THE HONOR BAR
BY LAURA LIPPMAN

He took all his girlfriends to Ireland, as it turned out. “All” being defined as the four he had dated since Moira, the inevitably named Moira, with the dark hair and the blue eyes put in with a dirty finger. (This is how he insisted on describing her. She would never have used such a hackneyed phrase in general and certainly not for Moira, whose photographic likeness, of which Barry happened to have many, showed a dark-haired, pale-eyed girl with hunched shoulders and a pinched expression.)

When he spoke of Moira, his voice took on a lilting quality, which he clearly thought was Irish, but sounded to her like the kind of singsong voice used on television shows for very young children. She had dark HAIR and pale BLUE eyes put in with a DIRTY FINGER. Really, it was like listening to one of the Teletubbies wax nostalgic, if one could imagine Po (or La-La or Winky-Dink, or whatever the faggotty purple one was named) hunched over a pint of Guinness in a suitably picturesque Galway bar. It was in such a bar that Barry, without making eye contact, explained how he had conceived this trip to exorcise the ghost of Moira, only to find that it had brought her back in full force (again), and he was oh so sorry, but it was just not to be between them and he could not continue this charade for another day.

So, yes, the above—the triteness of his speech, its grating quality, his resemblance to a Guinness-besotted Teletubby— was what she told herself afterward, the forming scab over the hurt and humiliation of being dumped two weeks into a three-week tour of the Emerald Isle. (And, yes, guess who called it that.) After her first, instinctive outburst—“You asshole!”—she settled down and listened generously, without recriminations. It had not been love between them. He was rich and she was pretty, and she had assumed it would play out as all her relationships did, for most of them had been based on that age-old system of give-and-take, quid pro quo, parting gifts. Twelve to twenty months, two to three trips, several significant pieces of jewelry. Barry was pulling the plug prematurely, that was all, and Ireland barely counted as a vacation in her opinion. It had rained almost every day and the shopping was shit.

Still, she nodded and interjected at the proper moments, signaling the pretty waitress for another, then another, all for him. She nursed her half-pint well into the evening. At closing time, she slipped the waitress twenty euros, straight from Barry’s wallet, and the young woman obligingly helped to carry-drag Barry through the streets to the Great Southern. His eyes gleamed a bit as she and the waitress heaved him on the bed, not that he was anywhere near in shape for the award he was imagining.

(And just how did his mind work, she wondered in passing, how did a man who had just dumped a woman two weeks into a three-week trip persuade himself that the dumpee would then decide to honor him with a going-away threesome? True, she had been a bit wild when they first met.

That was how a girl got a man like Barry, with a few decadent acts that suggested endless possibilities. But once you had landed the man, you kept putting such things off, suggested that the blowjob in the cab would follow the trip to Tiffany’s, not vice versa, and pretty soon he was reduced to begging for the most ordinary favors.)

No, she and her new accomplice tucked Barry in properly and she tipped the waitress again, sending her into the night. Once the girl was gone, she searched his luggage and selected several T-shirts of which he was inordinately fond. These she ripped into strips, which she then used to bind his wrists and ankles to the four-poster bed. She debated with herself whether she needed to gag him—he might awaken, and start to struggle—and decided it was essential. She disconnected the phone, turned the television on so it would provide a nice steady hum in the background, then helped herself to his passport, American Express card, and all the cash he had. As Barry slept the rather noisy sleep of the dead-drunk, snorting and sawing and blubbering, she raided the minibar—wine, water, cashews. She was neither hungry nor thirsty, but the so-called honor bar was the one thing that Barry was cheap about. “It’s the principle,” he said, but his indignation had a secondhand feel to it, something passed down by a parent. Or, perhaps, a girlfriend. Moira, she suspected. Moira had a cheap look about her. She opened a chocolate bar, but rejected it. The chocolate here didn’t taste right.

They were e-ticketed to Dublin, but that was a simple matter. She used the room connection to go online—cost be damned—and rearranged both their travel plans. Barry was now booked home via Shannon, while she continued on to Dublin, where she had switched hotels, choosing the Merrion because it sounded expensive and she wanted Barry to pay. And pay and pay and pay. Call it severance. She wouldn’t have taken up with Barry if she hadn’t thought he was good for at least two years.

It had been Barry’s plan to send her home, to continue to Dublin without her, where he would succumb to a mounting frenzy of Moira-mourning. That’s what he had explained in the pub last night. And he still could, of course. But she thought there might be a kernel of shame somewhere inside the man, and once he dealt with the missing passport and the screwed-up airline reservations, he might have the good sense to continue home on the business-class ticket he had offered her. (“Yes, I brought you to Ireland only to break up with you, but I am sending you home business class.”) He was not unfair, not through and through. His primary objective was to be rid of her, as painlessly and guiltlessly as possible, and she had now made that possible. He wouldn’t call the police or press charges, or even think to put a stop on the credit card, which she was using only for the hotel and the flight back.

Really, she was very fair. Honorable, even.

“Mr. Gardner will be joining me later,” she told the clerk at the Merrion, pushing the card toward him, and it was accepted without question.

“And did you want breakfast included, Mrs. Gardner?”

“Yes.” She wanted everything included—breakfast and dinner and laundry and facials, if such a thing were available. She wanted to spend as much of Barry’s money as possible. She congratulated herself for her cleverness, using the American Express card, which had no limit. She could spend as much as she liked at the hotel, now that the number was on file.

It was time, as it turned out, that was hard to spend. For all Barry’s faults—a list that was now quite long in her mind, and growing every day—he was a serious and sincere traveler, the kind who made the most of every destination. He was a tourist in the best sense of the word, a man determined to wring experience from wherever he landed. While in Galway, they had rented a car and tried to follow Yeats’s trail, figuratively and literally, driving south to see his castle and the swans at Coole, driving north to Mayo and his final resting place in the shadow of Ben Bulben, which Barry had confused with the man in the Coleridge poem. She had surprised Barry with her bits of knowledge about the poet, bits usually gleaned seconds earlier from the guidebook, which she skimmed covertly while pretending to look for places to eat lunch. Skimming was a great skill, much underrated, especially for a girl who was not expected to be anything but decorative.

It had turned out that Yeats’s trail was also Moira’s. Of course. Moira had been a literature major in college and she had a penchant for the Irish and a talent, apparently, for making clever literary allusions at the most unlikely moments. On Barry and Moira’s infamous trip, which had included not just Ireland, but London and Edinburgh, Moira had treated Barry to a great, racketing bit of sex after seeing an experimental production of Macbeth at the festival. And while the production came off with mixed results, it somehow inspired a most memorable night with Moira, or so Barry had confided over all those pints in Galway. She had brought him to a great shuddering climax, left him spent and gasping for breath, then said without missing a beat: “Now go kill Duncan.” (When the story failed to elicit whatever tribute Barry thought its due—laughter, amazement at Moira’s ability to make Shakespearean allusions after sex—he had added, “I guess you had to be there.” “No thank you,” she had said.)

She did not envy Moira’s education. Education was overrated. A college dropout, she had supported herself very well throughout her twenties, moving from man to man, taking on the kind of jobs that helped her meet the right kind of guys—galleries, catering services, film production offices. Now she was thirty—well, possibly thirty-one, she had been lying about her age for so long, first up, then down, that she got a little confused. She was thirty or thirty-one, possibly thirty-two, and while going to Dublin had seemed like an inspired bit of revenge against Barry, it was not the place to find her next patron, strong euro be damned. Paris, London, Zurich, Rome, even Berlin—those were the kind of places where a certain kind of woman could meet the kind of man who would take her on for a while. Who was she going to meet in Dublin? Bono? But he was married and always prattling about poverty.

So, alone in Dublin, she wasn’t sure what to do, and when she contemplated what Barry might have done, she realized it was what Moira might have done, and she wanted no part of that. Still, somehow—the post office done, Kilmainham done, the museums done—she found herself in a most unimpressive town house, studying a chart that claimed to explain how parts of Ulysses related to the various organs of the human body.

“Silly, isn’t it?” asked a voice behind her, startling her, not only because she had thought herself alone in the room, but also because the voice expressed her own thoughts so succinctly. It was an Irish voice, but it was a sincere voice, too, the beautiful vowels without all the bullshit blarney, which was growing tiresome. She could barely stand to hail a cab anymore because the drivers exhausted her so, with their outsized personalities and long stories and persistent questions. She couldn’t bear to be alone, but she couldn’t bear all the conversation, all the yap-yap-yap-yap-yap that seemed to go with being Irish.

“It’s a bit much,” she agreed.

“I don’t think any writer, even Joyce, thinks things out so thoroughly before the fact. If you ask me, we just project all this symbolism and meaning onto books to make ourselves feel smarter.”

“I feel smarter,” she said with an automatic smile, “just talking to you.” It was the kind of line in which she specialized, the kind of line that had catapulted her from one safe haven to the next, Tarzan swinging on a vine from tree to tree.

“Rory Malone,” he added, offering his hand, offering the next vine. His hair was raven-black, his eyes pale-blue, his lashes thick and dark. Oh, it had been so long since she had been with anyone good-looking. It was something she had learned to sacrifice long ago. Perhaps Ireland was a magical place after all.

“Bliss,” she said, steeling herself for the inane things that her given name inspired. “Bliss Dewitt.” Even Barry, not exactly quick on the mark, had a joke at the ready when she provided her name. But Rory Malone simply shook her hand, saying nothing. A quiet man, she thought to herself, but not The Quiet Man. Thank God.

“How long are you here for?”

They had just had sex for the first time, a most satisfactory first time, which is to say it was prolonged, with Rory extremely attentive to her needs. It had been a long time since a man had seemed so keen on her pleasure. Oh, other men had tried, especially in the beginning, when she was a prize to be won, but their best-intentioned efforts usually fell a little short of the mark and she had grown so used to faking it that the real thing almost caught her off guard. Nice.

“How long are you staying here?” he persisted. “In Dublin, I mean.”

“It’s … open-ended.” She could leave in a day, she could leave in a week. It all depended on when Barry cut off her credit. His credit, really. How much guilt did he feel? How much guilt should he feel? She was beginning to see that she might have gone a little over the edge where Barry was concerned. He had brought her to Ireland and discovered he didn’t love her. Was that so bad? If it weren’t for Barry, she never would have met Rory, and she was glad she had met Rory.

“Open-ended?” he said. “What do you do that you have such flexibility?”

“I don’t really have to worry about work,” she said.

“I don’t worry about it, either,” he said, rolling to the side and fishing a cigarette from the pocket of his jeans.

That was a good sign—a man who didn’t have to worry about work, a man who was free to roam the city during the day. “Let’s not trade histories,” she said. “It’s tiresome.”

“Good enough. So what do we talk about?”

“Let’s not talk so much either.”

He put out his cigarette and started again. It was even better the second time, better still the third. She was sore by morning, good sore, that lovely burning feeling on the inside. It would probably lead to a not-so-lovely burning feeling in a week or two and she ordered some cranberry juice at breakfast that morning, hoping it could stave off the mild infection that a sex binge brought with it. Honeymooners-cystitis, as her doctor called it.

“So Mr. Gardner has finally joined you,” the waiter said, used to seeing her alone at breakfast.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’ll have a soft-boiled egg,” Rory said. “And some salmon. And some of the pancakes?”

“Slow down,” Bliss said, laughing. “You don’t have to try everything at one sitting.”

“I have to keep my strength up,” he said, “if I’m going to keep my lady happy.”

She blushed and, in blushing, realized she could not remember the last time she had felt this way. It was possible that she had never felt this way.

“Show me the real Dublin,” she said to Rory later that afternoon, feeling bold. They had just had sex for the sixth time and, if anything, he seemed to be even more intent on her needs.

“This is real,” he said. “The hotel is real. I’m real. How much more Dublin do you need?”

“I’m worried there’s something I’m missing.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not.”

