Dark Drink and Conversation
by Thomas Kennedy
Copyright 2009 Thomas Kennedy
This is a book of fiction and none of its characters are intended to portray real people. Names characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dark Drink and Conversation
Chapter One
THE SERGEANT
Mulligans is the sort of pub you’d keep a secret. Warm and snug, the soft light embracing dark brown wood, and a pint of Guinness that’s only Nectar of the Gods. In a hectic world of pace and change, it remains sober, steadfast and demure.
“Holy Christ,” he says with feeling, as the Barman places a frothy pint within his grasp.
I drag my eyes from the racing page. I am in the presence of a fellow sufferer, a fellow traveller on the road of life. I know him well in ordinary life. However, the fact that he is dressed in full police uniform with the rank of Garda Sergeant has not escaped me.
He pushes his cap back to reveal a low forehead over a dark shock of greying hair. His heavy-boned, weather beaten face has the long enduring lived-in look of a man who has seen life, red of tooth and claw, in the raw, in all its wonderful variations.
“Soft day,” I offer, to acknowledge that his remark has not fallen on the empty air.
He downs a third of his pint in a swallow and nods to the Barman to set up another. Then he eyes me, having taken my remark on board.
“Soft is it?” he asks, and I sense his pain. “There’s some’d say it’s a shite day.”
He elaborates, “A day where nature conspires with chaos to produce confusion.”
“Nature?” I ask, trying to catch his drift.
“Dark, dull, drizzle that’s trying to be rain, everywhere gloomy, a day that brings the depressives to the fore,” he explains.
I pick him up wrong, “sorry for your trouble,” I say, thinking he is suffering from depression.
He looks at me as if it has begun to dawn on him that nature is not finished with him yet, this day of days, and, ignoring the fact that we have a long acquaintance, he conveys by his look a sense of wonder that perhaps nature has conspired to throw him together with a fool.
And Mulligans is the only sanctuary he knows. He looks about but there is no escape; we are alone in the Snug. He finishes his pint and then considers deeply the bottom of the glass.
“You don’t have the look of a man who gets depressed,” I throw out, sensing my attempt to be comforting has driven him deeper into the abyss.
Our eyes meet and he realizes I am sensitive to his pain. He relaxes and reaches for his second pint. “Get you one?” he asks indicating my three-quarters empty glass.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
We skirt about it for a couple of pints. I update him on the state of the racing page and we share a joke or two over the recent performance of the Dublin Gaelic football team. In discussion, it becomes clear to me that years of residence in this city have not dulled the Sergeant’s allegiance to his home county of Cork. We shift the conversation to safer ground, dealing with Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal, and the general state of play in the English Premiership League.
Then he can stand it no more.
“What a bloody day,” he lets out with a deep sigh.
“Early days yet,” I offer in recognition that it is still too early for teatime.
“Early shift,” he explains, “six o’clock start, two o’clock finish.”
That explains the drink. However, he is still in his Garda uniform and this is a measure of his desperation. Admittedly, he is in the private sanctuary of the Snug in Mulligans, but he is not wont to drink in uniform, being a stickler for maintaining standards and, in fairness, not wanting to frighten other customers who might not know him. Indeed, I conclude he must have had a shite day.
“The Howlette girl threw herself into the canal up at the lock,” he adds.
“Howlettes from the flats?” I enquire to get a better fix, for if this is so, then it’s an attractive red haired girl.
“You remember her?” he asks and I nod.
“Didn’t I teach her for six years. About twenty years old; not over bright, but a solid sort of a girl.”
“Yeh got her in one.”
“Is she dead?”
“Yeh know young Fitzer, the pervert from Mocol Street?” he asks, and I defer to his right not to reply to my question, not at least until the relatives are told.
I say, “who doesn’t?” wondering how Fitzer had added to his troubles.
“Well, as life would have it,” he explains, “said Fitzer was up at the lock, trying to do a bit of flashing in his raincoat. Some of the schoolgirls take a short cut that way.”
“Don’t I know it,” I say. “We’re always telling them it’s not safe up there, but they meet boys along the canal.”
“You’ve been known to take your own mot up there!” The Sergeant scores a point.
“In the evening,” I hasten to explain, “just courting. Haven’t been there in ages. Last time we were there she said the quacking ducks would give her a headache.”
“Cured yeh, I bet,” he says with a laugh.
“Not at all,” I say. “We prefer to go to the pictures. Mind you, she likes the walk up there on a Sunday evening.”
