Oh, Play That Thing

—But he is too much of the gentleman to simply ditch her.

  If things went wrong and I ended up dead, I wasn’t going to be found in my socks.

  —And this is where you come in, Henry.

  —Do I get to know her?

  —No.

  I got to work on my drawers. I let them drop.

  —There’s something missing, I said. —How am I any good to this guy?

  —I know, I know, said Kellet. —I’d have thought the same thing myself. That he should catch you in the act. And then he could bump off the pair of you and no one would complain. That’s what you’re thinking.

  —Yeah.

  —Me too. And a nice way to go. She’s a ride, you should see her. She’d put the horn on a fuckin’ corpse.

  America was dropping off him, the longer he talked to me.

  —But, believe it or not, Henry, actually catching you at it won’t be necessary. You were photographed with Mister Madden’s piece of fluff five or six years ago.

  I nodded.

  —Photographs, for fuck sake. I’ve seen them, you know. Looking much the same as you do now.

  He held up my wedding photo.

  —They beat this one. You see, you’re a danger to decent gangsters. And you’ve been stuffing the Sister Flow item.

  I hadn’t, and he didn’t know that she was the same woman who’d kept Madden warm back in the days when I was going places.

  It was coming up from somewhere: I was still that Henry.

  I nodded.

  —I have her record, said Kellet. —We all do. Another girl who’d put the horn on a corpse. How do – sorry, how did you do it?

  —It’s not something that can be taught, Ned.

  —Pity.

  I shrugged.

  —But at least I’ll live longer than you, said Kellet.

  Not with your habits, pal, I thought. But I gave him another shrug.

  —Come here, though, I said. —You’re not going to shoot this young one as well, are you?

  —Won’t be necessary. We dump your body at her door, and that’s more than enough. She can deny any messing as much as she likes, but our man will be more than justified in breaking the connection. And it’ll be noticed how restrained he is in not killing her too. He’ll be admired for it. So he can’t lose here. And she’ll be grand. Back into show business. Another sugar daddy; our man won’t mind. She’s laughing.

  He nodded at the wall.

  —You, on the other hand. Move.

  I had to ask.

  —Why?

  —Ah Jesus. Why what?

  —The wall.

  —There are two clients here, Henry. The maybe-Italian gent just wants to see you dead. My Irish clients, however, want you executed. Go on.

  It was up to me; something would have to happen. I stepped, barefoot, to the nearest wall, and I still believed. It would happen. This wasn’t the ending at all.

  Kellet spoke to my back.

  —They’ll be looking for the bullet marks in the brick. You remember the way they are. Sticklers for fuckin’ formality. It’s making a martyr of you, if you ask me. But, orders is orders, so turn around for us there. We can’t be shooting you in the back.

  I turned.

  —Jesus, he said. —You should see your eyes from here.

  A line of men in front of me, all with guns out. A door to my left, closed, bolted – no padlock that I could see; maybe outside – the bolt was inside. The office above, empty. Another door, closed – no bolt. The barrels, the stink. The high gates on the other side, behind the line of men. Two smaller doors that I could see, bolt on just one – open. The canvas. The emptiness.

  Kellet walked up, right up to me. Here was the chance, but he came right at me and he shot, once, twice – I didn’t hear the second shot – right and left of my head; I saw the barrel swing past my face. Brick entered my face and back and arms, hot darts, and he pushed me back against the wall. I couldn’t hear.

  The wall was cold and sharp against my back. My only hope was to keep pressing until it fell away behind me – but it jabbed and mocked me; it was suddenly hopeless. He could have killed me; he was going to. The barrel was pressed now into my neck, the heat of recent use burning and taunting, daring me to move, cough, blink. And five, six more guns staring at me, ranks of the hard men waiting for their turn. I couldn’t move my eyes; I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t hear. The barrel pressed deeper into my neck, and deeper, inviting me to budge and die. Then it was gone, and I wished it back: it was safer in my neck.