“Something authentic, I mean. Something the tourists never see.”

He rubbed his chin. “Like a pub?”

“That’s a start.”

So he took her to a pub, but she couldn’t see how it was different from any other pub she had visited on her own. And Rory didn’t seem to know anyone, although he tried to smoke and professed great surprise at the new anti-smoking laws. “I smoke here all the time,” he bellowed in more or less mock outrage, and she laughed, but no one else did. From the pub, they went to a rather depressing restaurant—sullen wait-staff, uninspired food—and when the check arrived, he was a bit slow to pick it up.

“I don’t have a credit card on me,” he said at last— sheepishly, winningly—and she let Barry pay. Luckily, they took American Express.

Back in bed, things were still fine. So they stayed there more and more, although the weather was perversely beautiful, so beautiful that the various hotel staffers who visited the room kept commenting on it.

“You’ve been cheated,” said the room-service waiter. “Ask for your money back. It’s supposed to rain every day, not pour down sunlight like this. It’s unnatural, that’s what it is.”

“And is there no place you’d like to go, then?” the chambermaid asked when they refused her services for the third day running, maintaining they didn’t need a change of sheets or towels.

Then the calls began, gentle but firm, running up the chain of command until they were all but ordered out of the room by the hotel’s manager so the staff could have a chance to clean. They went, blinking in the bright light, sniffing suspiciously at the air, so fresh and complex after the recirculated air of their room, which was now a bit thick with smoke. After a few blocks, they went into a department store, where Rory fingered the sleeves of soccer jerseys. Football, she corrected herself. Football jerseys. She was in love with an Irishman. She needed to learn the jargon.

“Where do you live?” she asked Rory, but only because it seemed that someone should be saying something.

“I have a room.”

“A bed-sit?” She had heard the phrase somewhere, perhaps from a London girl with whom she had worked at the film production office. Although, come to think of it, Ireland and England apparently were not the same, so the slang might not apply.

“What?”

“Never mind.” She must have used it wrong.

“I like this one.” He indicated a red-and-white top. She had the distinct impression that he expected her to buy it for him. Did he think she was rich? That was understandable, given the hotel room, her easy way with room service, not to mention the minibar over the past few days. They had practically emptied it. All on Barry, but Rory didn’t know that.

Still, it seemed a bit cheesy to hint like this, although she had played a similar game with Barry in various stores and her only regret was that she hadn’t taken him for more, especially when it came to jewelry. Trips and meals were ephemeral and only true high-fashion clothing—the classics, authentic couture—increased in value. She was thirty-one. (Or thirty, possibly thirty-two.) She had only a few years left in which to reap the benefits of her youth and her looks. Of course, she might marry well, but she was beginning to sense she might not, despite the proposals that had come her way here and there. Then again, it was when you didn’t care that men wanted to marry you. What would happen as thirty-five closed in? Would she regret not accepting the proposals made, usually when she was in a world-class sulk? Marriage to a man like Barry had once seemed a life sentence. But what would she do instead? She really hadn’t thought this out as much as she should.

“Let’s go back to the room,” she said abruptly. “They must have cleaned it by now.”

They hadn’t, not quite, so the two of them sat in the bar, drinking and waiting. It was early to drink, she realized, but only by American standards. In Rory’s company, she had been drinking at every meal except breakfast and she wasn’t sure she had been completely sober for days.

Back in the room, Rory headed for the television set, clicking around with the remote control, then throwing it down in disgust. “I can’t get any scores,” he said.

“But they have a crawl—”

“Not the ones I want, I mean.” He looked around the room, restless and bored, and seemed to settle on her only when he had rejected everything else—the minibar, the copy of that morning’s Irish Times, a glossy magazine. Even then, his concentration seemed to fade midway through, and he patted her flank. She pretended not to understand, so he patted her again, less gently, and she rolled over. Rory was silent during sex, almost grimly so, but once her back was to him, he began to grunt and mutter in a wholly new way, and when he finished, he breathed a name into the nape of her neck.

Trouble was, it wasn’t hers. She wasn’t sure whose it was, but she recognized the distinct lack of her syllables—no “Bluh” to begin, no gentle hiss at the end.

“What?” she asked. It was one thing to be a stand-in for Barry when he was footing the bills, to play the ghost of Moira. But she would be damned before she would allow a freeloader such as Rory the same privilege.

“What?” he echoed, clearly having no idea what she meant.

“Whose name are you saying?”

“Why, Millie. Like in the novel, Ulysses. I was pretending you were Millie and I was Bloom.”

“It’s Molly, you idiot. Even I know that.” Again, a product of a quick skim of the cards on the museum’s wall. But Millie? How could he think it was Millie?

“Molly. That’s what I said. A bit of play-acting. No harm in that.”

“Bullshit. I’m not even convinced that it was a woman’s name you were saying.”

“Fuck you. I don’t do guys.”

His accent had changed—flattened, broadened. He now sounded as American as she did.

“Where are you from?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you live in Dublin?”

“Of course I do. You met me here, didn’t you?”

“Where do you live? What do you do?”

“Why, here. And this.” He tried to shove a hand beneath her, but she felt sore and unsettled, and she pushed him away.

“Look,” he said, his voice edging into a whine. “I’ve made you happy, haven’t I? Okay, so I’m not Irish-Irish. But my, like, ancestors were. And we’ve had fun, haven’t we? I’ve treated you well. I’ve earned my keep.”

Bliss glanced in the mirror opposite the bed. She thought she knew what men saw when they looked at her. She had to know; it was her business, more or less. She had always paid careful attention to every aspect of her appearance—her skin, her hair, her body, her clothes. It was her only capital and she had lived off the interest, careful never to deplete the principle. She exercised, ate right, avoided drugs, and, until recently, drank only sparingly—enough to be fun, but not enough to wreck her complexion. She was someone worth having, a woman who could captivate desirable men—economically desirable men, that is—while passing hot hors d’oeuvres, or answering a phone behind the desk at an art gallery.

But this was not the woman Rory had seen, she was realizing. Rory had not seen a woman at all. He had seen clothes. He had seen her shoes, high-heeled Christian Lacroix that were hell on the cobblestones. And her bag, a Marc Jacobs slung casually over the shoulder of a woman who could afford to be casual about an $1,800 bag because she had far more expensive ones back home. Only “home” was Barry’s apartment, she realized, and lord knows what he had done with her things. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t yet alerted the credit card company—he was back in New York, destroying all her possessions. He would be pissed about the T-shirts, she realized somewhat belatedly. They were vintage ones, not like the fakes everyone else was wearing now, purchased at Fred Segal’s last January.

And then she had brought Rory back to this room, this place of unlimited room service and the sumptuous breakfasts and the “Have-whatever-you-like-from-the-minibar” proviso. She had even let him have the cashews.

“You think I’m rich,” she said.

“I thought you looked like someone who could use some company,” Rory said, stretching and then rising from the bed.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-four.”

He was she, she was Barry. How had this happened? She was much too young to be an older woman. And nowhere near rich enough.

“What do you do?”

“Like I said, I don’t worry about work too much.” He gave her his lovely grin, with his lovely white, very straight teeth. American teeth, like hers, she realized now.

“Was I … work?”

“Well, as my dad said, do what you love and you’ll love what you do.”

“But you’d prefer to do men, wouldn’t you? Men for fun, women for money.”

“I told you, I’m no cocksucker,” he said, and landed a quick, stinging backhand on her cheek. The slap was professional, expert, the slap of a man who had ended more than one argument this way. Bliss, who had never been struck in her life—except on the ass, with a hairbrush, by an early boyfriend who found that exceptionally entertaining—rubbed her cheek, stunned. She was even more stunned to watch Rory proceed to the minibar and squat before it, inspecting its restocked shelves.

“Crap wine,” he said. “And I am sick to hell of Guinness and Jameson.”

The first crack of the minibar door against his head was too soft; all it did was make him bellow. But it was hard enough to disorient him, giving Bliss the only advantage she needed. She straddled his back and slammed the door repeatedly on his head and neck. Decapitation occurred to her as a vague if ambitious goal. She barely noticed his hands reaching back, scratching and flailing, attempting to dislodge her, but her legs were like steel, strong and flexible from years of pilates and yoga. She decided to settle for motionlessness and silence, slamming the door on Rory’s head until he was finally, blessedly still.

But still was not good enough. She wrested a corkscrew from its resting place—fifteen euros—and went to work. Impossible. Just as she was about to despair, she glanced at a happy gleam beneath the bedspread, a steak knife that had fallen to the floor after one of their room-service feasts and somehow gone undetected. Ha, even the maids at the oh-so-snooty Merrion weren’t so damn perfect.

She kept going, intent on finishing what she had started, even as the hotel was coming to life around her—the telephone ringing, footsteps pounding down the corridors. She should probably put on the robe, the lovely white fluffy robe. She was rather … speckled.

But the staff came through the door before she could get to her feet.

“How old are you, then?” the police officer—they called them Gardaí here—asked Bliss.

“How old do I look?”

He did not seem to find her question odd. “You look like the merest slip of a girl, but our investigation requires more specific data.”

He was being so kind and solicitous, had been nothing but kind all along, although Bliss sensed that the fading mark on her cheek had not done much to reconcile the investigators to the scene they had discovered in the hotel room. They tried to be gallant, professing dismay that she had been hit and insulted. But their shock and horror had shown through their professional armor. They clearly thought this was a bit much for a woman who insisted she had been doing nothing more than defending herself.

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“I’d be surprised if you could buy a drink legally in most places.”

Satisfied, she gave her real age, although it took a moment of calculation to get it right. Was she thirty or thirty-one, possibly thirty-two? She had added two years back in the early days, when she was starting out, then started subtracting three as of late.

“I’m thirty-one.”

“That’s young.”

“I thought so.”

TOURIST TRADE
BY JAMES O. BORN

It might have been a death spasm or a reflex, but the man’s hand flew up and his long, clean fingernails raked across Reed’s face. He hardly reacted. So he had a scar to match the others now. His father had done worse to him by the time he was ten. This might be a tad more serious, as he could feel the blood trickle into his right eye. Reed leaned away so he wouldn’t feel the man’s last, moist breath. The knife was still firmly buried in the man’s solar plexus. The long K-bar survival knife with a half-serrated edge had cut through his skin and into his heart like, well, like a sharp knife slicing through skin and heart. No wonder the U.S. Marines issued these things. Fucking Americans, they did everything too big. A seven-inch blade on a knife! That was three inches too many. The man coughed like he had been smoking Camels most his life—they were in Dublin, so it might have been true, but Reed had picked this fella because he looked like a tourist. That had been the first goal: always a visitor.

In this case, Reed had seen the man come from a pub off Swift’s Row and simply fell in behind him. He was careful never to be seen with a victim. The first thing that tipped him to the man’s lack of roots in Dublin was that he had on a yellow shirt under a blue windbreaker. No Dub worth his balls would be caught in such an obnoxious outfit. These Dubliners loved their black. Black shirts, black jackets, God help him but he had noticed even the kids favored black on their way to school. Must’ve made the weather look brighter by comparison. Not like home in the west.

Looking into the man’s pale-blue eyes he pulled out the big K-bar, feeling the rough edge catch on some gristle and maybe the last rib. It sounded like his old man sawing on the Christmas turkey when he was a kid. More blood, but similar.

He examined his right hand with the latex surgical glove. It was uniformly red from the fingers to the wrist. The handle of the knife had a string of flesh or tendon hanging from it. Reed watched the man slide down the wall into a sitting position, then slump into his final posture. He didn’t check for a pulse. If this bloke could survive that hacking, he deserved to live. Didn’t matter anyway. An attack like this, even if someone survived it, still accomplished his mission.

He wiped his forehead with his left hand and realized he needed to stop the bleeding with a rag. He glanced around the alley. There was nothing obvious. He had stumbled into the cleanest alley in Dublin. Easing out toward the street he found a wad of newspaper and wiped his forehead. He ripped a section off for a makeshift bandage. Holding it to his face, he started on his way.

