It had earned him a substantial discount at the dealership. Apparently no one else wanted a second hand Volkswagen finished in shit-brown paintwork.
He pulled down his fashionable Yankees sweater, which immediately rolled up again. Why didn’t they make these in bigger sizes? It was important for him to appear trendy in class. His previous attire of shiny beige suit had earned him nothing but ridicule. Now he had his own vehicle he wanted to dress the part. He hitched his pants up over his ample belly and got in the car unaware of the way the suspension groaned at his weight.
He drove slowly. He liked to be safe and he was in no rush to get home. He didn’t feel particularly safe there either, despite his best efforts. But in this little car he was king and he could handle anything, even that neighbour of his. ‘One of these days I’m going to go round and thump you on the nose,’ he yelled at the dashboard that now served as his surrogate punch-bag. ‘You Goddamn brute of a man. You insolent Italian bully. You just wait. One day.’
He probably wouldn’t do it today, he thought. He needed to plan it out. The man was huge and that greasy hair and those arms, with so many tattoos that they looked black, really intimidated him. It would need to be on a day when he’d had a long drive in his wonderful car so that he felt strong. There wasn’t time for that after work. The weekend, yes, that’s when he would do it, next weekend; or maybe the one after.
As he finally turned into the road leading to his home he cut his lights. No use asking for trouble. He coasted up his drive and exited the car as quietly as he could, the suspension sighing its relief, and then closed the door gently. Now it was time to run the gauntlet.
9
Jimmy Mal
Back in the Bronx and half an hour of searching in the gloom had thrown up nothing of interest. ‘There’s got to be something here,’ Liam had snapped more than once. ‘You don’t have all that security for nothing.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Tommy. ‘There’s a funny hole down the back of this desk man.’ Liam was at his side in an instant as Tommy pulled out a sheaf of papers. He moved to the window where the glow of a distant street lamp offered the only light. ‘Provisional I.R.A.,’ he read.
‘You’ve got it, lad,’ Liam beamed. ‘Now let’s get out of here and see what those papers tell us about where he goes and where to find him.’
‘Right behind you,’ Tommy began, then the two men froze. The sound of a dog barking aggressively was accompanied by loud, angry voices.
‘God damned faggot,’ they discerned. ‘… shoot you dead. You wouldn’t be the first,’ was also clearly audible.
‘Jimmy Mal,’ Liam whispered. ‘Fuck. Get ready Tommy. You’re in this up to your neck now lad.’
The key turned in the door and a huge shadow stepped quickly through. Even before he reached for the light Liam could tell the man was shaking with anger and he heard him cursing the dog and his neighbour. He braced himself for the confrontation he knew was about to come. A switch was flicked and the man froze as the room was illuminated and
He arrived at his car and felt instantly happier. This was the first time he’d had his own transport and it was so much better than the bus and the subway. He never felt safe there and people were always glowering at him. It wasn’t his fault he took up two seats when he sat down. Now he had his own car and it was a lovely little motor. Great gas mileage and he even liked the colour. It had earned him a substantial discount at the dealership. Apparently no one else wanted a second hand Volkswagen finished in shit-brown paintwork.
He pulled down his fashionable Yankees sweater, which immediately rolled up again. Why didn’t they make these in bigger sizes? It was important for him to appear trendy in class. His previous attire of shiny beige suit had earned him nothing but ridicule. Now he had his own vehicle he wanted to dress the part. He hitched his pants up over his ample belly and got in the car unaware of the way the suspension groaned at his weight.
He drove slowly. He liked to be safe and he was in no rush to get home. He didn’t feel particularly safe there either, despite his best efforts. But in this little car he was king and he could handle anything, even that neighbour of his. ‘One of these days I’m going to go round and thump you on the nose,’ he yelled at the dashboard that now served as his surrogate punch-bag. ‘You Goddamn brute of a man. You insolent Italian bully. You just wait. One day.’
He probably wouldn’t do it today, he thought. He needed to plan it out. The man was huge and that greasy hair and those arms, with so many tattoos that they looked black, really intimidated him. It would need to be on a day when he’d had a long drive in his wonderful car so that he felt strong. There wasn’t time for that after work. The weekend, yes, that’s when he would do it, next weekend; or maybe the one after.
As he finally turned into the road leading to his home he cut his lights. No use asking for trouble. He coasted up his drive and exited the car as quietly as he could, the suspension sighing its relief, and then closed the door gently. Now it was time to run the gauntlet.
9
Jimmy Mal
Back in the Bronx and half an hour of searching in the gloom had thrown up nothing of interest. ‘There’s got to be something here,’ Liam had snapped more than once. ‘You don’t have all that security for nothing.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Tommy. ‘There’s a funny hole down the back of this desk man.’ Liam was at his side in an instant as Tommy pulled out a sheaf of papers. He moved to the window where the glow of a distant street lamp offered the only light. ‘Provisional I.R.A.,’ he read.
‘You’ve got it, lad,’ Liam beamed. ‘Now let’s get out of here and see what those papers tell us about where he goes and where to find him.’
‘Right behind you,’ Tommy began, then the two men froze. The sound of a dog barking aggressively was accompanied by loud, angry voices.
‘God damned faggot,’ they discerned. ‘… shoot you dead. You wouldn’t be the first,’ was also clearly audible.
‘Jimmy Mal,’ Liam whispered. ‘Fuck. Get ready Tommy. You’re in this up to your neck now lad.’
The key turned in the door and a huge shadow stepped quickly through. Even before he reached for the light Liam could tell the man was shaking with anger and he heard him cursing the dog and his neighbour. He braced himself for the confrontation he knew was about to come. A switch was flicked and the man froze as the room was illuminated and
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