  The sound, the world came back. The first thing I heard was the match. Then I smelled it. I couldn’t see flame yet, or smoke, but I didn’t move my eyes. Then the photograph was up in front of me, three inches from my face, and I saw it burn and curl.

  —Can you hear me, Henry?

  It broke into weightless black chunks and drifted, up in the rising air, away from me.

  —We can’t have them finding this. It muddies the picture.

  The wedding dress, the brooch, the glowing hair.

  —And we have to hide her, said Kellet.

  I wasn’t looking at him.

  —It was her who found you for us, Henry. What d’you think of that?

  The creases at the photograph’s edges, the tears and folds and flour, the records of the years hidden in a fugitive’s wallet, her face. I watched the thin flame turn them all to nothing.

  And now I looked at him.

  —Get fucked, I said.

  Then he shot me.

  I fell – a decision; I did it – and the air was full of bullets and feet and brick and cordite and glass and shells and sunlight and shattering glass and running feet. And I was alive and the room was empty, everything gone but the last of the gunshots. I followed the sunlight; two doors were open. And I was still alive and it made no sense and I was delighted with the pain, thrilled, fuckin’ agony, and I was still alive. The pain in my shoulder was unbearable, fuckin’ wonderful, and there was the blood too, but I thought I could get myself up. I put my weight into the good arm, the right.

  And I was kicked.

  I looked at brown boots.

  —Get up out of that, Henry Smart.

  I looked up, and saw brown eyes and some slivers of grey hair, brownish-grey, that had escaped from a bun that shone like a lamp behind—

  She kicked me again.

  —Get up like I told you. The state of you; you’re a disgrace.

  She grabbed hair – there wasn’t much else to grab – and got me to my feet.

  She swept the warehouse, the full circle, with her Parabellum, aiming it at all dangers.

  —Get your clothes on.

  I looked as she turned past me. Her face was calm and furious, but the eyes were laughing at me. I was bleeding to death and hopping, one-armed, into my drawers. But I managed, and the trousers and the jacket. I stuffed the shirt into a coat pocket and got the coat over the good shoulder. Then the boots. I got the feet in.

  —I’ll need help with the laces, I told her.

  She stopped turning and put the gun into my right hand. Fuck, it was heavy. I aimed it at walls, doors. And she bent down to do my laces.

  —What age are you?

  —Nearly thirty, I said.

  She slapped my shin.

  —And you can’t tie your own laces?

  —I could if you hadn’t’ve fuckin’ shot me.

  She looked up.

  —How’d you know it was me?

  —I didn’t, I said. —I just said it.

  She looked back at the lace.

  —It was nothing personal.

  She finished one, started the other. The pain was less wonderful now.

  —I had to drop you, she said. —Before the other bullets got you.

  I nodded.

  She stood up and took the gun and I grabbed her collar and pulled her at me.

  —You fuckin’ shot me!

  —And what of it? she said.

  She kissed me. I was up at the wall aga
in, the brick digging into the agony.

  —You led them to me!

  —You did that yourself, sure. I thought you were in New York.

  —Oh.

  —With your Pops.

  She stood away. She looked at me.

  —I’d never do that.

  She looked away.

  —I know, I said. —I know that.

  She pushed me again. My shoulder hit the wall.

  —God, you’re the go-boy, Henry Smart. Always getting into trouble.

  —Lay off, I said. —Fuckin’ lay off. I haven’t done anything illegal since I came here.

  —You broke into Missis Lowe’s.

  —Ah, you know what I mean.

  —And weeed on the window.

  —So you fuckin’ shot me?

  —No, she said. —And less of that language. Come on now before we get into real trouble.

  I followed as she went for one of the doors.

  —You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?

  —Sure, stop.

  —I love you, Miss.

  —Go ’way out of that.

  She kicked the iron door.

  —I love you too.

  It swung out, whacked the warehouse wall, and we were out. Air and sun, the pain and the street and Miss and, standing under a butcher’s awning across the street, Saoirse. The serious little face, the hand in the air, waving. I tried to wave back.