He headed out onto the empty street. Most the streets were empty now-a-days. People didn’t feel safe in Dublin after dark. He had seen to that. As he came to Wellington Quay near the Millennium Bridge, he casually flipped the knife over the small seawall and into the water. The glove was tied around the handle and the neat little package made hardly a splash as it sank to the bottom of the channel. This was getting expensive. A new knife every time and the fucking K-bar cost nearly thirty-five euros. So far, with housing and food he’d spent a fortune on this endeavor. All for a righteous cause. That’s how he looked at it. That’s how he had to look at it.

He crossed the road after a few streets, making sure no one had seen him. His old man had always taken the long way home, but he was usually ducking a bookie or one of the other carpenters he’d borrowed money from and didn’t intend to pay back. The long walks with his old fella had taught Reed patience and given him some endurance that had lasted all these years even though he was almost forty.

An hour later, he was close to Lucan and his favorite pub in Dublin, the Ball Alley House. He had stumbled onto it the first night he arrived in town and had been coming every night the last twenty days. He made sure the barmaid, Maura, always saw him and he tipped her well so if he ever had to explain to the Gardaí, he’d have an alibi and a witness. Besides, you could do worse than flirt with a young one with all her meat in the right places. Not that he’d stray. All he thought of most nights was seeing his Rose and the twins again. He wished they could have come with him, but he’d have had a hard time explaining his nights on the street.

After a stop in the loo to clean up and make sure his wound wasn’t worse than he thought, he strolled to the bar. The barmaid, Maura, smiled as she walked over to him roosting on his favorite stool. She had a pint in her hand already.

“Brilliant, love, thanks so much.”

The young barmaid from the north side smiled, revealing a missing tooth. “It’s nothing. You’re a tad late this evening.”

“On the phone with my bride.”

Maura’s smile dimmed slightly, then she noticed his face. “What in the name of God happened to you?”

He touched the twin scratches the dead man’s fingernails had made on his forehead. “Low branches over near the Uni were thicker than they looked.”

She eyed him like a wife who had caught her man stepping out, then without a word headed past him to another customer.

He leaned onto the walnut bar and took a gulp of the pint. At home he rarely visited pubs. Even with the new job he found himself more at restaurants or, occasionally, at hotel bars. The atmosphere seemed to soothe him.

He nodded as two men plopped onto the stools next to him. Maura was in front of them before they had looked up.

The older man, maybe sixty, next to him just said, “Pint.”

Maura knew to draw a Guinness stout. The other man, a good ten years younger and wearing a light sweater, said, “Harp, my dear.”

The older man turned to him and in a loud voice said, “Harp, Jaysus Christ, didn’t know I was drinking with a girl.” He roared with laughter and looked around for support. Finding little, he settled back with his stout.

Reed cut his eyes to the loud older man who had what sounded like a Limerick accent. Too bad these two were at this bar. They would’ve been perfect except that he knew to never shit where you eat. But the longer they sat there the more enticing it became. The older one told bad joke after bad joke and then commented on every subject from the weather to the euro.

“I tell you, it’s a German plot. They want a consistent currency for the next time they take over the continent. Just more convenient that way.”

He and his friend finally started chatting about some- thing of interest. The younger one said, “Things are quieter in here since the damn butcher’s been roaming the streets.”

“Aye, that’s the Gospel truth. You’d think the Gardaí would be swoopin’ in here like the wrath o’ God.”

Maura walked by adding, “Does nothing for our business and I don’t walk home alone anymore. Three dead in three weeks. It’s a shame.”

The old man said, “Everyone’s hurting, love. Restaurants are closing. The cinemas have three people per show. Even the airport is empty as more and more people hear about our problems.”

Reed kept his mouth shut, not correcting the lovely barmaid that it was four dead in the three weeks. She’d know by tomorrow morning at the latest. Tomorrow would be his last one. That way he’d have plenty of people scared, and by doing it two nights in a row he avoided patterns the police would pick up on.

Reed said to Maura, “You know if Blue Balls are playing tonight?”

“No, they’re only at the International on Saturdays. But with the trouble they may not be playing at all.”

“A shame.” He left some bills on the bar for her and headed out the door, nodding to the few regulars. It was good to be seen.

He slept soundly after a shower and a few minutes cleaning his scratches. He wasn’t used to sleeping late. Usually the twins would start their day early by jumping into bed with him until he woke, pretended to be a monster, and tickled them until everyone had to lay back and catch their breath. The whole time the flat would fill with the smell of sausages as Rose prepared breakfast. It was a grand existence, but he didn’t mind just lying in a big bed as the sun climbed a little higher behind the clouds that seemed to constantly surround Dublin.

By 10:00 he was out of bed and checking his forehead for any sign of infection. Aside from being fresh, they didn’t look much different than the set of scratches he had on his neck from the day his old man lost twenty-five quid on some horse at Gowran Park. He shrugged. It was almost over and he’d be the toast of the town when he got back.

Later that day, as the sun began to set—at least he thought it was setting because it was getting dark though he couldn’t actually see the sun—Reed stepped out of his hotel room and down through the main lobby. He had the last of the knives he had bought in Limerick. A sharp Gerber four-forty steel, with a four-inch blade. With luck he would have to toss it in the Liffey by 10 o’clock. As he turned toward the river, he heard a voice.

“Hang on there.”

Reed turned to find a Dublin cop with hard brown eyes staring down at him. His dark-blue uniform had the name Reily on the left breast. The cop was near his age and looked to be in good shape. That might cause problems if things didn’t go well.

Reed turned and faced the cop, conscious of the bandage he’d stuck over his scratch.

The cop walked over to him, eyeing his forehead. “What happened there, boyo?”

“Tree branch.”

“What were ya doin’ in a tree at your age?”

Reed wasn’t sure if the cop was having a go at him or serious. “Low branch. I was walking.”

The copper nodded and said, “Where you off to this time of night?”

“Six? This time of night is right for a pop before dinner.”

The cop nodded at the answer. “Where d’ya go?”

“Usually the Ball Alley House.”

The cop took in the information and stepped back. Reed tensed like he might be hit or more cops would swoop in and grab him. He had the knife on him. He’d hate to use it on this cop. He wiggled his hip and felt the knife in its scabbard snug against his waistband. He checked out the copper’s uniform, trying to detect any kind of protective vest under it. Too hard to tell. Reed decided he’d have to stab him in the neck quick and deep. The only problem was that it would bring a lot of heat. He’d be gone, but it was a danger regardless.

The cop said, “Bollocks.”

Reed just stared at the beefy man.

“Bakurs on Thomas or the Cukoos Nest beat the arse off the Ball Alley House.”

Reed relaxed slightly. “Ah, it will have to do. That’s my place.”

The cop said, “You got a funny accent. Where you from?”

“Galway.”

“What brings ya to the Big Smoke?”

Reed considered his answer as he calmly placed his hand on his hip, an inch from the knife. This would have to be fast.

An old Honda zipped around the corner and swerved to miss a trash bin in the road, nearly causing it to run down the cop. To make matters worse, the driver beeped at him. The cop hopped onto the sidewalk, pushing Reed away from the street too.

With the cop next to him and distracted, Reed reached under his loose shirt, gripped the hard handle of the Gerber, and prepared for a fluid motion of slashing up, then planting that thing right in the cop’s thick neck.

But the cop jumped back into the street yelling, “You fucking rice-grinding shite!” Without a glance back at Reed, he trotted down the street and hopped into his small, unmarked car. Within twenty seconds the vehicle was racing past Reed toward the speeding Honda.

An hour later, Reed was behind a young American couple slowly strolling toward one of the local hotels. The five-story building had a decent restaurant and bar in the lobby. Reed hoped they were staying at the hotel and were on their way back instead of stopping for a bite and pint. He stayed back a ways until they were to the door of the hotel, then closed the distance to see where they were headed. The man was maybe thirty and built like a model, too thin and too neat. The woman was younger, about twenty-three and fresh-looking like a lot of the Americans from California or Florida. She had long blond hair and looked like she’d had to grease herself to slide into the Levi’s gripping her hips.

Reed came up the front steps and almost knocked into them in the lobby. They had stopped to look over the restaurant’s posted menu. Reed peered at the man. He wouldn’t be thinking about a toasted sandwich if he had a girl like that stuck on his arm. Typical Yank.

He eased past them like he was heading to the lifts, and then a miracle happened. They followed him. It couldn’t have been more natural. As he stood by the buttons, he asked the man, “What floor?”

He had a funny accent, even just saying, “Four, please.”

Reed nodded and mumbled, “Me too,” as he hit the button. He glanced over at the couple. The girl smiled at him with a dazzling spray of white.

Reed paused so they could get off the elevator, then followed them down the narrow hallway. The cheap carpet made a swoosh sound as they all glided along. His right hand was up on his hip.

The couple slowed at a room five from the end of the hall and the man fumbled with the plastic card key. Reed heard the door click and then saw a crack of light from the inside. He was on the man right as he entered the doorway, knife out and slashing deep across his throat before the girl even turned to see what the funny noise was. He shoved the shocked man into the bathroom to his left and advanced down on the girl as she turned. Before she could say a word, he had a hand across her beautifully sculpted face and the knife deep into her solar plexus. He wiggled his hand, slicing through veins and heart tissue as he watched the life seep right out of her blue eyes. He pulled the blade out and sliced into her left breast, amazed at the clear liquid that gushed out before the blood. Fucking implants. Unnatural.

He carefully placed her on the wide, unmade bed, even setting her head on the pillow. Then he turned and stepped toward the bathroom. The man was motionless on the ground and the blood still seeped from the massive wound on his neck. Reed had to step away from the door as the red ocean threatened to flow over the threshold. He leaned in and snatched a white towel from inside the door and wiped down his bloody knife, then his hands. He twisted the towel and laid it across the door frame so it would stop the blood from spilling into the room. He didn’t want anyone to find these two for as long as possible.

He checked his shoes quickly, reset the knife in its scabbard, took the Do not disturb sign from the inside door handle, and then opened the door. After hanging the sign, he casually walked back to the lift, more than satisfied with his last job. Now this whole ugly business was over. His own job secured, no one the wiser. As he waited for the lift, he made a quick check of his hands and found a splash of blood on the back of his right one.

The lift bell sounded and the doors parted. He looked up into a wide, round face that seemed familiar.

“Jaysus fucking Christ. What might Galway’s new tourism director be doing in Dublin?” He smiled showing crooked, browning teeth. The lift doors closed behind him as he came up to Reed. “This whole butcher business has pushed every fucking tourist in the country to Galway.”

Reed returned the smile, no easy task. “Hello, Jason, what’re you doin’ here?”

“Just passing through. I’m settin’ up a network for the university. But I thought you’d be up to your arse in work back home.”

“I return tomorrow,” Reed said.

Jason said, “You never answered my question. What’re you doin’ here?”

Reed let a little smile cross his lips. “I better show you.” He let his right hand come to his hip and started to lift his shirt as he slapped the emergency stop button with his left. He’d show the man just how far a good tourism director might go for his job.

HEN NIGHT
BY SARAH WEINMAN

It took three tries before I understood what Deborah was saying. The first time I must have completely misheard; the second, I simply refused to believe it.

“ You’re absolutely shitting me,” I said after the third try.

“Of course not, Andrea. When do I ever?”

She had a point. We’d known each other all our lives and Deborah never, ever joked around about anything. Let alone about where she wanted to have her hen night.

“But Dublin?” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.

“Don’t worry, I’m paying for everyone.”

I gritted my teeth. Even though we’d been best friends almost since birth, Deborah always had the knack for reminding me that she’d been raised on the right side of the Jewish ghetto in Golders Green, while I’d been stuck in Temple Fortune—or rather, I’d had the misfortune to grow up there.