The Sergeant sups his pint and I realize I am rambling. I pay attention so he can continue.
“Fitzer sees this girl coming alone down the path. Prime target. He gets his buttons undone and stands there exposed to the world. This girl walks past.”
“How do yeh know all this?” I ask.
“Bugger confessed. He was in a state; blurted it all out after I gave him a knuckle sandwich. Then I interviewed other parties to fill the gaps.”
“Carry on,” I say, understanding that his source is, as it were, from the horse’s mouth.
“The girl casts a glance. “Big for a monkey” she says and walks past.
“Bitch!” Fitzer shouts. He’s set out to impress and does not take kindly to her disparaging remark. “May your tits fall off and may the devil take yeh.”
“Fair enough,” she says and jumps into the canal inside the lock.”
“Into the lock?”
I’m horrified, for the lock is deep and would be hard to get out of at the best of times. In this cold weather, a trap that only a brass monkey would endure.
“Into the lock,” he confirms. “It’s the Howlette girl and she’s up to commit suicide. At the point they meet, the Fitzer incident is for her a minor distraction. Her mind is set and there’s no turning her. Into the lock she goes.”
“Jasus,” I say by way of helping the conversation along.
The Sergeant’s face creases into a tired smile as he continues, “Fitzer of course, is one of these types who thinks the world is all about themselves, and he thinks his remarks have led the girl to throw herself off into the lock.”
“Jasus,” I say and nod to the Barman for a further two pints. He’s ear wigging but goes to it, still listening.
“Fitzer goes mental. He throws off his raincoat, cap and Wellington boots and dives buck naked into the lock,” the Sergeant continues.
“To save the girl,” I say admiringly.
“On the way down, Fitzer remembers he can’t swim and just before he hits the water he starts to shout for help. He hits the water and now two of them are drowning in the lock.”
“Jasus,” I say and pass a tenner as the Barman arrives with the perfect pint by two.
He holds back on the change, and gives it to me later, at this point trying to minimize his interruption of the Sergeant’s story.
“Two deaths then?” I attempt to summarize.
“Fitzer is not resigned to his fate and the water is freezing his balls off. He’s in a panic,” the Sergeant contradicts.
Obviously the story did not end there.
“And the girl?” I ask.
“Dignity personified. Hands folded on the chest, treading water, preparing, getting ready to pass off this mortal coil and end her troubles.”
“Jasus,” I say.
“But Fitzer is making a holy show of himself roaring and crying, and of course there is no one except himself and the Howlette girl.”
“What happens?” I prompt.
“Eventually she says, ‘feck this for a game of soldiers,’ and swims over and hits Fitzer a box when he comes up for air. Fitzer grabs hold of her and shouts, “we’ll drown together.”
“I’d not be seen dead with the likes of you,” she replies and hits him another box. Then she gives up. ‘Feck this’ she says and drags Fitzer over to the gate of the lock. She takes her scarf off. She was well dressed given the state of the weather, and had a long scarf. This she ties to Fitzer and secures him to the gate of the lock.”
“And gets back to suicide?” I ask.
“No,” the Sergeant smiles. “The moment was past. Once she got annoyed she was alive again, no way she’d be able to commit suicide with her change of mood.”
“Makes sense,” I agree.
“And there was no way she was sure Fitzer would be rescued. Last thing she could stand was to be found dead in the same lock as your man.”
“I can understand that, and him without a stitch on him,” I agree again.
“So nothing for it. She has to rescue Fitzer. In time she manages this, and they end up bedraggled on the bank.”
“Get dressed,” she says to Fitzer when he comes round, explaining, “I’ll not be seen dead or alive up here with a frizzled up naked man. My good name would be wrecked, especially if it was the likes of you.”
The Sergeant savours his pint as he continues the tale.
“Fitzer gets up and puts on his cap, wellies and raincoat. “Goodbye,” she says, turning back to the lock, settling her mind and intending to start again. “I’ll jump and get yeh,” Fitzer promises.”
“Good thinking,” I say.
Fitzer may not be able to deal with women in the normal way of things, but he had got her there.
“What happens next?” I enquire.
The Sergeant smiles. The telling of the story has relaxed him, although the pints may also have helped in that department.
“About this time,” he continues, “a schoolgirl is on her way home with her friend along the canal and they’ve reported a man and a woman lying on the bank, I expect having spotted them when they came out. The schoolgirl gets on her mobile phone and is a bit agitated. The reception is not the best but she says he’s naked and she thinks they are kissing, but I established later that Howlette was giving Fitzer mouth to mouth resuscitation.”