  —I’m going to faint.

  —Not here you don’t, mister.

  But I did.

  PART FOUR

  9

  She finally liked America. She loved it.

  —God, it’s great, isn’t it?

  The wind threw us back and stung the faces off us. We held hands and the sides of the boxcar. Saoirse held onto Miss O’Shea’s dress. It was flat country we looked at, flatter and bigger than anything they’d seen.

  —We’re far from home.

  —We are, she said. —But, sure.

  She smiled, and the wind pulled her head right back.

  She began to like the people. These were country people, like herself. They’d never seen cities. They’d no idea how big the land beyond their eyes was; what they saw was more than big. Their grandparents had made the big shove, from the east, from Europe, but they hadn’t budged since. (They didn’t know that soon enough they’d have to move again.) Miss O’Shea liked them; they looked, and liked her too. They spoke to her and Saoirse, but not to me.

  —You’re a Dublin guttie, she told me. —They know your clock.

  —They never heard of Dublin.

  —They still know.

  There was no real answer. She was right.

  —Fuck them, I said.

  —They’d be the same if you came from New York or Chicago, she said. —It’s the smell of the city off you. You’re the go-boy.

  —But you killed men.

  —Oh, they’d love that if they knew. One of their own. They’d be proud of me, killing the peelers.

  —I give up.

  —Grand.

  Saoirse listened, watched, and took it in.

  —I like the cities, she said.

  —Good woman.

  —I like it here too.

  —The best of both worlds.

  —What does that mean?

  —You’re happy everywhere.

  —Everywhere isn’t both.

  —What?

  —There’s more than both.

  I smiled. I put my hand on her shoulder. My own shoulder was still aching.

  —I knew what you meant, she said.

  —I know.

  —I like thinking things out loud.

  —So, think about food out loud.

  —Oh, don’t, said Miss O’Shea. —I’m starving.

  We lived for days on air and fingernails. Having a kid came in handy and Saoirse quickly knew this. Big eyes at the back door, little hand on the glass.

  —Have you some milk for the mammy’s new baby?

  Miss O’Shea wrote the lines, after she’d run out of shame.

  —I’m just glad my mother isn’t alive to see us. Begging.

  —She’d have needed fuckin’ good eyesight.

  We were hiding in a ditch, keeping the eye on Saoirse. Miss O’Shea whacked me, called me an eejit. The ditch was dry and a snake had moved out when we’d moved in, but it felt like home. We were on the run and she was in love again.

  And so was I.

  We’d jump off at a town – Sandusky, Sioux City – and go looking for bait. A bit of old bread in a bin behind a house, in the early morning; we’d take it around to the front of the house and park it on the step. We’d wait for the smells of breakfast to seep out of the house and give Saoirse the shove to the door. It wasn’t needed – she loved the work. She tapped the door and waited, sometimes until kids came charging out for school; she’d be there to stare at them. She’d wait for the mother.

  —Dia dhuit.* Can I have that slice of bread?

  She’d point at the crust from the bin. It rarely – big eyes, the little finger – failed. She’d hop back to us with great things in a paper bag soaking up the grease. I often ate the bag.

  We stuck together. Together, we weren’t hoboes. Alone, I was grabbed by the cops and brought to the edge of town, to jail, or down an alley for a hiding. Together, we could stay, not often welcome, but safe. When people saw me, they saw bad news, trouble, theft. They saw us, and they saw themselves – bad luck, hard times, true love. They saw me, the foreigner, the salesman, the city boy with the fancy suspenders. They saw me with Miss O’Shea, and they didn’t see me at all.

  —’Day to you, ma’am.

  —D’you think it’ll rain? she’d ask a man who hadn’t seen real rain in three years.

  —Reckon it might, ma’am.

  —Please God.

  —You said it, ma’am.

  She was having a great time.

  —D’you know what? she said, as we landed beside each other on a dirt embankment as hard as history.

  We rolled away from the wheels. I held onto Saoirse. She was able to scramble on top of me as I rolled.