“That’s not it. But Dublin? During Bank Holiday weekend? Are you barking mad? It’ll be swarmed with idiotic drunks looking for a shag.”

“And how’s that different from any London pub? Besides, I want something special. And you’ve always wanted to go to Dublin, I thought. At least, that’s what you say practically every other week.”

I often wondered why I was still friends with her. Family ties, perhaps; our mothers met in university and still rang each other every morning to discuss the latest community gossip and which of their friends’ children were misguided enough to break their parents’ hearts and marry outside of the faith. That’s why Deborah’s engagement to Sam had been such a coup; his family was well-respected, he was a financier with London’s oldest and finest, and best of all, he was Jewish. The community didn’t realize he was a complete and utter asshole and that he and Deborah only stayed together because she had good tits and he was well-hung, but I tried to keep those opinions to myself.

Most of the time, I remembered why we remained mates. Yes, she could be a bitch, but she was utterly loyal; once she’d decided you were one of her friends, that was that, and she’d do anything she possibly could for you. She was blunt, and often too harsh, but her advice cut to the quick and was nearly always right. She also had a freakishly good memory, especially about what her friends wanted and ought to do with themselves.

That’s why she was dead right about Dublin. I’d done Celtic studies at University College (to go with a more suitable biology major) and had spent a joyous summer after graduation traveling through Ireland. But for some inexplicable reason, I’d spent most of my time in and around Limerick, missing the capital city completely. In the two years since, I’d been chained to the lab at King’s so much I’d barely left the South Bank, let alone had time for a proper vacation. I was certainly due.

“You have me there,” I admitted. “So who else is coming?”

“Adele, Laura, Hannah, and Carol have said yes, though now that I think about it, I’m not so sure I should have invited Hannah. She’s been such a cow about Sam. Is she going to be any fun?”

I shrugged. Hannah was the only one of us with the guts to tell Deborah her—and our—true feelings about him. In a group, Sam was all sweetness and light, but any time he caught one of us alone, his hands started wandering and his speech turned filthy. The last time he’d tried something on me, I stamped my foot on his ankle until he finally screamed and left. That was six months ago.

“I’m sure Hannah is just trying to be helpful,” I said. “And you’d feel awful if you didn’t invite her.”

“You’re so right. This is so exciting! My last hurrah as a single woman and all my best friends will be with me. It’ll be fantastic!”

I said no more.

A month later, the six of us boarded a Ryanair plane and spent the hour-long flight catching up. It was the first time in a year we’d all been together, and as the noise level increased, I remembered why I’d always begged off: There was something about women in groups that made my skin crawl. One-on-one was fine, but en masse, I remembered these were Deborah’s friends, not mine; that she’d befriended each of them in primary school or uni or at work, and that I had little in common with them.

It was bad form to take out the crime novel I was only pages away from finishing, so I pretended to take part in the conversation. Thank God it was a short flight.

As I stared into space, I heard a snatch of conversation from behind me.

“Did you see Sam before you left?”

“No, Carol. He left a message saying he was stuck at work.”

“Typical, isn’t it?”

“I know, but he’s a very busy man, what could he do?”

Hannah cut in. “Too busy to say goodbye to his fiancée? Ridiculous.”

I tuned them out. I thought about what I would do when I finally reached Dublin. I had no desire to see the usual tourist crap, but didn’t expect anyone else to share my interest in lesser-known haunts. No doubt they’d spend most of their time shopping.

Sure enough, once we’d arrived and settled ourselves in the hotel bar, Adele announced to loud approving noises that she wanted to go to Grafton Street “to see what Dublin deems high fashion.”

I declined. “I’m rather knackered at the moment. What say we meet up back here at 8 o’clock before going to Temple Bar?”

“That’ll do. Enjoy … whatever it is you’ll be doing,” said Deborah.

I lay down in my room for a few minutes but quickly grew restless. I had a pilgrimage to make. After asking the concierge for directions, a ten-euro cab ride took me outside the premises of the Irish-Jewish Museum in the Portobello district. The building was a lot smaller than I’d imagined, and the actual museum was even tinier: a room filled with mementos of several lost Irish-Jewish communities and an entire section devoted to Chaim Herzog, the Dublin-born former President of Israel.

The curator, a stout woman in her late thirties, looked almost apologetic. “The communities were very small, and they didn’t donate very much. But we do what we can.”

“You don’t need to apologize at all,” I said. “It’s wonderful. I’m so glad I could come.”

“You also know about the upstairs synagogue?”

“Is it open for visitors?”

She smiled. “You’re in luck. But only for another hour.” She stepped away when another, more irate visitor, demanded she answer his question.

I left the room and walked upstairs. What awaited me were the remnants of one of the oldest city synagogues in all its haphazard glory. To my left was the ark, half-open with a Torah scroll peeking through; a thin layer of dust covered the wooden pews, and a display to my right held toys donated by the area schools. It had been a very long time since I’d stepped inside the premises of any sort of synagogue, and I hadn’t given much thought to praying lately. But suddenly, I was gripped with the desire to face the ark, kneel down, and pray.

I’m sorry, my mind repeated over and over. And I hope you’ll understand.

The fever passed and I stood up, mildly disoriented. A voice called out to me: “Miss? We’re closing the museum soon.”

I checked my watch. Six o’clock already. I dashed down the stairs, called a cab, and was back in my hotel room within twenty minutes. After a quick shower and change, I headed down to the bar, certain I was early. Deborah and the girls were well into their second round.

“You have a good afternoon then?” Hannah asked somewhat condescendingly. I noticed she was wearing new shoes, which pointed in odd directions and were decidedly unflattering.

“I got a good nap,” I replied, trying not to stare at her shoes.

Too late. “Ferragamo. I never thought I’d find them in this ridiculous town.”

“Stop it, Hannah,” said Deborah, who’d swiveled herself in our direction, “We should get to Temple Bar. It’s probably a madhouse by now.”

It was. I’d warned Deborah, but even I couldn’t imagine how many people had crowded themselves into this small area of bars, restaurants, and art galleries. I could barely hear what anyone was saying, and when at one point I tried to sit on a bench in the square’s center, a shabby vagrant launched into a tirade about how he’d earmarked the seat for his own. I jumped away and followed the girls into Gogarty’s, where Deborah had reserved the upper floor for her hen night needs.

Once we’d settled into our seats, Adele took out the tiara, Hannah brought out the lingerie, and a waiter appeared with cocktails. The chattering got louder and the gossip got nastier by the time Deborah quieted us all with a challenge.

“It’s my last big weekend out and I’m with the girls I love most. But before I get married, I have to purge myself of all the shit I used to do as a single girl—”

“You’re still single!” Carol yelled out.

“Barely, and besides, it’ll be so much nicer when I’m married and I can boss you lot around.”

Deborah giggled, and we joined in to humor her, even though it really wasn’t all that funny.

“So in the spirit of things, we’re all going to play a game called Confession.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” I said.

“That’s because I just made it up. But it’ll be great. So, each of you tell us something you’ve never revealed before, then drink your whole cocktail.”

The rest of us glanced around nervously. Deborah was obviously pissed out of her tree, but this was a bit much.

“Well? Who’s going to go first?”

Adele sat up in her chair. “Oh, all right. I shagged two blokes at the same time in uni.”

Laura cackled. “How was it?”

Adele downed her drink. “Bloody painful!”

Everybody laughed, and the tension lifted.

Laura then proudly confessed to skimming a few thousand quid from her boss over the last couple of years. “But you’ve met him,” pointing to Hannah and Carol, “so you see why. He’s a complete tosser.”

They nodded, and Laura drank up.

Carol’s confession was hardly anything, just some bit about shoplifting. The only surprise was where and how much.

“Harrods? A five-thousand-pound sweater?” Deborah’s eyes nearly popped out. “But how did you get away with it?”

Carol shrugged. “Dunno, but it wasn’t so hard. Too nerve-wracking, though, and I wouldn’t do it again.” She looked down and fingered her sleeve. Seeing that, we all drank.

Hannah put down her glass angrily. “You lot make me fucking sick.”

“What?” we chorused.

“You make me absolutely ill! Confessing all these horrendous things. You’re all just play-acting anyway. You wouldn’t know what something horrible is if you stared it in the face!”

Hannah’s own had changed from red to purple.

“It’s confession time, and I’ll tell each and every one of you something, oh yes I will. Adele, you’re a malicious cow who’d stab every one of us in the back if you could. And probably has. Remember David?”

Adele’s face paled.

“Oh, yes bet you thought I’d never find out. You sorry little bitch. And then you, Carol, always stealing my work, passing it off as your own, and then getting better marks!”

Hannah stood up. “Now, I don’t have much to say to you, Laura, but that you’d admit so happily to stealing money from someone who you set me up with? That you said time and again would be a good match for me? Why the fuck would I want to date someone like that, then?”

“I … I …” Laura stammered helplessly.

“And as for you, Andrea, you’re simply nothing. No drive, no personality. I mean, why are you here? Because of Deborah’s charity, that’s why. Because you’re just the poor fucking pseudo-relation who grew up on the wrong side of town and always got the scraps. Deborah’s not your friend, she just pities you. Like the rest of us.”

I couldn’t move. It hurt to hear what I’d long suspected was the truth, especially broadcast for the entire bar.

“And then there’s the would-be bride. Ha, that’s what you think. Well, I’ve got a surprise, because it’s time you knew the truth about Sam and what an utter wanker he is.”

All of us sat on the edge of our seats, looking between Hannah and Deborah.

“Do you know he’s tried to pull each and every woman sitting here? In some cases, he’s actually succeeded. In fact, thanks to your dear fiancé, I’m going to have to get a fucking procedure when I get home from this sorry excuse for a party.”

“You fucking bitch!” Deborah leaned across the table and would have punched Hannah if Laura hadn’t caught her arm in time. “I never want to see any of you again!” Hannah threw the remains of her drink on the table and stormed out of the bar.

Deborah sat down shakily, trying to get her bearings. “Can someone get me another fucking drink?”

The night somehow continued, though the party feeling was long gone. After a while, Adele turned to me and asked half-heartedly if I had anything to confess.

I thought of the last time I’d seen Sam, right before I was due to board the plane. I’d asked him to come over even though he was busy at work. He’d been nastier than ever, threatening to tell Deborah all sorts of lies about me that would irrevocably ruin our friendship, hurling all sorts of awful insults at me. I couldn’t help it. I grabbed the nearest thing I could to shut him up. It wasn’t till he’d fallen to the ground, blood gushing out of his head, his eyes fixed in a stricken expression, that I realized what had happened. I had to act fast, especially as the cab I’d called would be arriving at any moment. Thankfully, so were the garbage collectors.

“No, not a thing,” I said, and finished the remains of my cocktail.

THE MAN FOR THE JOB
BY GARY PHILLIPS

No, how the hell could I be Wilson Pickett?”

“Oh, right. Sorry,” the square mumbled as I stepped out of the cab. He went down the street the way he’d been heading when he stopped to ask me that bullshit.

“You sure this is where you want me to let you?”

“Ain’t no sweat, man, I can handle it.” I peeled off some bills and handed them to the driver. On the backseat was a folded newspaper and an article about that bald chick, the singer, Shanay, Sinbad, whatever the fuck, and how she’d joined some kind of Catholic cult and was calling for the Pope to renounce Beelzebub. Hilarious.

“Enjoy your stay, sir.” He touched his cap and put his hack in gear. The car was just like the kind I’d seen roving around London, only there weren’t as many of them here. You’d think they’d be stacked up at the hotel I was staying at, but the doorman hipped me to hoof over to O’Connell Street, where I found some lined up.

I snuggled my upturned collar closer to my neck and put the zipper of my leather jacket all the way up. When you got the crawlies like I had, everything is like constant heated pins poking from beneath your skin. Plus the goddamn cold, which I wasn’t a fan of to begin with—gloomy weather was all up in my ass. I looked across a section of the park and could see the projects, or estates as they called them over here, just beyond.

