Rebels & Chancers Part 1

Friday, June 10th, 2016

Chaz

It was an overcast Friday morning in Cork city, and Chaz O’ Connor sat in his office on the third floor above McCaffrey’s pub, his pub on Washington Street. Corner cobwebs stretched from the old ceiling to the bare red brick walls and furnished with a desk, a few soft leather chairs, a sofa, and a filing cabinet, the poorly lit office still had the smell of an old storeroom. Chaz slurped on the final sups of his coffee and glanced at his watch – nine-twenty – and he was already bored. Maybe not bored, but most definitely impatient. He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and squeezed a red spongy ball in his fist. He crossed his feet on top of his wooden desk and he thumb-scrolled through Instagram. His pale green eyes scanned a scantily clad model on a superyacht anchored in the Azores. Chaz shook his head and raised an eyebrow.

‘The Azores!? At the rate we’re goin’, I’ll be lucky to have a rowing boat to go to the Blaskets,’ he said out loud to nobody.

He paused to suck on his teeth and enjoyed the bitter aftertaste of the coffee. He closed his eyes and imagined the same model on his arm helping him to pick out a yacht, when he heard heavy boots pound up the hall towards his office. He quickly placed his legs on the floor, tossed the ball into the air and the door burst open.

Out of breath, Pinch came into the room. His dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his facial scars ran like tiny, furrowed streams down the right side of his face. Burned, shriveled skin, usually masked by hair, ran from his forehead to below his right cheek bone. His right earlobe and the top of his right ear were missing, and the remains of his ear looked like a stunted satellite dish. Despite the many skin grafts, the poor wretch in his late thirties was far from visually acceptable.

He removed a toothpick from the corner of his mouth, and he took a breath. ‘Boss.’

Chaz tossed and caught the ball. He raised eyebrows at Pinch to encourage further words, waited a moment and sighed, ‘Yeah?’

‘Are you busy?’

Chaz rolled his eyes and scratched his head.

Pinch raised his top lip on one side and his sneer almost turned to a smile. ‘We’ve a langer downstairs, ready to meet ye. Do you want him up here?’

Chaz placed the ball gently on the table and shook his head. ‘Keep him in the cellar, I’ll be down in a minute.’

Pinch closed the door, and fast-stepped away down the corridor. His normal gait was slow and methodical, there was rarely anywhere he needed to be in a hurry, but the rapid hollow sound of his boots on the wooden floor was a speed he reserved for clients deserving his full attention.

Chaz stared at the door and ground his teeth.

Keane, the stubborn ass, doesn’t listen. Doesn’t know a good deal when it’s presented. I’m not a greedy man and there’s commission if he’d only do like everyone else. But no, he has to be different. Well, not anymore. It’s time to send a message to the owner of the bloody Oasis Night Club.

Pinch took a week to find the right member of Keane’s family and Chaz blinked at the door and a sudden pang of concern surged through his guts.

Maybe he hates his nephew? The young fellah works in the Oasis, surely, they have a relationship?

Chaz quickly refocused when he pictured himself pulling on the oars of a rowing boat on a choppy sea heading towards the Blaskets. He rose from his chair and walked to the rusty metal filing cabinet pushed against the brick wall. He withdrew a Glock 9mm, and he imagined calm blue seas. He checked it was empty and stuck it inside his jeans at the base of his back. He’d no notion of using it, but it would serve to make a point. He pulled his shirt over his jeans, kicked the drawer closed, grabbed a hurley from behind the door and strolled out of his office.

He reached the empty pub on the ground floor, strolled past the toilets to the rear, and arrived at the entrance to the cellar. He poked the door open with the hurley and could hear the groans as he descended the stairs. The business meeting was already underway.

Chaz slowly picked and slid his way through kegs stacked on kegs attached to plastic tubes in the cool cellar. When he cleared the obstacles, his slither returned to a slow walk and the hurley tapped off the floor with every second step. As he drew closer, there was a focused heat in the area where Pinch and Johnsie stood, and their guest sat. The lad couldn’t have been more than in his early twenties, with his arms and legs firmly bound to the chair. Blood smeared his baby face and trickled from his mouth and reddened nose. Johnsie, a giant of a man, stood to the side with his feet apart, his blue denim shirt sleeves were rolled up and the thick fingers of his hands were stuffed in his jeans’ pockets. His sweat stained armpits and chest told a story of a strenuous morning. Pinch grabbed a fistful of the lad’s long hair and turned his head with its wide-eyed stare to face Chaz.