“Jasus,” I say, shivering at the thought, for hadn’t the girl been through enough.
“With yeh there,” the Sergeant agrees, understanding my shiver.
“How did you come on the scene?” the Barman asks, tentative like, not wanting to intrude on our conversation but his curiosity is roused.
The Sergeant is expansive and explains.
“I arrives on foot of the call from the schoolgirl’s mobile. The schoolgirls have legged it and Fitzer and Howlette are sitting on the arm of the lock gate, shivering but in good order, doing nothing that is arrestable. Fitzer is in the raincoat and as far as I can see, flashing nothing.”
“So?” I ask.
“So I arrests them for a breach of the peace, on suspicion, and the rest is history,” the Sergeant concludes with a flourish.
“Where are they now?” I persist.
The Sergeant cuts across my question. “One thing I’ll tell yeh. Fitzer is cured. He’ll never flash again, or so he swears. Says Howlette jumping off the lock put the heart across him, and if a flash did that he’s withdrawn from the field.”
“Good for him,” I say approvingly.
“To top it off,” the Sergeant adds. “I took him up to Strimmers. One of the ladies of the night owes me a favour. I told her to finish young Fitzer off properly and make a man of him. She’ll do the job.”
“Good thinking,” I say, thinking that might not be a cure but that the Sergeant is a practical man under the gruff exterior.
“But what about the girl? Is she all right?” I ask.
“Outside,” the Sergeant says indicating by way of a nod of his head, to the door of the Snug that leads to the public bar.
“The damp lady in the corner drinking balls of malt?” the Barman confirms.
I remember he has been feeding drinks down the other side of the bar as normal. Although it’s a wet day, there are a few in the bar. He must have seen the Sergeant bring her in earlier and had maintained his usual discrete silence.
“Dropped her there,” the Sergeant says, “on me way in. Told her not to shift her ass until her mother came and got her. Her mother’s working as a cleaner over in the paper factory. I’ve sent a message.”
“They’re not off for another hour,” I say. I’m remembering the good ordinary school kid she was only a few years past, and wondering how she’s feeling, just having nearly killed herself.
“She’ll be well pissed by then,” the Barman adds. “The rate she’s going at the balls of malt.”
I shift myself and stand up. “She was one of my pupils,” I say. “I’d better go talk to her.”
“Right so,” the Sergeant says agreeably, and the Barman lifts the latch so I can exit the small Snug.
“A word in your ear...” the Barman whispers as I pass through.
I lift an eyebrow in inquiry.
“The young lady in question was dating O’Toole. You know O’Toole?”
“The Builder?” I say. “Middle aged, married with six kids?”
“The very same,” he confirms. “They’ve had a row. Between you, the gatepost and me, he might have got her up the spout.”
“Pregnant?” I whisper, but the Barman says no more. He has gone as far as he can go.
Behind his bar, he sees all the comings and goings, but he has Professional Ethics and already he has stepped over the line.
Taking care not to slip on the puddle at her feet, I sit down beside her. She recognizes me, and as our eyes meet she lets go, weeping the tears of the lost.
“There, there,” I say holding her hands, and she looks at me with the eyes of one who has been hauled back from the grave.
The Barman brings a pint and a ball of malt. Thoughtfully he is also balancing the mop for a quick, discrete mop up.
She senses the empathy behind my discomfort, that I want to help but don’t know how or what to say. I smile and she manages a little one. When she squeezes my hand, I know she is going to be all right.
Chapter Two
CURATE
Of a Thursday, the Parish Priest sticks his head in. He’s dressed in collar and black suit, clearly on business, and he looks rushed. The Barman sees him, reaches under the counter and produces a plastic bag full of somethings with rectangular shapes.
The Parish Priest leans in and whispers into the Barman’s ear. The Barman shakes his head.
“I hope he won’t take a drink,” I overhear the Parish Priest say as he takes the plastic bag.
The Barman only smiles a little smile. Reply to this sort of comment is forbidden to third parties under the barman’s code, but he does not want to appear impolite, hence the small strained smile. Of course the Parish Priest understands this and is only filling the air to make conversation. He departs as quickly as he came with a perfunctory nod and smile of acknowledgement in my direction.
“He was wondering had his Curate come in,” the Barman remarks.
I frown in puzzled acknowledgement.
“Seems he was expecting they’d meet up,” the Barman adds and then wanders off.