Walking head down, hands tucked away, I knew deep inside but wouldn’t fess up that I was two steps from being certified a fool. I could have been back in my comfortable hotel room, hands roaming all over Molly, Mary, or whatever the fuck was the name of the honey who’d started conversing with me in that pub after the game at Lansdowne.

“I’ve seen you play before,” she said, her liquid browns steady on me.

I’d been giving her and a couple of her girlfriends the glance. They’d started whispering and giggling to each other after me and some of the others from the Dragons and the Claymores had strolled into the joint. The teams had come to Dublin to play an exhibition game at the stadium normally used for rugby and soccer. The stands weren’t nearly as full for us as they would be for their own games, but the curiosity factor and that football, my kind of football, involved its own slamming and swearing got some of the natives out to see us. What the fuck, slappin’ heads was slappin’ heads.

And where you had muscular dudes grappling and tearing at each other, you had the type of woman who dug that kind of action—and not just to watch.

“When was that?” I said, moving to give her space at the bar. She leaned in.

“In Chicago. I lived there for a while. Had a job selling dog products.”

“Dog products?”

“Flea-control solutions, chewy treats, that sort of rubbish.”

I liked her toothy smile. Well, okay, I also liked the fact she had some guns straining that sweater she was wearing. Those bad boys were calling my name. But damn, she knew I was looking. She was too. “So you saw me on TV?”

“Live and in color,” she said, assessing me up and down like a coach figuring out if I was first-string or pine-rider. “Soldier Field. The Falcons against the Bears, before they were in the Central Division. You had two touchdowns for Atlanta.” She paused, considering something, then said, “I believe you shook your arse at the crowd after that second one.”

I gave her my gee-whiz Urkel bit. Babes like a motha-fuckah to be self-effacing and shit. “Just trying to keep the fun in the game. Say did we—?”

“No, Zelmont, we didn’t. All your women blur in your mind, do they?” She’d lit a cigarette and let the smoke float between us.

“It’s not that, it’s just, you know, when you’re on the road during the season, shit just gets jumbled. ’Course, it’s not like I’d forget you.”

She knew it was bullshit, but it wasn’t as if we were carrying on a romance like in one of them whack Merchant Ivory flicks I’d been forced to watch once. She knew the score.

And not an hour later, we were doing it freestyle in my room and I had my hands and lips all over her gorgeous tatas.

“I know this is going to sound off,” I said later as we lay in bed, my hand rubbing her firm, what she’d call it? Arse. Hilarious.

“You’re mad for me and want me to journey to your mansion in America with ya?” She said it in that kind of exaggerated Irish accent they used to do in those old black-and-whites where some stooped-over gray-haired dame played Jimmy Cagney’s mother.

“Right,” I said, gently squeezing one of her breasts, getting a moan out of her. She put her hand on mine. “Do you know where to cop some crack? Get some, I mean.”

She laughed down in her throat. “Good thing I was in the States. Over here, crack means to fart and the craic means, well, means the good life. Which,” and her amber eyes crinkled at the edges, “I guess is a kind of way of looking at it. Though lately that slang has found its way here, meaning what you mean.”

I had no goddamn idea what the fuck she was talking about. I was needing, but had enough sense to know it was best not to go off and probably screw up what might be my only connection, and my only chance of doing the nasty again before I had to light out tomorrow.

She reached across me for the phone on the night stand, those wonderful titties mashing against my chest. “Let me make a few calls, darling.”

And that’s how I found myself staring, confused, at a sign. I figured the burning in my head had bored a hole in it and the crack cravings had me seeing mirages and what not. But then I remembered that Connolley, our backup quarterback, had been over here before to see some cousins and had mentioned that it wasn’t unusual to see signs in Gaelic.

I sniffed, resisting the urge to scratch my itching, the invisible ants marching up and down my arms in sneakers with spikes. I tried to get rid of the image of hundreds of those tiny pincer jaws taking little chunk after little chunk out of my flesh. There was a sign in English just to the left of the Irish one, but the only reason I’d stopped was not to locate myself, but to get psyched. I was on a field I hadn’t played on before, and had better be on my J.

Maura, yeah, that was her name, had told me that this place, Ballymun, was going through renovations. There was a main street running through the middle with brown and gray buildings on either side, and three tall main towers standing out. I didn’t grow up in the projects but had been in more than a few in my time for one reason or another. Lately, though, it had been for the reason I was here now after being given my walking papers from the NFL for failing a random drug test, and getting bounced to the European league.

And it ain’t like I was 24-7 on the pipe. I wasn’t no weak-kneed dope fiend. It was just that my gimpy hip had been giving me fits again and I’d been hiding that precious detail from the docs. But if I asked for more than the usual allotment of painkillers, they’d know something was up. Hell, if you played ball for more than two years you just naturally needed some kind of legal narcotic cocktail to dull the constant throb from that sprained ankle that never had much of a chance to heal, or the tingle you never lost in your hamstring when you had to cut sharp down field. That was expected. The league’s croakers knew what to give you for that shit, that was the ordinary.

But my on-again, off-again hip had started to pain me something fierce after I’d been tackled by this wheat-smellin’ Russian fuck playing for the Monarchs two weeks ago in Wembley Stadium. Bad enough after that I’d started cutting the pain with crack, knowing it would hype the demand in me if I wasn’t cool, and I could be the monkey dancing on the string again.

The fuck? Enough of that inspecting myself humbug. This wasn’t no excursion to some all broads college with me working to get some muff diving professor and her prize pupil back with me to my room. Had to stay on point. I crossed behind a bulldozer on the low end of a mound of torn-down brick and wood and glass. There were a couple of figures moving over the mound, picking at this and lifting that in their search for plumbing pipes or porcelain to sell, I assumed.

I went past them and, checking the directions Maura had written for me, found the doorway I was looking for in the night. Not too surprisingly, there were some kids bivouacked in front of the building I’d been told to find. A couple of them were passing a joint and another was bopping to a boom box blazing a Tupac number, “Dear Mama.” The aroma of their chronic drifted to me as I got close. Their blunt popped and sizzled, too many seeds in the cheap shit they were toking on.

“Hey,” one of the kids said, spying me as Shakur growled, “I reminisced on tha stress I caused, it wuz hell huggin’ on my mama from a jail cell.”

“You a boxer, are you, mistah? Come to show us hooligans how to put our energies and urges to good use?” He did a quick flurry, hands and feet movin’ and grovin’ all the time, his eyes never leaving mine.

The others cracked up. The oldest of them couldn’t have been over thirteen. Since yesterday it had been hard as Chinese chess for me to understand their accents. But now with the jones all over me like poison ivy, I was getting every word.

To the one, they all looked hungry. Not for a burger so much as that something they couldn’t get growing up around here. Say what you want about anything else, but that was a condition I knew something about, ’cause it was how I’d come up in South Central L.A., even if I never did live in the projects.

“Gotta do some business.” I flashed a ducat.

“Yeah?” the one who’d called me a boxer said. “Like ’em young, do you?”

“Sound like I’m cooing like Michael Jackson?” Not that I believed for a second these little shits wouldn’t have taken me around the corner and laid a busted chair leg or rusted muffler upside my head in a heartbeat. I pressed the money into the kid’s chest and he took hold of it. I pointed at the door behind him.

He snorted and, making a show like he was Jeeves, stepped aside, bowing and indicating for me to come forward. What a surprise, the door wasn’t locked, and I entered the tower called Pearse, whoever the hell that was.

As the door closed behind me, my radar bumpin’ in case one of them got a notion, I heard a clop-clop. I looked back through the safety glass and got sight of another kid in a watchcap and torn windbreaker galloping up to the others on a spotted nag. The horse’s belly was sagging, the hind legs barely thicker than my arms, but damned if those kids didn’t gather around it, petting and nuzzling the sad beast. Maybe they’d use the scratch I gave them to feed the thing rather than waste it on weed. Yeah, maybe.

I went up the stairs; the hallways were pretty clean and there were few busted lights considering it was public housing. I got to the fourth floor, an older lady all bundled up coming at me from the opposite direction, humming a tune. She lifted her head and then stopped singing. Her eyes went wide and she breathed all funny ’cause she wasn’t sure what to make of me prowlin’ about.

“What’s this then?” she said as I stepped past. “You going undercover for the Gardaí?” She smelled of cigarettes and crushed flowers, and I finally got to the door I’d been directed to after Maura had made her third call.

“Now, mind you, you’re an able lad, Zelmont,” Maura had said, her hand down between my legs, “but you want to stay sharp, right? They’ll be more scared of you, what with you being big and black and delicious”—she kissed me—“but they grow them tough over there too, right? Just because this isn’t the South Side or Harlem doesn’t mean they’ll all curl up and cry.”

“Thanks, baby,” I’d said, kissing her back. “You just order up a roast beef sandwich or potato pancakes or whatever the hell y’all eat over here from room service, and I’ll be back soon for round two.”

“You better,” and she put some flutter in her lids while she locked her hand around my johnson, sliding her grip up and down its growing length. But I had the cravings so bad I didn’t let her finish and left her snug under the blankets and me flicking icicles off my nose.

“What?” came a voice from inside the apartment after I knocked on number 435 a second time.

“Ian said I was cool.” That was the name Maura told me to give.

“Did he now?” I didn’t hear any feet scuffling.

I felt like hitting the door with the dull end of my fist to let him know I wasn’t fuckin’ around, but didn’t want to jump wrong on turf I was clearly out of my element in. “Look here, I don’t want to conduct my business in the street.” A pensioner from the next door apartment was glaring at me. She wasn’t going nowhere until I did.

“Who did you say?”

Fuck. “Ian. What? I talk like I got feathers in my mouth? Open this mothafuckah up, man, c’mon. I got the cheddah,” I spat close to the wood. “Got dollars if you want.”

The door hinged back. “Oh, well, that’s different then, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t see much of the room beyond and didn’t much care. I pushed through, if only to keep the old girl from giving me more of her vulture’s stare. She was getting on my nerves, which were already about to shoot out of my pores, tingling as my sweat dripped over their raw ends.

“You a long way from home, my brother.”

“You ain’t never lied.” The one who’d opened the door was lanky, with a dainty potbelly like you saw on cats who appreciated their apple pop tarts too much. He wore a pullover shirt and pants made out of cotton so goddamn thin I wondered how he didn’t freeze his nuts off when he went out in them. He was barefoot but had on a plaid snap-brim hat pulled low over longish hair.

“And you’re in need, yeah?”

“That’s right.” We’d each taken a step back from the other. I knew I could take his skinny ass, just like I knew it wasn’t only me and homeboy in this crib. Which wasn’t jacked up—no holes in the wall, the furniture, while there wasn’t much of it, wasn’t busted up, and there were no panes missing from the windows. There was even a TV on low with that big-headed Al Gore on it answering questions about him getting his campaign for the Dems nomination underway.

“So what is it you want, sir?” He smiled, lifting his chin some even though he was pretty much my height.

I was holding a few folded bills. “What I want is some crack.”

He cocked his head to one side.

“But I’ll settle for some snow,” I said, putting a finger to the side of my nose and sniffing. Maura had explained to me that rock cocaine wasn’t that big over here like it was in London, but that I should be able to purchase some flake. I figured at the hotel I could find some ammonia and cook it down to the shit I wanted.

“Ah, well, you’ve come to the right place, my American friend.” He made to take the money from my hand.

“Don’t play me for no chump,” I said, holding onto them benjamins like I was guarding grandma’s teeth

He snapped his fingers. “Right you are. Barbara,” he said, adjusting his hat. To my left, where I guess the bedroom was, a thick-shouldered but pretty-in-a-rough-way chick with dirty blond hair stepped into the doorway. She had on tight jeans and a loose shirt, heavy boots on her feet. She jiggled a plastic baggie with a measure of white stuff in it. Maybe she figured I’d make like Rover and start panting. Did I look that messed up?