Chaz nodded at Johnsie and winked at Pinch before he looked down. He sucked at his teeth and studied the young lad’s wild gaze.

‘I believe you’ve been briefed on why I’ve called this little meeting.’ Chaz glanced at Pinch. ‘Let him go there, will ye?’

Pinch released the fistful of hair and the lad’s head fell limp.

Chaz looked at the young fellah. ‘I’ve a message I need you to deliver.’

The young lad’s breathing was laboured, and he wet his lips with his tongue. ‘Wha…what the hell do you want?’

Pinch didn’t need much of an excuse and he backhanded the youngster, making him look the opposite way.

‘Easy now, Pinch, let the man speak,’ said Chaz softly.

Baby face blinked, looked to the side, and spat blood on the floor.

Johnsie’s drooping eyelids widened. ‘Hey, watch the shoes, lad.’

Chaz ignored Johnsie, put the hurley behind his neck, and hung his hands from either end before he cleared his throat. He looked indifferently at the beer kegs behind the young lad and began in soft tones, helping the messenger to understand, helping him to deliver his message in the right way.

‘Look, I’m a businessman, and you’re working for a businessman. I need you to understand something and bring a message to your uncle.’ Chaz grimaced at the kegs. They were less than inspirational, and he wasn’t entirely happy with the speech. Nonetheless, he continued to deliver his collected thoughts despite the challenging environment. ’The thing Mr. Keane, Jake, needs to understand is that I let him make money and for that privilege, he needs to…’

The young lad’s head slumped forward, and he coughed some blood which dribbled onto his shirt. Chaz looked down and shook his head, tutting at Pinch. He leaned in, cupped the messenger’s chin in his hand, and continued his serenade.

‘Look lad...’ Chaz looked at Johnsie. ‘What’s his name?’ Johnsie shrugged, and Chaz rolled his eyes before returning his attention to the messenger. ‘…Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You need to deliver a message to Jake for me. We need to come to a business arrangement...’ Chaz pondered as though he was building a true collaborative business deal. ‘…A new partnership, if you know what I mean.’ Chaz nodded at his own story. ‘Yeah, a partnership, I like that.’ Chaz gently pushed the butt of the hurley into the messenger’s crotch to emphasise the delicate nature of the partnership he suggested. ‘We had an agreement before, and I expect him to pay his tax and allow my seller in his club, this weekend, and every night the club is open after that. Do you understand?’

The lad blinked at Chaz and swallowed. ‘What?’

Chaz tossed the hurley to Johnsie and suddenly gripped the messenger by the throat lest he regurgitate the words in an incorrect order. He pulled the gun from his back and stuck the nozzle under the messenger’s chin.

Chaz spoke through his teeth. ‘Is the message clear, boy? You hear what I’m sayin’?’

The messenger’s eyes widened, he nodded vigorously, and urine dribbled out of his shorts onto the concrete floor of the cellar.

‘Hoohhh, me shoes!’ Johnsie’s eyes widened as he shuffled backwards to protect his white Vans. The size fourteens were ordered specially online from America. Pinch smirked, and Chaz pursed his lips staring at the giant.

Jesus Johnsie! …For once would ye act like a professional...

Chaz waved at the messenger with his gun. ‘Get this langer outa here.’

Johnsie and Pinch dragged the young messenger through the maze of kegs, up the cellar stairs and out the back door. Chaz stood facing the empty chair and tucked his empty gun away.

Take the bait, Keane.

Russell

Detective Garda Paul Russell sat in an unmarked police car and waited. He blinked and squinted behind his sunglasses and scanned the traffic on Washington Street. The noon bell from the nearby St. Augustine’s church clanged and he grimaced at each stroke. He sighed, popped two pain killers into his mouth, slugged some water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. After almost twenty minutes sitting in the car, still no sign, and he took another swig from the water bottle. He sniffed in the air conditioning and cracked open the window. The traffic noise amplified, and he wrinkled his nose at the exhaust stink before promptly closing the window again. He glanced to his right at his partner who sat motionless in the driver’s seat.

Detective Brendan Coyle stared straight ahead and sighed. ‘Why don’t we let a couple of uniforms pick this guy up?’