I’m not really in Mulligans. I’m on my way home and have just dropped in to unwind over a pint. No point in arriving back to my place in a state of nervous distraction after a hard day’s teaching. Better, rather, to unwind in peace in a place where I can put the day’s events in their place, which is in the past tense. Then one can arrive back to the apartment, nerves restored, outlook tranquil, attention forwards not backwards, towards the delight of a date with the good Lady and her company for the evening, the tomorrow a box not yet opened.
I was just entering this state of tranquillity, the Barman having just placed a pint in my vicinity, sitting watching the apparent miracle of the pint of Guinness, where the bubbles seem to go down not up the inside of the glass. One day I will ask the Barman to explain this miracle to me, but for the present it sufficed to begin my journey from nervous wreck, fraught by the events of the day, to a man at peace with himself and the world.
I had shaken off the distraction of the Parish Priest’s entrance and exit, and let tranquillity re-enter my psyche. However, no sooner had the pint settled than, as I was about to reach out and bring the glass with tender care to my awaiting lips, the door of the Snug burst open.
My glance is sufficient to upbraid the Barman, for clearly he has not secured the latch following the Parish Priest’s departure.
I withdraw my hand from around the pint and we both regard the interloper with curiosity.
“Is the Parish Priest here?” he asks and we both blank him. Even in impolite society one does not ask if the Parish Priest is in a pub.
Our stares unnerve him; clearly he is of nervous disposition. A deep red starts at his neck and works its way up to his hair via his forehead.
“Would you like a drink, Father?” the Barman asks him.
With the word “Father”, I do a double take. I realize this is the new young curate from the west of Ireland, currently, if our mutual conversations are any indication, the greatest source of concern in the Parish Priest’s arena of activity. The Parish Priest had confided to me that the young curate was showing an alarming mix of enthusiasm and immaturity. Once again the Barman is on the ball, having spotted him straight off.
“Will you take a drink, Father?” I ask in an attempt to rescue my failure to realize who he was.
“I might,” he says, looking around and then seating himself on the stool opposite.
“I plan to meet up with the Parish Priest,” he adds.
He looks around again and then through the gap where the public bar can be seen from the Snug. It takes a few seconds, and then he seems to settle, accepting that the Parish Priest is, indeed, not here.
“I might try one of those big bottles of stout,” he says. “The ladies of the Sodality of the Legion of Irish Catholic Mothers recommend it highly.” As he speaks he looks at his chest and then smiles.
I remember he has the pin of the Pioneer Total Abstinence Society on his cassock, but today he in not wearing his cassock. This is the reason I had failed to recognize him. I assume his smile is because without the Pin of Total Abstinence he knows he won’t be embarrassed while having a drink.
“I thought you were a Pioneer?” I ask to embarrass him, wondering should I suggest he has a rock-shandy.
“Not a bother,” he says, “I’m in plain clothes today.”
I regard his sartorial choices with a jaundiced eye.
“Where did you get the gear?” I ask as the Barman puts up a pint bottle of stout and a half pint glass, the customary manner in which the pint bottle is drunk.
One tops up the glass as one goes, but then I don’t need to tell you that. Nor do I need to tell you that the correct way to pour the bottle is down the side of the glass so that this naturally conditioned drink does not produce too much froth as it enters the glass.
Despite his education, and his upbringing in a country where this sort of thing is common knowledge, the young Curate upturns the bottle into the bottom of the glass and has to rescue the situation as the head rises rich and yeasty to overflow the glass, leaving him with an inch of beer and a balance of froth in the glass. The Barman mops up the overflow and the Curate regards the glass with a baleful eye, his earlier bravado dissipated.
“Pour down the side of the glass,” I offer, “then it won’t overflow. Let it settle for a few minutes and go again.”
“Right so,” he says, takes a sip of the froth off the top and leaves it to settle.
“Guinness is a bit of an acquired taste,” I add as he screws up his face in reaction to the taste of the froth.
“I intend to master the art,” he says and smiles a happy smile. Clearly he sees himself as on a day out.
“Interesting gear,” I say, going back to his attire.
He squares his shoulders, embarrassed.
“Bought the gear in the ha'penny market,” he says proudly, “the man said it once belonged to an Elvis look-a-like. Got it for five Euro all-in, including the shoes.”
The Barman can take no more. Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he retreats in search of glasses to polish.
“You an Elvis fan?” I ask, being something of a fan myself but, let me hasten to add, never to the extent of appearing in public in a full Elvis wide lapelled suit, shirt and pants, including bright stockings and blue suede shoes to match.
