Fuck’s sake, mister.

They call themselves that and you can translate: prick.

Asked,

“Can I help you?”

He chuckled, then,

“It’s actually what I’m going to do for you.”

I sneered,

“Gee, I kind of doubt that.”

He wasn’t fazed, continued,

“Your buddy Stewart left a will.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Another chuckle, though of the incredulous variety, said,

“What a turn of phrase you have. Have you ever considered writing? They tell me mystery is the money spinner these days, and Lord knows, you talk in a disjointed fashion that might even pass for style.”

Hilary Mantel had just won the Man Booker for the second time with, would you believe,

Bringing Up the Bodies.

Serendipity?

The fuck cares?

I asked,

“Surely Stewart was too young to have made a will?”

He tut-tutted.

I swear to God. That an adult can actually do this is a source of constant astonishment to me. He said,

“Stewart was a conscientious young man and a shrewd entrepreneur. One feels making such a wise move would not have been a choice of yours, Mr. Taylor.”

Bollix.

I said,

“It’s the dilemma of who to leave my Zippo to that’s held me back.”

“Very droll I’m sure.”

I said,

“Much as I love schmoozing with you, is there a point?”

“Indeed, Stewart left you a considerable sum.”

I muttered,

“Jesus H. Really?”

He said, in the driest tone,

“Would I be. . shitting you?”

En route to Westbury’s office, I walked along Shop Street, the buskers and mimes in full and silent roar, respectively. One was attracting a lot of attention, made up like Mitt Romney. He’d a sign around his neck which read,

. . I pledge to nuke Iran.

One felt he’d keep his awful promise.

A band was playing The Fields of Athenry and, for any decent Irish person, the song has resonance but, when it’s their sole repertoire and you’ve heard it for the tenth time, you’re prepared to lay waste the bloody fields. I was not alone in my thinking, The government was introducing legislation that required buskers to have, and I kid you not,

At least twenty songs!

Like, who the fuck was going to enforce this? Some lone dumb Guard would have to stand there and, like,

Hear

Twenty awful Irish ballads.

He’d run screaming for duty in Lebanon.

Then I did a double take. Was I finally succumbing to all my excesses and hallucinating in broad daylight? I saw,

A Segway.

Those stand-up, slow mobile things that somebody thought were a grand idea. A lone Guard, self-conscious and mortified was. . cruising?. . along by Griffin’s Bakery to jeers and mockery from just about everyone, even, God help us, tourists.

The Guard said,

“Those are to be the latest weapon in the war against street crime.”

I mean, fucking seriously.

The street thugs are carrying everything from freaking Uzis to grenades and this lone eejit on his trusty Segway appears and does what? Shouts,

“Halt, or I shall pursue.”

Jesus.

A woman, not young, was outside Boots, singing One Day at a Time.

But almost inaudibly until

Until she hit the refrain, Lord help me Jesus,

And, man, she hit that sucker with all she’d got.

This was, collectively, Dante’s Irish edition of the Seventh Circle.

I got that sudden thirst that knows naught of rhyme nor race, stepped into Garavan’s. The owner was there, a good guy. He knew to leave you be until you got the first drink down.

He offered The Irish Independent with the pint; news and stout, the staples. Got half the black away and sat back, wished for a smoke, and, I swear, the guy beside me asked,

“Wanna fag?”

Not a question you’d ask an American.

I’d been yet again, on,

Then off,

And yada yada.

But, what the hell. I said,

“Yeah.”

We didn’t go to the smokers’ shed-too much like a leper colony-but took it out on the street. He offered a pack of Major, the original ferocious-strength one. He produced a battered Zippo, clicked. One of my favorite sounds. Fired us up.

Jesus, that pure poison is pure heaven. The guy was in his early twenties, dressed in good top-of-the-range clothes. His face had that ravaged look of hellish teenage acne but he had good eyes, those gentle ones you see rare to rarest in either a child or a Labrador, a sort of beguiling innocence. He said,

“I was thinking of going to Australia.”

The sarcasm in me nearly said,

“Finish the fag first.”

But bit down, said,

“Lots of work there.”

We’d fallen instantly into the camaraderie of smokers. He said,

“My girl, you know, she’s a nurse, she doesn’t want to leave Galway.”

Jesus, why not, to live in the sun, where the buskers might play another tune?

I said,

“Tough choice.”

He drew deep on the filter, then,

“What’s tough is she’s reading Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Is there a sane reply?

Berryman in The Paris Review,

“. . The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point he’s in business.”

I’d finished my pint, forwent another or I’d be there until closing, and headed for Westbury’s office. Kept me waiting an hour, old Reader’s Digests on the table. I increased my word power by

Two.

Butyraceous: of the nature or consistency of butter.

Caesious: bluish or greenish gray.

Not sure how to drop those babes into conversation.

When I finally got to sit opposite Westbury, his fabulously expensive suit was the color of

Caesious?

And, certainly, fine food, lots of the best wine, had given his jowls a butyraceous sheen. He shuffled papers in that important fashion they teach at law school. He was peering over his pince-nez (made me feel warm and literary to say that instead of cheap glasses), his expression sour, as if I were something the cat not only sneaked in but then denied.

He said,

“You’ll find all is in order and, may I say, congrats on your little windfall.”

He passed me over some papers. I scanned them, then said,

“Holy fuck.”

It was a lot.

He asked,

“Might you be needing some expert advice on how to best manage those substantial assets?”

I laughed, let out,

“Like fuck.”

He said,

“One takes that as a no.”

32

I’m allergic to alcohol and narcotics. I break out in jail.

— Robert Downey, Jr.

In my mind, it was Peter O’Toole as Lawrence of Arabia saying,

The trick is not minding that it hurts.

Didn’t work on thinking about Stewart.

A guy passed me wearing a T with the logo

. . Best boy band, One Erection.

I was meeting Ridge to have a drink to say a final good-bye to Stewart now that his estate was settled. We met in Feeney’s, at the top of Quay Street. It’s somehow hung on as a real pub, if not indeed ordinary because it didn’t serve chips.

Yet.

Fishing tackle was advertised in a front window alongside Middleton whiskey. A lone sentry sat at the end of the bar. If he remembered me, he’d didn’t let on. His flat cap was on the counter, lined up beside a dwindling pint. I offered,

“Another?”

Took my measure, then,

“Will I have to thank you?”

“Good heavens, no.”

He nodded.

No change there.

I sat near the back, a short and a tabloid before me. The sublime and the scurrilous. I was reading about the American election when Ridge appeared. Her face looked ravaged, like after a continuous jag of weeping. I didn’t ask, offered,

“Something to drink?”

Surprised me with,

“A hot toddy.”