Russell massaged his temples. ‘I told Jake Keane I’d personally look after it and that’s what I’m going to do. Besides, it’s been a while since I had a little chat with that ugly bastard.’

Coyle leaned forward in his seat and wrapped his arms around the steering wheel. He squinted down the street. ‘It’s definitely Gleason, right?’

Russell nodded, and Coyle tilted his head before pointing to a figure walking towards them.

Russell focused into the distance. ‘Look at the cut of him…’ He swallowed his disgust instead of uttering his thoughts. ‘Let him get closer.’

The swagger of Pinch Gleason was unmistakable with his long hair, waving and bouncing around his scarred face.

Coyle cut the car engine and when Pinch was less than ten paces away, he jumped from the car and stood in front of him. Pinch slowed to a standstill, raised his chin, and took his hands out of his jacket pockets. Eager for action, he spat the toothpick from his mouth, and dared the young detective to take him. Russell came around the front of the car, blindsided Pinch and pushed him, staggering into the stained wall of O’ Shea & Son’s Solicitors.

Russell leaned on the thug’s back with his forearm. ‘You’re under arrest.’

Pinch sniggered, and Coyle rabbit punched him under the ribcage. Pinch bent backwards and covered his lower back with his hands. Coyle snapped handcuffs on his wrists while Russell leaned on the monster’s back. He ground Pinch’s head against the grimy wall as the gangster strained and grunted against the provocation.

Russell glanced at the sign on the wall over Pinch’s head. ‘‘Would you like a solicitor? I know a few close by.’ Russell smiled at his dry wit, but his smile faded fast as he considered the possible consequences of not being professional just outside an office of lawyers.

Pinch managed to form an answer through his mouth pressed against the stone. ‘Fuck you, Russell.’

Coyle stamped on Pinch’s instep and the lout sucked air though his teeth. Russell reached into Pinch’s pockets and searched but found nothing. He pulled him around and Pinch flicked his long hair to the side. The marks of the wall were camouflaged in his cracked dead skin, and he smirked at the detectives.

Russell ground his teeth. ‘Get this smiling jackass out of my face.’

Coyle grabbed an elbow and tugged Pinch to the car. He opened the rear door, pushed him headfirst to the back seat and slammed the door on his heels. Russell pressed his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose and tied the middle button of his jacket as he glanced around the street. His headache was beginning to subside, and the uncomfortable wait seemed worth it. He stepped off the pavement, walked around the front of the car and got into the passenger seat.

‘I’d say we’ve time for a sandwich at Joyce’s before we deal with this ejit.’

Coyle smiled and pulled the car away from the kerb.

Sean

The early Friday afternoon buzz in Douglas Garda station was filled with urgency to get the work done. The urgency seemed to be tinged with the regret of not having worked at a more measured pace throughout the week but spurred by the lure of a weekend. Garda Sean O’ Brien was the exception as he sat at his desk. He yawned and scratched his head, as he stared out the window ignoring the din.

His partner Kevin sat nearby. ‘Did you see yer man in the cage?’ Kevin asked as he signed his paperwork. Stamping and signing like his life depended on it, a relentless noise pattern of bam, scribble, click, bam.

Sean continued to stare indifferently out the window and shook his head.

Kevin glanced around and sniffed. ‘Pinch Gleason, one of the Tonners. I’ll tell ye, Seanie, he’s a hard feckin’ case. They pulled him in for assault earlier and the boys are grillin’ him right now.’

Sean could care less about Chaz O’ Connor’s gang of lowlifes. The Tonners or whatever they called themselves these days was none of his concern. He stood up and put his hands on his hips. His six-foot six-inch frame stretched his Garda issued shirt, testing the quality of the seams to the limit. ‘You’ve enough stampin’ done there.’

Kevin glanced at the interview room door. ‘Course, no witnesses, and…’ Kevin lowered his voice. ‘…the lad in the hospital’s sayin’ fuck all. I heard his boss called in the complaint.’ Kevin shook his head.

Sean sighed and glanced at his watch – almost half past three – he nodded at the front door. ‘Come on. You can finish that later.’

Kevin raised an eyebrow and glared at Sean. ‘There’s some shit goin’ down Seanie boy, and we better be ready.’

Bam, scribble, click, bam.

Sean leaned into his enthusiastic partner. ‘Ready for hittin’ the road. Come on would ye.’