“Not at all,” he dismisses the suggestion. “I do love plain Gregorian chant, and I think the St. Patrick’s Cathedral choir, and may I add the Guinness choir, are wonderful. But I never got interested in the modern stuff.”
This adds to the mystery, and I know I should drink up and go home and do something useful like brush the floor, but I can’t resist it.
“Why the Elvis costume?” I ask.
“They won’t let me into Strimmers,” he explains and goes back to his glass, nervously pouring down the side.
When it works and there is no further disaster, he sips some more froth and starts again the ceremony known to all bottle drinkers: the sublime pleasure of topping up the glass from the bottle.
I watch this in a somewhat stunned state having been impacted by his remark. Strimmers was not a habitué of young curates fresh from the country. No, they were expected to go to shout at the Gaelic football, to work with Vincent de Paul Society in their acts of mercy to the poor, to visit the sick and so on. Strimmers was for gangsters and older men looking to see some young, naked, female flesh.
“Strimmers?” I say to be sure I am hearing correctly.
“Indeed,” he says, and taking my shock for puzzlement, he adds, “I have become aware that there is a house of ill repute in the Parish, and I am making it part of my mission to administer to the young ladies there.”
I decide it is time to have my first sip of the day, and pick up my pint and let the cool liquid sooth my agitated soul.
“Administer?” I ask, seeking clarification.
“Indeed,” he says, now settling into drinking his beer, showing his inexperience by way of the speed with which he is now dispatching the contents of the bottle.
“There are some very interesting young ladies up there. In particular, did you know a considerable number of them come from Eastern Europe? They have a different outlook in many ways.”
As he explains, he sees I am still not with him, and he makes an assumption, “Of course a teacher like yourself would probably not even know such a place exists, and indeed that it is within the Parish.”
“Different outlook? They have a different outlook?” I ask, not getting distracted by the inaccurate reference to my state of knowledge of the goings on in the world.
“I have engaged in a deal of social intercourse in that establishment,” he confides. “Do you know many of those girls belong to the Eastern Church? They are not Catholics; they are orthodox, either Greek or Russian church. Fascinating. We have spent many happy hours pouring over the differences in philosophy.”
“While you are dressed as an Elvis look-a-like?” I ask.
He smiles a friendly smile.
“Indeed. There are objections to my normal ministry both from the Parish Priest and from the management of the establishment.”
“Indeed,” I comment in encouraging tones, and he continues, “The Parish Priest is concerned lest my visits to Strimmers are mistaken for personal visits, that I might bring disrepute upon the cloth of Priestly Office, set tongues wagging as it were.”
“Well it sounds like a place...”
“Yes indeed,” he cuts across my remark, now speaking as a man of the world. “Point taken, but I ignore the Parish Priest’s wishes, as I am of the belief that the cloth should be worn proudly in all circumstances, but...”
He hesitates, looking around, but there is only me and, of course, the Barman in the background, polishing glasses. He leans in. The Barman cocks his best ear so as not to lose the thread of the conversation.
“But…?” I prompt helpfully.
He is embarrassed again and his colour rises as before.
“When I went for the first time, the doorman, a Russian with poor English, thinks I have some fetish. You see, I ask to see Mistress Kathy…”
He pauses, assesses my reaction and adds; “Mistress Kathy had asked to see me for confession. This is how I first became aware of the existence of the premises in question.”
I nod in understanding.
“But,” he continues, “The Russian sees me dressed as a Priest, and when I ask for Mistress Kathy he jumps to the conclusion that I am some sort of an individual with a fetish.”
“A fetish?” I ask.
“Yes, he thinks I want to be into some fetish game, dressed as a Priest. Mistress Kathy is what is known as a Dominatrix. You may have heard of such. A woman of the night who is dominant towards men known as Submissives.”
“I think I might have read of such in one of the Sunday newspapers.”
“So when I seek to walk past him, he blocks my path and asks me for a credit card, saying fetish very expensive, with Mistress Kathy, even extra.”
He pauses and we both sup our drinks. Distractedly he signals another round and I do not demur, although drinking had not been my original intention, but I do not want to distract him and I realize at his pace of drinking he might soon throw discretion to the winds and make a full confession.
“I say I am here to hear Mistress Kathy’s confession, and he is amused. This makes me irate. I feel insulted, and ask him how dare he obstruct the work of one in the attire of a priest, and I add that if I so wish I can hear the confession of all the girls on the premises.”
“And?”