“Hello,” she said, being too friendly.

“Hi yourself.” The way I was positioned, I could drop her boyfriend with a kick and spin, and catch Barbara just right on the jaw. Between the two of them, she’d be the one to give me trouble. She didn’t move and neither did he. I unzipped my jacket to give my arms more freedom.

I walked toward her, one hand out and the other extending the bills. Maura had told me I should be able to get a hit for roughly forty-five American. She took the money and gave me the shit. I opened the bag, worried the powder was more yellow than white. I sampled a taste on my pinkie, my face scrunching up.

“This is heroin.”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Did I say I wanted H?”

“Look, Sonny Jim, that’s the way it is, yeah? You come for your high, get mellow, and we’re done.” The dude was peddling backward, no doubt to fetch his persuader.

I was hurtin’ but I wasn’t gonna be bitched up, especially by some foreigners. Naw, that kind of shit don’t happen to me. “Give me back my scratch. We ain’t got a deal.” I tossed the bag on a chair.

“We’re not Dunnes, understand? All sales final.” The chick stood her ground, ready to throw down. She squinted at me.

“You’re that hard man, aren’t you? The one that was mouthing off on the telly last night about how you’d come to the land of Lucky Charms to show us how to play real football.”

Usually I got a twang in my dick when a broad recognized me. Not tonight. “My money, huh?”

“You say he’s famous?” the man asked, now positioned next to a low cabinet with a lamp on it. “On a team, is he?”

“Yeah,” she said, her tongue cavorting. “And he used to be something over in the States.”

“Still am, baby.” Now these mothafuckahs were clownin’ me.

“Right, he’s worth something to somebody,” the man said, as he whipped open the cabinet door and reached inside for his gat. But I’d already turned, stepped, and leaped. I plowed into him and we knocked the lamp over, breaking it apart, making the room shadowy. The chick was also in motion and she jumped on my back, rockin’ and sockin’.

“Spence, for fuck’s sake, get him down!” she hollered, as I bent my arm back and got it around her neck and threw her off me and into her boyfriend. Problem was, she wasn’t without reflexes and she’d grabbed hold of me and took me with her. It was like some kind of fucked-up Abbott and Costello movie with the three of us wrasslin’ and yankin’ on each other.

I got a grip on Spence’s upper arm to keep him from planting that piece, which wasn’t much of one, in my grill, while Broom Hilda rode me like Lafite Pincay and punched me good in the lower back and kidneys. I pushed back to the wall to put my weight on Barbara and still keep a grip on Spence. I managed to tag him with an uppercut, jarring his eyeballs in their sockets.

“Come on, be fair, we’ll share what we make on you,” the blonde said.

I couldn’t figure out whether to laugh or cry. Wasn’t no one in the NFL or Pop Warner, for that matter, ’bout to put together a buffalo nickel to ransom my sorry self. We tumbled to the floor all tangled up.

I was hitting Spence again, who was straddling me, but homegirl, who was underneath me, got her arm around my neck and hammer-locked the shit out of my Adam’s apple. I had to let go of the man and he crashed the muzzle of his gun down against my temple. But like I said, it wasn’t much of a gun, it was a derringer, like what Jim West used to pop out of his sleeve to make Dr. Loveless shit in reruns of the Wild Wild West TV show.

For a hot minute the black lights had me, but I couldn’t let ’em take me under.

“That’s it,” I heard her say, as if she were deep in the ground below me. “Put him under.”

Spence clubbed at my head again, but I got my shoulder up and that took most of the blow. I drove an elbow into her rib cage and that got her gasping and sputtering. I shook loose from Barbara and came up, arms wrapped around Spence, taking him over in a tackle. I was quick enough that by the time he tried to level his pea shooter, the back of his head made contact, loudly, with the thinly carpeted floor, dazing him.

Girlfriend got her arms around my legs and put her choppers into me like my thigh like it was prime rib. “Fuck!” I screamed, and used my fist as a club to work at the base of her neck. That got her jaw open and I straight right-crossed the broad, making blood spray.

Spence fired his derringer but I’d grabbed the hefty chick for a shield and he’d pulled his aim up, shooting the ceiling. We were back on the floor and I lashed out with my foot, catching Spence alongside his cheek. He bowled over and, shoving the woman away, I jumped on him and commenced to wail on the chump like he’d stolen from my baby’s mama. He lay still and I got up, putting the derringer in my jacket pocket. That toy wasn’t much of a threat, but I might need it.

“Come on,” I said to her, a jagged piece of the busted lamp steady in my hand, on her eyeball.

“You gonna have your way with me?” There didn’t seem to be a lot of fear in her voice. Maybe Barbara the blonde was sizing me up to be a replacement for Spence.

She got off the floor and I made her give me their stash. It was H and some marijuana. I had a plane to catch tomorrow afternoon and what was the chance I’d be able to parlay this stuff into the coke I needed before then? Fuck it, though. They had to offer decent recompense for inconveniencing me. I fooled with the idea of doing Barbara—big-legged women had serious effects on me. She was giving me that look. Of course, there was Maura waiting for me at the hotel and the chronic would cut some of my hype. Of course, pussy was pussy …

She started unbuttoning her shirt. I watched a thin trail of sweat dribble between her braless breasts. She smiled, showing overlapping teeth.

I uppercut her, dropping her like a sack of cement. “I can’t shake the feeling that you’d slip a blade between my ribs just for fun.”

I left her blinking at me, sitting on the floor. I stepped over the beaten Spence and left with my plastic bag of thrills.

Back at the hotel, the fight and fatigue had spent some of my craving. With a little weed, some blasts of the scotch I’d bought earlier, and hopefully mucho head from my visitor, that should keep me tight.

“Darling,” she said. She was laying down, a patch of light across her from the slightly open door to the bathroom.

“They didn’t have any crack.”

“Oh, don’t give out. Come over here and I’ll make it up to you.” She squirmed, that gorgeous ass waiting for me to do something to it.

“You better.” I already had my jacket off.

I was slipping out of my shoes when she came from beneath the covers. The gun she had on me was the business, as they say over here. Not at all like that pop gun of Spence’s

“That’s my lad.” She got out of bed, fully dressed. She grabbed the shit I’d brought back, me sitting there frowning on the end of the bed, watching her, the gun dead on me. “I’d hoped those eejits would get dumb, I think the term is, right, baby? Try to cheat me, would they?”

“And what would have happened if they’d jammed me up?”

She patted my face, doing a kissy thing with her lips. “I had no such worries. You’re too much of a stud to let them do that.”

She was at the door, looking back, halfway into the empty hallway. “I told you I’ve been following your career, Zelmont. I know all about your problems with drugs, how you got exiled over here. And like all of you pampered sportsmen, you can’t imagine a woman not swooning because you have sleek muscles and a lovely dick. Which you do have. You lived up to your reputation.”

“For being stupid.”

“No. I’d say you’re too much a slave of your appetites. That’s going to get you in real trouble someday, love, if you’re not careful. But for my purposes, you were certainly the man for the job.” She left, closing the door quietly behind her.

I curled up on top of the bed, the crack crawlies convulsing my body. I downed half the damn bottle of booze and sweated it out as fast as I took it in. Somewhere around 6:00 in the morning I got to sleep, and at 9:00 I woke up and couldn’t get my eyes shut anymore. I cleaned up and was ready when the bus came to get us for the airport.

Walking through the facility, I spotted a dude reading a Time magazine. There was an article about an expansion football team starting up in Los Angeles called the Barons. L.A. hadn’t had a pro team since the Raiders left. Now that was something. Maybe I had one more chance at the bright lights, just one more shot. Could be last night was a kind of warning.

Get it together, Zee, and there could be the roaring crowds and sweet honeys again, the smack-talkin’ interviews on ESPN and the million dollar endorsement deals pimping glorified grape juice. Yeah, shit yeah. I was going to show Maura and all of them, I was the man for the job. Fuuuck …

THE NEW PROSPERITY
BY PATRICK J. LAMBE

The first thing you have to get used to working in the IT field is all the bloody Pakis. They’re stinking up the cubicles of Ireland with their curry stench. I know they’re not all Pakis, they’re not all angling for their seventy veiled virgins in Jihadville. Some of them are Hindus. Some of them talk with refined Cambridge accents. Some of them will spring for a round or get their feed on in a chipper. A generation or two hence, I wouldn’t doubt they’ll be praying to Mohammed and Ganesh in Gaelic.

Megan says I shouldn’t be so hard. She says Ireland went out to the world, now it’s time for the world to come to Ireland. She might have a point. It’s been a few years since I’ve been on the dole. It’s not like any jackeen who wants a job is left out. Everyone seems to be working with the new prosperity. We all have to eat, even the bloody wogs and Pakis. Can’t accuse me of not doing my part, I was feeding one of them: my boot.

Steel-toed solution.

“A race of bloody poets,” the Englishman says. He’d just walked in, got a look at me as I’m cleaning blood off my boot with a rag dipped in a pint of seltzer water, after me mate Freddy and me had finished our jig on the wog. I’d thought I was done, but got a touch of last-minute inspiration, turned heel on the way back to the pub, and kicked him two more times, “One for Molly Maguire and one for the Queen Mother.” Freddy got a kick out of that one, doubled over laughing.

“Fucking blow in, shouldn’t have been trying to pull a Bloom on us. He should be sticking his little brown stick into his own kind,” I say, as I replace the rag with a shotglass, tilt the Jameson down. I winked at Megan when I said it. She was a beauty all right, if not too discerning. I’d often thought about going a round or two with her. Freddy had told me kissing the blarney stone would be more sanitary. He then educated me as to what the lads are up to when the tourists aren’t around. Apparently it’s the biggest cock manger in the whole country.

“Bad form, lads. The Indian fellow works with me. He’s a friend of mine. There’ll be consequences.”

Fred’s bloodlust was still up, but I put my arms around his shoulder before he took a step toward the Englishman; ordered another round of the black, with a Jameson chaser. Something about the Brit’s eyes. I think he lived west side, Tallaght maybe. I felt he was almost one of us, despite the Imperial legacy. He’d been drinking here at the Clannagh for nigh onto a year now, by my best estimate. He’d worked with Fred and me for a few months at the financial institution, babysitting the computers running the new prosperity, feeding off Dublin’s newly ripened teat. A few steps up from the dole, just like the rest of us.

Besides, he had a Celtic surname, as far as I can recall. Figured him for a county boy come back to see how his grandfather lived, before he emigrated to Liverpool to stick rivets in the side of the Imperial Navy. I’d bet he knelt down and genuflected in the direction of the Pope five times a day, just like the rest of the lads throwing back Guinness and Jameson at the pub.

“Fucking wanker. Why don’t ye go back across the sea. We don’t need you stirring the pot over here,” Fred said.

He should be one of the last to speak, Fred. He’s a fucking culchie. Blowed in from County Cork, I think. His company is barely tolerable at the best of times. I wouldn’t have anything to do with him if he didn’t have a throat as often as I did.

The Brit downed his pint in one long, continuous draught, catching my eye the whole time. “There’ll be consequences,” he repeats.

“Call the Gardaí if you’ve a mind,” I said.

The Gardaí had better things to do than worry about a Punjabi bleeding a Ganges of blood into the gutter. The reason me mate and I were so pissed is because the bank we worked at turned us out early. Couple of lads in Balaclavas had robbed the place; gotten away with a boatload of euros. The cunts worked over the narrowback who had repatriated to guard the stash. The Yank had reclaimed his Irish citizenship, only to have the shit kicked out of him with hurley sticks. Freddy and me had gotten a raise out of that. Score one for Ireland.

The Englishman turned and left.

“I’m shaking in me boots,” Fred says. “Threatened by a scut who can’t hold down a job in this economy.” I remembered then, the Brit had been fired. Incompetence, I think. They’d been so desperate for bodies they’d offered to retrain him. He told them to fuck off, and went back on the dole.