The door of the interview room burst open. ‘Get out Gleason,’ the detective roared.

Pinch strolled out, pushed back his long hair, and rolled his head until his neck cracked. He stopped and Sean caught his eye.

The detective behind Pinch shoved him in the back. ‘Keep walkin’.’

Pinch resumed his slow pace to the front door, stuck his elbows out and dared anyone to look in his direction. At the entrance of the station, he spat on the pavement before he disappeared.

Sean made a face at the antics and tucked in his shirt. He walked out of the station, and Kevin, a head shorter than Sean, strode alongside, his uniform immaculate and shoes shining.

‘A hard case, I’m telling ye,’ Kevin mumbled.

When they reached the car, Sean straightened his high visibility vest and opened the door. With his hand on the roof, he swung himself into the passenger seat. His seat was already pushed back to the limit to allow his legs to stretch and avoid his knees hitting the dash. Kevin remained outside the car, and checked the lights, wipers, and tyres. He pulled open the driver’s door and sat in, picked up his checklist, turned the key in the ignition, checked oil, kilometers on the clock, and continued to flick his eyes from checklist to display back to checklist. Finally, the checklist received a signature, and the clipboard was placed snugly into a pocket near Sean’s right leg.

Sean looked at his partner. ‘Right, Captain, are we ready for take-off?’

Kevin shook his head and began reversing out of the yard. ‘Jeez, but you’re a right feckin’ comedian on Fridays.’

Sean smirked. ‘We’re goin’ to the airport, aren’t we?’

Kevin glanced at his partner as he reversed the car. ‘Seat belt there, Seanie, boy, or are you waitin’ for the safety demonstration?’

Sean sighed and tugged on his seat belt, clipping it in place. In his late thirties, Sean felt tired. Not a tiredness that could be solved with ten hours of sleep, but the weight of life was in his bones. He hadn’t been happy in his marriage for a long time, but continued to trudge along, a real trooper. Or maybe a fool, but either way he knew he was a coward when it came to his marriage.

Hedgerows whizzed by as the patrol car zipped along the Cork city ring road. Greens, browns, light yellows, blurred into a mix of no definition, hypnotic and dreamy. Sean’s eyes closed for a few seconds and the back of his head hit the headrest and he woke with a jolt.

‘Well, big boy, did you enjoy that.’

Sean looked at his partner. ‘Wha’?’

‘Is the wife wearin’ ye out, Seanie boy?’ Kevin giggled.

Ten years Kevin’s senior, Sean’s hunger for the job had waned, but Kevin, the rookie, made up for it and together, there was a balance of energy in almost everything they did together. The car engine droned up the long N27 hill to the airport and Sean ignored his partner’s smart remark. He looked out the side window and mumbled to himself.

’What’s that Seanie?’

Sean took a breath and shrugged. ‘Nothin’ Kev, all good.’

Sean closed his eyes and smelt her hair and her sweet perfume. He felt her breath on his cheek and her tender touch. He smiled.

‘Are you sulkin’? What’s up with ye?’ Kevin glanced between the road and Sean.

Sean swallowed and looked straight ahead. ‘Nothin’ lad. Keep your eyes on the road there.’

A coward, perhaps, but love was indiscriminate, and Sean was a pathetic victim of her sorcery.

Christine

Christine Flanagan leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms and legs. Another week was almost done, and she relaxed. She looked again at the graphs on screen in the hope that the results would somehow appear different. Value of shares, property, and commodities, all trended south, with little promise of any reprieve. Red tickers with flashing font ran along the bottom of her screen and the bad news was relentless since mid-morning. Glum reporters only reported doom and gloom in the business world, and she tried to care. Years of economic uncertainty made this particular crisis hardly worth worrying about. She glanced at the nameplate on her desk and the embossed title under her name. Investors expect a return, and the Manager of the Muster Bank had to care. Achieving the post last year had been her dream since entering the bank fifteen years earlier. She had worked hard, she had earned it, and she Goddamned deserved it. She glanced around her spacious office and felt nauseous at the thought of her next appointment.

Tap! Tap! Christine sat upright in her chair and shifted files to the side of her desk. She glanced at the clock on the wall – ten past five – and she fixed her blouse collar, ‘Come in.’

The door opened, and a young woman entered. ‘Sorry, Christine, could I have a word, it’s about the mortgage arrears report.’