“He calls the manager and they throw me out onto the street.”
“Terrible.” I comment.
“This is the point where I realize the possible source of the Parish Priest’s concern, for some passers-by look on and shake their heads and say “shame, and him such a young Priest.”
“They got the wrong end of the stick.” I say, so he knows I understand he is concerned that he has brought the cloth into disrepute.
“Exactly,” he confirms. “This leads me to wend my way to the ha'penny second hand clothes market where I procure some lay clothes. Then I go back to the Parish residence, inform the housekeeper that I may be late for dinner, change, and then I depart in lay attire, which as you see, I am presently wearing.”
“So this was today?” I say.
“No,” he contradicts, “I have sallied forth on many an occasion since that first day. No this was some time ago, and at that time I returned with determined step to Strimmers.”
“And they let you in?” I suggest.
“Indeed no,” he explains. Once again he seems to redden, but not as noticeably and this may be due to the fact that he is now into his second bottle, handling the pouring with dexterity and even a level of expertise.
“The doorman, this ignorant Russian whom I have subsequently become acquainted with as Boris, looks at me and remembers our previous altercation.
“An Elvis this time,” he says, and again is disparaging in his demeanour.
“Are yeh ejected again?” I enquire.
“Sadly there is no other recourse. I have to pay to get past him. Imagine a Priest having to pay to get into such a place. I hand over my Parish credit card, filled with worry as to how to explain any subsequent charges to the Parish Priest.”
“Yes, I image he could be a stickler when it comes to use of the Parish Credit card?”
“I was mortified and when I went to Mistress Kathy, naturally she was surprised to see me in lay clothes. When I explained the circumstances she asked me to excuse her for a moment.”
“She did not wish to confess to a Priest in lay clothes?”
“To the contrary,” he says, “she made a full and frank confession.”
Then he reddens, concerned he may have crossed a boundary and revealed something about another’s confession. But he is on safe religious grounds, as he has not actually revealed any detail.
“But she excuses herself?” I prompt.
“For a moment, and she returns holding the doorman Boris by the ear. Understand me, he is an enormous strong man and she is succeeding in subduing him by force of personality. He submits and at her insistence he gives me a grovelling apology. He even returns the credit card.”
“Mistress Kathy must be a forceful personality?”
“Indeed, and going forward following further discussion, Boris undertakes to admit me in my civilian clothes. He says the manager will not allow him to admit a Priest in the cloth as it might upset his other customers, and I can understand that. My mission has to begin with short hesitant steps. I cannot change the world.”
“So Kathy puts things right for you?”
“Yes indeed she does. She dismisses Boris back to his duties. Then after her confession, which needless to say I cannot elucidate upon, she introduces me to the other girls. They have regular team building sessions scheduled around the coffee breaks.”
“And the management is happy with this?”
“Not initially, but I’m asked to stand up at the team building session and explain where I am coming from. The girls decide it would be good for morale to have a Father Confessor.”
“Good for them,” I agree.
“They produce a Priest’s cassock. Where they got it, I have no idea. The management comes on board with their wishes. Going forward, I am allowed to wear the Priest’s cassock and have consultations with the girls so long as I arrive and depart in civilians and am not seen by the clientele.”
“And that arrangement still stands?”
“Since then, things have gone swimmingly well. I have even influenced Boris the doorman. He is Russian orthodox and a very religious man. He serves the manager diligently but I have persuaded him not to punch clients in the face or testicles. The face, so they keep their dignity, and the testicles, so they can hope in time to return to their wives.”
“So how does the Parish Priest feel about this mission of yours?” I ask, just curious really.
“The Parish Priest?” he says and he looks at his almost empty glass.
I have brought him back to the reality of his visit. He looks at me, shock in his eyes.
“I came to see the Parish Priest about the CDs,” he says.
“CDs?” I’m puzzled.
“Excuse me,” he says to the Barman. “Were some CDs deposited here, possibly in a plastic bag, to be collected?”
“Yes,” the Barman confirms. “One of the lady’s from the Sodality of the Legion of Irish Catholic Mothers left them off as usual.”
“I need to talk about those CDs with the Parish Priest,” he says. “Don’t let them out of your sight.”
“They are gone,” the Barman explains.
“Gone!” he says his face filling with horror. “Stolen?”
“Of course not,” the Barman says, haughty and offended. The CDs had been entrusted to him for safekeeping. “It was the usual arrangement that you may, as Curate, be aware of,” he explains. “The Parish Priest has taken the CDs to the Simon community for the homeless. They have a CD player at the Hostel and the Legion of Irish Catholic Mothers donate appropriate religious CDs for the enlightenment of the homeless.”