  —What? I said when we stopped.

  —This is our honeymoon, said Miss O’Shea.

  She kissed the dirt off my lips.

  These people would give us the barn for a night, or a week’s good work, a dead man’s boots. Hunger was the starter every morning; we’d get up and deal with it together. And the cold of night would push us close together.

  —Oiche mhaith.*—Good-night, love.

  In the first months, in the first year and further.

  We listened till we knew she slept; we listened across the sounds of the frogs and other rasping, creaking fuckers that kept it up all night.

  —Will you just look at all those stars.

  —Fuck all those stars.

  —God, you’re dreadful. What if they arrived now?

  —Here we go. Kellet and his boys?

  —God.

  —The army of the Free State?

  —Oh God.

  In the early weeks and months, we were running. We were a man, woman and child on their standing, a small family of diehards. We’d no mountains to hide in and no bike to commandeer and make lethal, but we were back in our good old days. And they were fuckin’ good. We were happy.

  The lad was conceived between Albuquerque and El Paso del Norte, on a bed of coal, on a clear, cold night, while water from a refrigerated truck leaked down onto us and a gang of whistling hoboes entertained Saoirse three boxes back.

  Miss O’Shea gasped as the fireman opened the firebox to throw in a shovel-load of our coal. Bright orange light hit the smoke that poured over us and we could suddenly see the flat land, a jack rabbit, the fireman bending, all orange, for a hundred feet all around us. We knew it and we cried.

  —What will we call him, Henry?

  He was born between Denver and Salt Lake City. In a boxcar that was empty, except for Miss O’Shea, some chaff and the midwi
fe. I was above with Saoirse. My Clarence Darrows held her strapped to the roof. I was trying to get a fire going – not easy on top of a train doing sixty miles an hour – to roast the pigeons I’d caught as they’d pecked at the chaff inside the boxcar. I was excited and scared, and more scared because we couldn’t hear a thing from down below. The train roared, the steam whistle screeched, every time we thought we’d heard a new voice. I leaned out and tried to catch the sound. We killed the dangerous time, me and Saoirse.

  The midwife was a big-armed girl called Daisy. She’d had three boys and lost all three and she wept all the time I watched her, in the boxcar before she shooed us out on a slow bend. And she was crying when she climbed up to tell us. She crawled off the ladder and stayed on all fours.

  She had to roar.

  —Boy!

  Born to a mother in a boxcar. To an Irishwoman, fierce and lovely and forty-three.

  —What’ll we call him, Henry?

  She was sitting up already. Weak, but ready to fight or run.

  I held him, gently. I made an armchair of my hands for him. I sat in a corner and pushed my back well against the walls, to stop the train’s shaking. My jacket kept the wind off him.

  —Is he my brother now? said Saoirse.

  —That’s right.

  I looked at her.

  —Is that alright with you?

  She thought about it.

  —Yes, she said. —I think so.

  —Good.

  She sat beside me. Her mother – the sweat, the paleness, exhausted eyes – frightened her.

  —Will we live in a house now?

  —I don’t know, I said. —We’ll see.

  —What will we call him? said Miss O’Shea.

  I didn’t want the question; I didn’t want to answer. I wouldn’t hand him the name.

  The train was slowing. We heard the whistle. We heard car doors scraped open. We saw men drop from cars, and roll. We saw the Rocky Mountains, huge and close. We saw men run into the weeds.

  —I don’t know, I said.

  —Henry, she said.

  —No.

  —Victor, she said.

  I looked at her.

  —No.

  She nodded.

  The brakes screeched, iron on iron. The baby didn’t mind. I watched his face; he roared over the brakes – What about meeee? – but got no angrier. The screeching stopped. We heard chains slacken and knock. We heard feet on cinders, billy clubs patting trouser legs. The railroad bulls were waiting for us, the only ones left on the train. Four or five of them, in tight, wet uniforms. Thick-necked cunts, looking robbed and stupid, swinging their weapons.