I must have been buckled because I found myself in Megan’s gaff a bit after the holy hour. She was a fine thing, Megan. She had the map of Ireland painted on her face, and since I was going in without me slicker, sweet baby Jesus willing, I’d paint a map of the Hebrides all over her sweet belly, in a shade of white paler than her skin.

I don’t know why she took me home. She’d never fancied me before I defended her wee bit of honor. Maybe it was a deeper need, or maybe she really did like me. I stopped thinking about it as soon as I got a glimpse of her pubes.

I love Dublin in the rain, the drops bouncing off the bricks, the stabbers looking like boats riding little rivers between the cobblestones; reminds me of my history lesson. Some of the Vikings, tired of rape and pillage, took a fancy to the place where the River Poddle joined the Liffey; Dubh linn, Black pool in the old language. They’d settled down, married some of the local women, and started trading with the painted inland chiefs.

I felt bad about pulling a legger on Megan, but I thought kindly of her, a heavy blanket between the chill predawn morning and her fine pelt.

She’d surprised me the night before, when we tangled up in each other after we’d done with the rasher. She’d the accent and the attitude, had her pegged for skanger, but she was a bogger, slipped out of Sligo a little after her fourteenth birthday and managed to stay two footfalls away from the whorehouse steps since. I felt like I was the only jackeen left in the whole pissing city.

That is, till the hurley stick took my legs out from under me. I figured it was a couple of local lads looking for a quick score. Then I thought better of it.

It was the worst beating of my life, and not on account of the pain. A couple of Manchester boys and a Yank had turned my piss to blood a few years ago when I was on the piss after a football match. I’d limped around for a few months after that one. I’d probably shrug this one off in under a week. Still, I prayed for a two bulb, or even a wasp to save me from the humiliation.

The fucking wog and the sasancach used hurley sticks on me. Judging by the dried flecks of blood mingling with my fresh batch, I’d say they were the same pieces of Irish ash they’d used to work over the narrowback. The fucking wankers had probably paid for them with euros.

LONELY AND GONE
BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI

Caidé an scéal?

Conas atá tu?

Oh, not Oirish, are you? Funny. You’ve got the pale skin, dark hair, the whole Gaelic vibe ’bout you.

Me? Spent a lot of time here and there. A lot of it here.

No, not literally here, in this pub. Nice place, though, innit? Trés Victorian.

Hey, let a girl buy you a drink.

Yeah, I’m foukin’ serious. Fancy a pint?

Oh. A Scotch man. A thousand pardons. Allan, could you pour this handsome devil here a Johnnie Walker black? To match his hair.

It’s a joke, boyo.

You’re a serious one, aren’t you?

Let me take a wild foukin’ guess: You’re American. And your wedding ring’s in your carry-on, right?

Yeah, sure I’ll watch your drink. I’ve got Allan here to keep me company.

That was quick.

Yeah, sarcasm. Bingo.

Ah, just drink up. Your ice is already melting. Tell me about yourself.

Hi, Jason. I’m Vanessa. Glad we covered the basics.

No, you first. I insist. I’ll get to me in a little while.

Sin scéal eile?

Ah. Knew you were a customer-relations man, Jay. I could just tell.

Ever scale the museum steps—like in Rocky?

Nah, never been. I’m sure I’ll make it there eventually.

Yes, yes.

Hmm.

Very interesting. Really. Would I lie to you, Jaybird?

Oh me?

Me, I’ve got a plane to catch in exactly fourteen hours. Which means I’ve got time to kill. And to be perfectly blunt, Jason, I’d like to spend it with you.

Which is why I poisoned your drink …

Uh-huh.

As you Americans say: deadly.

Whoops.

Was it something I said?

Tá tú air ais.

Means, “I knew you couldn’t cut it abroad.”

It usually takes a few minutes to sink in.

Yeah, it’d be easy to think I’m crazy. Or that I’ve got a seriously sick sense of humor. But part of you is wondering, right? Wondering if there’s a tiny chance that I’m serious?

Jason, mo ghrá, I’m completely serious.

Hand on the Holy Book, I poisoned your drink.

Nasty stuff, too. I’m not going to bore you with the precise chemical compound—you probably didn’t like chemistry in secondary school in Philadelphia, did you?

Didn’t think so.

Well, let’s just cut the shit—in about twelve hours, you’re going to be bleeding out yer eyes. Your skin’s going to turn red and slough off your muscles. It’ll start with an itch. Then you’ll itch all over. It’ll drive you crazy. And you’ll scratch. And you won’t be able to stop.

Yeah. Weapons-grade.

I know it’s easy for you to think that.

Such a mouth on you.

Walk out of this bar and you’ll never see Philadelphia again.

They’re called gardaí here. Guards. And they can’t help you.

No one can.

Only me.

Hey, Jaybird … pub closes at midnight!

An hour and forty-five minutes. That’s a new record.

You started itching, didn’t you?

Oh, sit down. I’ll explain everything. Almost.

Want another drink?

Swear to Christ, I’ll leave it be.

Suit yourself.

Here it is, Jaybird. I’ve been poisoned, too. No, not with the same stuff. Something else. Something worse. If I’m alone, my heart will stop. And my brain will burst.

Oh, I wish it were a bloody poem. No, I mean it literally.

If I don’t have someone within six feet of me at all times, I will die.

What’s that?

Look around you. We’re in a crowded pub on Dame Court. Plenty of people. Until midnight. Until I have to leave and go for a walk down Dame Lane. If I’m not with someone like you, I’ll be one dead dame.

Gallows humor is my specialty. It’s on my CV. Right after biochemistry.

Nah, I never did tell you, did I? Well take a wild foukin’ guess.

Uh-huh. U.S. of A.

I work here. The Celtic Tiger’s been roaring. We’ve got all kinds of labs.

More on the research end, but yeah. You’ve got it.

Ah, I know you’re humoring me. But that’s okay. As long as you humor me for the next twelve hours.

No way, huh?

Okay, then. Piss off.

Really, I’ll poison some other handsome devil. Have a nice flight. Hope your bride doesn’t mind a closed casket.

Bí curamach.

Allan, I’d suck a dick for another pint, so how about it?

Back now, are you?

Your skin must be driving you mad by now.

Me? You want to know about me?

Ah, you’re just looking for the antidote. Nothing more. Maybe a blowjob before you die. Yeah, well ask me arse, ye bollix. I’m desperate. Just not that desperate.

Yeah, I know what I said to Allan. It’s an Oirish thing. Ironic exaggeration. You wouldn’t understand.

Okay, fine, the antidote. We’ll get to that. In a while. First you’ve got to hear my story. Don’t worry, I’ll give you the abridged version.

Look above you. Past the ceiling of this pub, deep into the clear Irish sky. Not as far as the stars. Just below. Can you see it? The spinning silver ball?

Humor me. Tell me you can see it.

Yeah, that spinning silver ball. The foukin’ satellite.

Use your imagination, Jason, for fuck’s sake. That’s why God gave it to you.

Okay. You see it. Now picture this: biochemical triggers in my blood. You can make them silver, too, if you want. Little silver balls, swimming round my red and white cells. AIDS? I’d welcome AIDS. There’s shit we can do ’bout AIDS. We can’t do anything ’bout this. These little silver balls. Can you see them?

Good. Now imagine the big silver ball in the sky.

Yeah, the satellite, Jaybird.

That’s the big silver ball that’s fixed on the tiny silver balls in my blood. It needs six feet circumference to do its job, otherwise the big silver ball could kill innocent people. Besides me, hah hah.

Star wars.

Yeah. My lab’s been busy the past twenty years.

So yeah, okay, if I were to get up from this bar stool and walk across Dame Court? You’d see me lovely body fall to the ground. Dead. Those silver balls are brutal. They grow spikes. In my heart. In my brain.

Jesus can’t help me, but thanks for the sentiment anyway.

Who? Beats the royal fuck out of me. Maybe some jealous foukin’ bastard in the lab. A jilted lover. A bored and horny bureaucrat. Fucked if I know. Maybe I should have given a ride. Suck some dick for science, right?

You can help me by staying with me. For at least eleven hours. That’s when help will arrive, le cúnamh Dé. And the big silver ball won’t be able to say shite about it. As long as you stay within six feet of me.

Oh, my hotel room? Just a few blocks away. I’m at the Westbury. When I’m in Dublin, I make it a point to stay five-star. You’ve gotta see the bathroom.

Yes, that’s where I have the antidote.

Aren’t you going to hold my arm, mo ghrá?

Of course it’s nice. What did you expect? We’re in central Dublin, not foukin’ Galway.

Stop asking. It’s not important. What’s important is you and me. Together. Tonight. Within six feet of each other, at all times.

You don’t mind if I handcuff you to the bed, do you?

No, I wasn’t exactly joking.

Mm!

Mmmmmm.

Well.

This is an unexpected development.

The handcuffs, wasn’t it?

I do have them, swear to Christ. Right here in my bag. See?

Oh.

Mmmmm.

These turn you on, do they?

Oh, we’re almost there.

It is a beautiful lobby, isn’t it? Almost as beautiful as my lips, wouldn’t you say?

Oh, the mouth on you.

Here we are. Push the up arrow, boyo.

What?

I wouldn’t worry about that. The antidote doesn’t matter. What matters is us. Together. Tonight. You, here with me. For … yeah, looks like eleven hours.

Ding.

Yes, Jason?

625. Why?

What are you—

You snap the one cuff around her wrist and the other around the car rail. You watch her eyes widen as you step back.

And the doors close.

The frantic pounding and clanging. The wail of betrayal.

Then you swear you can sense it: the faint tremor just beyond the range of human hearing.

Because the wail has stopped.

No need to worry about that antidote. You knew she’d made it up. Her security clearance doesn’t give her access to the hard stuff.

You unflip your cell. Dial the number that after a few security switches will connect you with a basement somewhere in Virginia.

All you have to do is make this phone call and you can hop your plane home to Philadelphia. Just two words, and you’ve earned your paycheck.

“It works,” you say.

ROPE-A-DOPE
BY CRAIG MCDONALD

Harcourt Street, a raucous downstairs bar: über meat market.

George has his eye on a woman—out of his league, but worst she can say is no.

And he knows this: Lonely women fear lonely weekends like death.

Friday, just after work. This, in his too-successful experience, is every lonely woman’s hour of least resistance.

Pints are guzzled by lookers in little black dresses who’ve spent their days skirting the boundaries of “casual Friday” good taste—sweaters or jackets between them and stern warnings from sundry Human Resources Nazis.

George signals the gaffer, points at the woman alone at the table near the door.

The keep nods and half-smiles, says, “Russian Quaalude.”

George Lipsanos scowls. “What the fuck kind of drink is that?”

The barkeep smiles and shrugs. “Obscure one: Frangelico, Bailey’s, and vodka. Honestly? Had to look it up.”

Impatient, George nods. “Send her a double.”

Lipsanos watches. The bartender serves the sleek stranger the drink. Questioned, he stabs a thumb at George.

The woman raises an eyebrow, lifts her glass, and nods at George.

Lipsanos is headed her way before her first sip.

As he approaches, she shifts her legs—long legs, already crossed. Her right foot now slips behind her left leg’s calf.

This woman was striking at thirty yards in dim light through a haze of cigarette smoke. At five feet, she’s a leggy wet dream: mocking green eyes, dark hair … chiseled chin … natural rack, and good thighs on full display in her tight-black, fuck-me-now-and-hard! dress.

George thinks … righteous, compliant sports fuck.

Or she soon will be.

She smiles at him—a sultry, mocking mouth. She sips her freaky cocktail, says: “’Tis himself. Ah, but he didn’t know my drink. Maybe doesn’t bode well.” Another sip, then, “You’re not Irish.”