“Did you examine the bag?” the Curate asks, becoming increasingly agitated.
“Indeed not,” the Barman replies with spirit. “I merely hold them for the convenience of the Parish Priest. The arrangement is a long standing one and I do not involve myself other than to pass on the good works.”
Clearly the Curate has a problem with this information. His face twitches a bit, reflecting inner turmoil. But confession is good for the soul. The curate takes it on the chin and squares his shoulder to unburden himself. We can see it coming. I sip the remains of my first pint and the Barman nervously wipes the top of the bar.
“The Parish Priest wants me to take over his role at the Simon community. I was supposed to go with him and be introduced, it was all arranged. Now it appears he’s gone without me.”
“Yeh can catch him up,” I suggest.
“No, it’s too late,” he replies. “He’s gone with the CDs. He’ll only be a minute and drop them off as I’m not there to be introduced.”
“Another day?” I suggest.
He finishes the second bottle in a long swallow, and buries his head in his hands. Pitiful, to see a grown man distressed.
We do what we can. I cough and drink my beer. The Barman absents himself momentarily to serve a customer at the far end of the public bar. We leave him to silence.
“This,” he pronounces, “will be the greatest disaster of my career. I had not intended the Parish Priest to have those particular CDs as they were a fallout from my activities in Strimmers.”
“Hearing confessions?”
“I can say no more, but let events unfold. It is the will of the Lord.”
Although slightly slurred by drink, there is a fanatical undertone to his last remark that leaves the Barman and myself with an uneasy feeling.
The Curate rises, throws back his drink, squares his “Elvis-like” shoulders and departs with as much dignity as he can muster, giving us a parting nod from his “Elvis-like” lock of black, hair-oil endowed hair.
Chapter Three
FUNERAL PARTY
There was a great turnout.
The Parish Priest had presided and was in attendance, supported by his young curate.
The Sergeant was there and so was his team, their low-key visibility emphasized by being dressed in plain-clothes fashionable only in the detective unit.
The Howlettes were there, presumably as relations as well as neighbours of the deceased. The father, a burglar by trade, was in his usual black and had on a number of occasions been mistaken for a Priest in attendance. Kevin, his young son, scowled at the back of the bar, sitting beside his mother in restless tension, unhappy that his youthful sixteen years had confined him to soft drink in the present company.
The Yank, newly arrived home from USA to see his father who was dying of cancer, had come with Howlette’s daughter Niamh. The Yank was almost fatherly in his concern for Niamh, showing her utmost courtesy. The bump that was Niamh's baby had yet to show and one wondered had the Yank heard that she was pregnant. Of course, there was another rumour that the Yank, with little to do until his father kicked the bucket, was wine and dining her so much she was starting to put on weight.
The leadership teams from a number of Dublin's finest criminal gangs were also present, some suited and of an accountant’s demeanour, others heavy set with tough expressions offset by garish tattoos and gold jewellery. Funerals were considered neutral territory, and various turf wars and vendettas were shelved for a few hours to allow due respect be paid to their former colleague Big Breno while they laid him to rest.
The widow had laid on soup and sandwiches in Mulligans for the wake and for the general after-funeral festivities. The great and the good, the bad and the ugly, the deprived and the swanky had all come back to have a drink on the widow, and a warming bowl of Mulligans soup.
Sitting in the Snug, I had heard the clamour of arrival. They had poured in, in a great wave, murmured and subdued in tone at first. Then the noise had lightened as the conversation rose and was interspersed with laughter and gaiety, as the funeral attendees adjusted back from funereal thoughts to day to day living.
The Barman had taken on a couple of casuals for the day that was in it, and as the first siege of drinks eased to a steady flow he was able to come over to the quiet of his side of the Snug. His helpers continued to feed out drinks to the assembly, all of which were on the widow’s tab.
“Would you have one on the tab?” he asks me.
“No,” I reply firmly. “Drug money; I’d rather not.”
The Barman nods understandingly.
“Business is Business,” he remarks.
“Of course,” I say.
I know the bar could not refuse the widow the decency of a proper after-funeral occasion and, of course, the business would be good for the coffers.
The Sergeant peers in the door of the Snug and the Barman pulls him a pint.
“Surprised to see you are at the funeral, Sergeant,” I remark, “but then I suppose you would have known Big Breno well enough in a professional capacity.”