Christine took a deep breath.

I can’t… I just can’t…

‘Sorry Jill, I’ve got to go, let’s meet on Monday morning, OK?’ Christine stood up, closed her laptop, and grabbed her jacket from a nearby hanger.

The junior clerk turned and nodded. ‘Yeah, sure, have a nice weekend.’

Christine closed her office door and turned the key in the lock. ‘You too,’ she called as she made her way through the avenue of desks and filing cabinets to the staff exit.

Walking briskly to her car, Christine felt a pang of guilt and slowed. She bit her lower lip and glanced behind her at the bank.

I’m the manager...I should’ve taken a few minutes…

She stopped, closed her eyes and the wrinkles of a tortured soul formed over the bridge of her nose. She shook her head before she continued to her car. The car alarm beeped, and Christine slipped in behind the wheel. Tears welled in her eyes, and she gripped the steering wheel tightly as though it would somehow quell the gaunt feeling of helplessness in the pit of her stomach. She pressed the start button, and the car kicked into life. Tyres screeched on the concrete as she reversed out of her parking spot and turned into city traffic.

Ten minutes later, Christine parked her Alfa Romeo in the Washington Street underground parking lot. She looked in the mirror, checked her lips, fixed her hair, grabbed her bag, took a deep breath, and got out of the car. She locked the door and ascended the stairs into the busy street.

McCaffrey’s started to pick up some of the nearby office workers going for a few early Friday drinks, but still the big pub looked empty. The smell of stale beer and fresh saw dust coupled with the sound of the Pogues and the clink of glasses being stacked were the hallmarks of preparation for a lively Friday night. Christine sat in the snug with a glass of water. Now and then, her eyes darted to the bar through a small opening in the wall.

She leaned closer to the table and whispered in an anxious and hurried voice. ‘Can’t we do this upstairs? What if someone sees me in here?’

Johnsie O’ Dea left one big meaty hand on the table and sprawled the other arm across the back of the lounge. He tapped the table with his fingers and tilted his head on his thick neck. He grimaced at the possibility of anyone caring.

‘In this snug? I don’t think so, girl.’

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I’m just asking for some privacy.’

Johnsie gave a little snort and smirked. ‘Have you got the rest of the money?’

Christine pursed her lips and sat upright. She shook her head.

Johnsie looked around the ceiling as though he implored a higher power. ‘Well now, isn’t this somethin’. A banker with no money.’ He dropped his gaze to her face and squinted at her. ‘And you want upstairs to say what to Chaz?’

‘Explain, you know.’

Johnsie sighed. ‘Doll face, Chaz doesn’t want to see you with no money. D’ye get me?’

Christine shivered at the rejection and swallowed. ‘I need time, he’ll get his money’, she continued in a low voice.

‘How long have I been listenin’ to that? I’ll tell ye how long. Since your auld lad kicked the bucket. He was full o’ fags and booze, and like, nothin’ wrong with that, but a fuckin’ gambler to the end. A right good lad for a party was Dessie.’ Johnsie stared and his eyes drooped. He wagged a finger at Christine. ‘To be fair, though, you’ve paid half already, you just need to knuckle down and cough up the other hundred Gs.’ Johnsie sat forward and grinned, and his gold tooth shone in the evening light. ‘I’ll tell ye what, I’m feelin’ in a good mood, so you’ve got until the end of the month, and you know what’ll happen if you don’t have the bread?’

Christine stared at him, bit her lower lip, and nodded. She grabbed her bag and Johnsie chuckled as Christine left the snug.

She closed the door of her Alfa Romeo and looked around the dark underground car park. The darkness closed in, choking her hopes and dreams. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel and watched the tear drops from her open eyes fall onto the steering rack. She opened her mouth slightly, but she had stopped breathing and a silent scream emerged from deep within. She thought about going to the Guards but made her first and biggest mistake by choosing to remortgage her apartment to pay the Tonners half of her father’s debt instead. Christine fell back in her seat and took a deep breath.

How the hell am I going to get another hundred thousand?...

The Bank Manager saw the red ticker flash “danger” in her mind’s eye, and she was out of ideas. She started the car and looked in the mirror. Her puffy red eyes stared back. The steering wheel left a mark on her forehead and her body ached. She took a deep breath, composed herself, revved the Alfa, and exited the underground car park.