George scowls, shakes his head: “No … I’m Greek.” He shrugs. “Came to ride the Celtic Tiger. Get some of that Y-2K paranoia action.” He omits the latest nuance: a lucrative leap to cyber-porn. Instead, George hefts his glass, butchering the pronunciation: “Sláinte!”

A husky chuckle. The woman smiles—deep dimples— and winks. “My father’s from Glencoe. You know … the Highlands? He’d a toast, ‘Here’s to you, as good as you are. Here’s to me, as bad as I am. And as bad as I am, and as good as you are, I’m as good as you are, as bad as I am.’”

George has trouble tracking that one. She drains her Russian Quaalude. She signals the bartender, raises her glass, and points at George.

She leans across the table, fingers tented, drawing elbows closer and deepening the dark, enticing valley between her high-riding breasts. “Guess I won’t hold it against you, then … not knowing my drink.”

“Yeah,” George says, “that’s good.” He puts out his hand. “I’m George.”

She squeezes his hand and sits back, breasts shifting under her dress. She tips her head to the side, dark hair slanting. “My name is the last thing on your mind. Let’s be honest, huh, George? Names truly important?”

He feels some sense of firm footing returning. Cocky, he says, “Called out at the right moment? Yeah … means more than Oh baby.”

Those dimples again. She sips her drink, points. “Gutsy, George. Joking about sex this early. Okay: You can call me Mell. Mell Mulloy.”

He puts out his hand again, squeezes hers and doesn’t let go—his thumb stroking the inside of her palm.

She says, “George. Hmm. Like the monkey, huh?”

“Say what?”

“The monkey … my favorite book as a kid, ya know? Curious George? The little chimp … man with the yellow hat?”

“Gotcha.” George bites his lip … sips his drink. Jesus: Best steer clear of books with this woman … literature—not his territory. The last one went on and on about “Joyce” … guaranteeing he’d never read thatbitch.

But the woman pushes: “Are ya, you know, curious … George?”

George’s kidneys are burning. Should have hit the head before he sent the drink to her. He bounces his left leg. Tries to come up with some response to her question. He fingers the engraved Zippo in the pocket of his sports jacket, says, “You smoke?”

“Not anymore.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Do it, George—secondhand smoke keeps me half-ass in the game.”

George lies: “Gotta get it in before the ban, yeah? I’m out … gotta get myself a new pack.”

He beelines for the men’s room. He shoulders up between pissed, pissing punters and lets go, his left kidney burning … even aching.

The pain subsiding, he washes up and hits the cigarette machine. He buys a pack of Regals that he’ll maybe get through in three or four weeks. He drops it in his pocket with the baggie of half-a-dozen tablets of Rohypnol—the “R2” that he figures to slip in Mell’s drink when she has to hit the head.

But before that, he’ll slip her the Ecstasy in his left pocket.

Yeah.

The E and the “Rope”—a profoundly powerful one-two … no woman could sustain against it.

Mell has a fresh drink waiting for George when he returns to their table.

George slides into his chair—freshly stricken: that face, those tits, those long legs … thinking about those legs wrapped around his ass … about Mell’s mouth, her sultry lips, groaning—and her not remembering—sucking.

“Drink up, George,” Mell says. “They’re gonna be playing our song in a minute.”

Compliantly, George downs his double Jameson and accepts her hand.

They find an empty space on the dance floor and begin moving together, his crotch tight to hers—a slow dance to Mark Knopfler: “On Raglan Road.”

George is dizzy.

And increasingly hard.

Mell clearly knows it too—stroking him through his sans-a-belt pants.

Punchy, his pants now a tent, George follows Mell back to their table. He doesn’t really sit so much as he falls into his chair.

George is sweating—even a little nauseous.

Strike that: really nauseous … sweating like a pig. He had loaded nachos about 4 p.m. He thinks of the sour cream slathered on the chips, then thinks, Jesus, it’s food poisoning!

But Mell has slipped off her right fuck-me stiletto, distracting George from his sour stomach. She’s massaging his crotch with her stockinged foot. She says: “Don’tcha think it’s time we go to your place? You do have a place, George?”

She stands … reaches under the table with her left hand and pulls up a big black bag—something between a large purse and a briefcase.

George takes her extended right hand, trailing her through the packed pub to the door. His head is swimming … Jesus, didn’t even need pills for the bitch … must be a fucking wild ride.

The wet cold air is a fleeting respite, soothing him … sharpening his focus.

But the cab is too cozy. George mumbles his home address and slides into a void.

In that void: polluted with conversation … Mell and the cabby—engaged in meaningless small talk. He just hears bits of some unfair barbs from Mell: “Poor George—he so can’t handle his booze … full-on scuttered.”

George would object if he could find his voice.

He’s cold.

George blinks his eyes, looks around.

Jesus Christ! Fucking naked and spread-eagled on his back on his own bed.

His hands are cuffed to the bed posts … ankles, ditto.

Mell’s standing there at the foot of his bed, sneering in her slinky black dress.

“He has risen,” Mell nods at George’s still-hard cock.

“What the fuck is this?” George’s tongue is thick and he hardly understands himself. He thinks he might vomit.

“Fecking caffler,” Mell says, “you really have no idea what’s going on?”

Groggy, George mutters, “Uh, no …”

The woman crosses her arms, feet spread wide. “Brill. Let me help: You’re coming through a smallish dose of Rope—or Rohypnol … the original date-rape drug. If Valium was Superman, well, Rope is Superman’s bigger, meaner older brother. But you know that, don’tcha, George?” She raises her hand—sheathed in a white latex glove—and his baggie of Rope flops down. Mell scowls, looking hurt. “Meant this evil shit for me, eh, Georgie?”

With her other rubber-gloved hand, the woman suddenly grasps George’s erection and squeezes. George winces, willing himself soft. Surely in this circumstance, he’ll go soft … but he stays hard. Maybe gets harder.

Mell says, “Hmm. No baz. Not appealing.” She then adds, squeezing him again, “This wood of yours is the result of a Viagra knock-off. If you’re online, you’ve probably gotten Spam e-mail offers for it. You’ll stay hard at least another two hours, George … maybe three. You’ll stay real hard, regardless of anything—hardness that could be confused for excitement. But, I jump ahead.”

“What is this?” George sneers unconvincingly, hearing his dope-stoked drunkness in his slurred voice. “Fuck you doin’, Mell?” Drool slides from the corner of his mouth. “These fucking drugs … they could fucking kill me.”

The woman sits on the edge of the bed and shakes her head. “Stay easy. I’m a doctor. Know what I’m doing. And it was a half-dose of Rope. I wanted this talk with you.”

A doctor. Now George is in full panic mode … Stories he always thought were urban myths about organ thefts … Pick up some chick … take her to a hotel … and then you wake up with a kidney missing … Jesus fuck! He blubbers, “You want my fucking kidneys.”

A husky laugh. “If that was the game, you’d be in a tub of ice now with a hole in your back. Two, if I was really ruthless.” Mell leans in now, searching his eyes. George thinks about screaming and maybe she senses it—she drives a fist into his solar plexus and he doubles up … chafing skin off his wrists and ankles … his mouth open, gasping for air. Suddenly, there’s a rag in his mouth.

“You’re done talking, forever. I asked you if names are important. Well, they are important, George. Here’s a name for you: Nora MacKiernan. That name ring a bell?”

George shakes his head.

“Well, she remembered your name, George. You were dumb enough to use your real first name, just like you did with me. She remembered that Zippo of yours, with your initials. You doped her in that same bar I met you in. None of that made it nearly hard enough to find you. Four weeks, cruising the same five or six bars … and I found you back in the one where you drugged her.

“Nora MacKiernan was twenty-three, George. She was at that bar with irresponsible mates who were there to be laid and shamed her along after work. Nora was engaged. Would have wed next month. But you moved in. She was polite … Nora was always polite.”

The woman’s eyes are drifting now, going sad and a little hard. George is breathing faster.

“You hit Nora, my sister, with Ecstasy, slipped her Rope … I know because I ran the rape kit and stomach pump at the hospital. And you gave her genital herpes, George. Those are fucking incurable. Nora’s fiancé couldn’t take it … broke their engagement. Nora couldn’t take it, either … losing him … carrying your disease. Nora opted out. Wrists, razor … a warm bathtub. Suicide—very bad news in an old Catholic family.”

Lipsanos shakes his head.

“Names are important, George.” She rises now, sways across the room, and picks up her big black purse. She rummages. Mell turns, holding a hypodermic. She flicks it, squirts a little out—clear those air bubbles. She says: “My name is Ceara, and as even you have probably gathered, George, I wouldn’t be sharing my real name with you now if there was any prospect of you ever leaving this room.”

Mell—Ceara—perches again on the side of George’s bed. She slowly crosses her legs. “Question was, how to make you really pay. I thought about that. I went to the personals … Gáire.”

Ceara jabs George’s thigh with the needle.

His eyes go wide and his muscles tense.

“Hush,” Ceara says. “It’s fine, George. Just a cocktail … blood-thinners … anti-coagulants.” Her gloved hand on his penis again—still rock hard. “Shouldn’t interfere with this.”

The woman stands, slips off her latex gloves, and smoothes her short black dress over her thighs. She slips the needle and the gloves back in her big purse, then slings the bag over one shoulder.

“Gotta go, George. But, just so you know what’s in store: I’ve been corresponding on your behalf for several days with a sado-masochistic she-he, deep into domination. You’re into bondage. Some match, yeah? I’ve been stringing ‘shim’ along until I found you. Called him—her … whatever—a few minutes before you woke up. Quite soon, you and your righteous wood will be serving as bound top to his—her’s … whatever’s—enthusiastic bottom.”

George is still reeling … dopey … scared … slow on the uptake: Jesus, I have herpes?

And this girl, Nora … couldn’t remember her … but there had been a dozen since George found his Rope connection.

Ceara is framed in the doorway of his bedroom now. She tips her head to the side, shows him those dimples. “Last thing you should know, George.”

George’s eyes are wide, besieging.

“I told your soon-to-arrive last lover that you’re also a cutter. Ya know what Angelina Jolie once said? ‘You’re young, in love, and you’ve got a knife … shit happens.’ George, those blood-thinners will have you pumping like a world-class hemophiliac when your new friend cuts you. Once the initial slices are made, and the serious blood loss kicks in, well, it’s not the worst death … almost languorous. Probably why Nora chose to take herself out that way.”

Ceara blows George a kiss and backs out of his bedroom, humming “The Parting Glass.”

George, spread-eagled, hard—panicked—thrashes wildly against his bonds, wrists and ankles sloughing more skin.

A short while later, he hears the door of his apartment open.

George closes his eyes and whimpers against his gag. Sweet Jesus, Nora … I’m so fucking sorry.

On Grafton Street, behind the bright red façade of the Temple Bar, Dr. Mell Mulloy sips her Russian Quaalude. Rain thrashes the windows. Positively bucketing. She savors George’s final expression: brónach.

The herpes angle always sets their hearts hopping.

And poor imaginary Nora? Her pièce de résistance: Send the luckless bastards out on a mega guilt trip.

Finding the Rope on George made it sweeter still—so so fine to find a fellow predator … yummy, happy accident.

Mell checks her watch: Time for one more. But nothing elaborate. The personal-ad gambit takes time … and time is always a dangerous commodity.

So something simple is in order: Pick up another mark … dope him. Entice the sucker to his car or an alley for an ostensible jaw-job and shoot the fucker.

Then it is probably best to move on.

The Garda Síochána will soon start putting two and three or thirteen together.

Mell sips her drink and tips her head back, shaking loose her hair, lifting it off the back of her damp neck. Mell plucks an ice cube from her drink and rubs it between her breasts, listening to Knopfler: “The Lily of the West.”

She winks at a strapping stranger across the pub.

He’s headed her way now.

She smiles, shifting her long legs and arching her neck.

Come the morning, she’ll make the crossing … start again, perhaps in Glasgow.

But now Mell smiles up at the stranger, says: “’Tis himself.”