“Professional, not personal. Big Breno was known to the garda, as we say,” the Sergeant explains. “Today I’m supported by a couple of plain-clothes officers. You’d not spot them, but my team is there, observing, gathering intelligence.”
I nod politely. Of course I’d spotted them, and no doubt so had the professional criminal classes outside in the bar. The garda were also known to the criminal classes.
“I’m on duty today, so this is a great pleasure,” the Sergeant continues as the Barman sets up his pint.
“On duty?” I say dubiously.
“I’ve just slipped into the Snug for a wee break. As I am on duty in a pub, I have a duty to drink so as to maintain my cover as a member of the funeral party.”
“The widow knows you well enough and you are in uniform,” I point out, but he just smiles a satisfied smile.
So I ask, “How is the widow?”
“Nervous,” the Sergeant replies. “The gang has, to use a mafia expression, gone to the mattresses. Only a few of the top guys came today and they have slipped out of sight already.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
The Sergeant makes a face as if to say, is it not obvious?
“A major drug dealer and gang leader has just been murdered,” he repeats the obvious.
“I think I see a few of his gang here,” I say glancing into the mirror, which reflects the crowd in the public bar.
“Just the widow’s body guard, armed and dangerous,” the Sergeant says lightly.
“Are yeh going to arrest them?” I ask.
“Ah no,” he replies. “Not at a funeral. You’d have to have obvious cause, not just a bulge in a jacket yeh happen to think is something. We can’t harass a funeral party. It’s just not done. Funerals are truce days.”
“I suppose so,” I say.
“Did yeh see the snooker on the box last night?” he asks, trying to switch the conversation. After all, he is on his break.
But I can’t let it go. I’m curious to get the inside story on how Big Breno came to an untimely end.
“Snooker dooker,” I say.
He looks at me.
“There’s a rumour Big Breno was found drowned in the lock up on the canal?” I say.
The Sergeant sips his pint. He knows words spoken in this company in this place are as secure as in the confessional.
“Up at the lock,” the Sergeant says. “Fully dressed, in the best of everything. His best suit according to the widow. There’s a bit of drink in his gut but not a lot. From all appearances he was on a night out somewhere in his best gear down to the alligator shoes.”
“A man with money can dress well on occasion,” I offer. “Was it the drink; did he fall in while under the influence?”
“We don’t think he fell in,” the Sergeant says cautiously.
The Sergeant takes another calm sup of his pint.
“Tell me,” he asks. “Is it true that the Parish Priest has a meeting every Thursday in this Snug with the ladies of the Sodality of the Society of the Legion of Irish Catholic Mothers?”
I look at him. There’s been a subtle change in his tone of voice. He is in official enquiry mode, and I sense it.
“Every Thursday fortnight when it’s not monthly,” I reply cautiously. “He has a fortnightly meeting with the heads of sections in the Sodality called Chapter Leaders, and he usually brings them back here for a bottle of Guinness or two and a chat. Part of his team building strategy I imagine.”
“Heads of sections, called Chapter Leaders,” he repeats and produces a notebook from his breast pocket. He writes, his lips seeming to spell Heads of Sections, two weekly meeting. When he finishes writing he looks up, a shrewd look as if I have just told him something important.
“Does the curate attend these regular meetings?” he asks.
“No, I don’t think so,” I reply, adding, “but you’d better ask the Barman. I’m not absolutely certain.”
The Sergeant glances at the Barman who is pulling pints in the public bar, just visible from the Snug. I form the impression that the Sergeant has already quizzed the Barman and is using me to confirm. That or, more likely, the Barman has maintained is usual silence and discretion in matters of his clientele.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why these questions? What have they to do with anything? Is there a connection to the death of Big Breno?”
“Your round,” the Sergeant says, surveying the bottom of his pint.
But the Barman is there with two foaming pints on the widow’s tab. I fall into temptation and accept the proffered drink.
The Sergeant swaps his for his empty glass. He surveys his new pint, a look of concentration on his face.
The Barman is alarmed, wondering if something is wrong with the pint.
But the Sergeant is merely weighing up his response to my question. Then he leans confidentially towards me.
“Breno was taped,” the Sergeant confides and leans back to see my reaction.
The Barman relaxes, the crisis he had expected has not happened. Clearly the pint passes muster as usual.
“You got it all on tape?” I say, amazed.
The Sergeant frowns. He tries again.
“Murdered with tape. Breno was tied up in tape and dropped into the canal.”
“After a few drinks?” I seek to clarify.