The last Job

THE LAST JOB

“I always hated the rain,” said Brian.

“Good for the farmers,” replied Ed.

“The poor farmers,”

“There’s no such thing.”

“How do you know this place?” asked Brian.

“My uncle used to run it. He’s dead now. It was owned the Cosgraves,” said Ed.

“The politician?”

“The farmers run the country, Brian.”

“They always did.”

“Fucking in-breds. What’ll it be?”

“The taps work?”

“Yes. The taps work, Brian. The coat hook should be near your knees.”

“A pint of plain, Ed,”

“Is your only man, in the words of the poet.”

“It needs to settle.”

“Then it’ll need an accompaniment – Powers?”

“A Jemmy, con su permiso.”

“A Jemmy it is, Brian. Spanish?”

“Have to get familiar with the lingo, compadre - hate Powers; it cuts the fucking throat off of you.”

“One Jameson, Brian – Slainte,”

“To the rain.”

“The rain in Spain, Brian – the car?”

“ ‘round the back. Under the trees.”

“Shouldn’t draw attention then,” said Ed.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Ed – the next parish is Boston – but the car is around the back under the trees like you said. I think the pint is ready.”

“There’s eggs in the bag there.”

“Eggs?”

“Yes. Eggs – hand me one.”

“A raw egg in a pint – nice touch,”

“I worked one summer in Oxford – the 80’s. Hunger strikes and such shite - I was labouring on a shopping centre, putting in the ceiling. Never once saw the city. I roomed with a gang of lads – bit of craic – anyway, there’s was one fella on the site. Huge and I mean a HUGE cunt, from out around this way; Mayo, Sligo. Name of Quigley. Every morning at seven, we’d bail into the Mason’s Arms, an early house and Quigley would order six pints of Guinness and from his big donkey jacket – it could be thirty fucking degrees in the middle of August and this thing would be welded to him – he pulls a box of eggs and broke each one into each pint and down the lot. Never once is six months did I see Quigley eat. Just porter and raw eggs.”

“I’d love to see Oxford, it’s on my bucket list.”

“They don’t talk much Spanish in Oxford, Brian. Here’s to Quigley – god be good to his soul, wherever he is,” said Ed.

“That’s disgusting, Ed.”

“All the basic food groups covered. Try it.”

“I will ‘n me bollix. No. Just no!”

“I’m setting up a few more.”

“We could use a fire, Ed.”

“Put a fucking coat on, Brian. Smoke might draw attention. A FOR SALE sign with smoke coming out of the chimney, it might draw attention.”

“Can’t get the heat into me these days, Ed.”

“We’re getting old.”

“It’s the last job anyway.”

“Twenty-four hours and it’ll be the Costa.”

“Flying?”

“Belfast. Just the clothes on me back and the cash in mo pocha.”

“Belfast – that’s three-hours across the border – how are you getting there?”

“Any chance of a lift?”

“Fuck off, Brian. Once this is done its back to Dublin for a few days. Get a taxi.”

“Phoning for a taxi to a bar with a FOR SALE sign might draw attention?”

“Not my problem, Brian.”

“Fuck you.”

“You could thumb a lift.”

“Sleeveen cunt.”

“That I am, Brian – another Jameson?”

“Leave the bottle on the counter. Anything in the till?”

“Nope.”

“Tips jar?”

“Where are you? In a truck stop in Pennsylvania? This is Ireland for fuck’s sake. A TIPS JAR.”

“You’re getting antsy, Ed – better lay off the hooch.”

“I’ll lay off you in a second, you rat-faced fuck.”

“Charming – what time is it, slim?”

“You don’t have a watch?”

“Pawned it – yes, Ed, there a pawn shops in Dublin – the old Jew, Briscoe.”

“There are no Jews in Dublin.”

“There are, Ed. A few, but no many - Briscoe’s cool; a man of few words – a righteous soul.”

“It’s just ten. When is Kelleher arriving?”

“Midday. Time enough. I’ve never met a Jew.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

“That’s a shame, they never forget a debt or a slight. This place reminds me of Briscoe.”

“A bar?”

“The tables, the frames are old sewing machine benches – Singer’s.”

“You know this how?”

“Before the heady days of pawnbroking, Briscoe ran a clothing factory. I was a pattern cutter, a junior. On Caple Street. It was a real fucking wooden fire-trap. Lines of girls and their Singer machines. Briscoe had a cot in his office, one of those old army fold up ones – if he ever got the urge, he’d walk down the line, pick out his Molly du jour and bang her on the cot. They had no choice – it was the 80’s all their menfolk unemployed – all sewing and their Wednesday mickey money keeping roofs over their heads.  Like I said, a righteous soul.”

“Pawnbrokers mean paper trails, Brian. Traceable.”

“Briscoe won’t say a word. He’s a man of honour. It was a good watch; a Patek.”

“Living the dream, Brian.”

“Every day, Ed. Rain’s stopped.”

“About fucking time.”

“Will Kelleher arrive in person?”

“Doubt it, Ed – ever met him?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither – pour another Jemmy.”

“Just can’t get the heat into me.”

“We’re getting old, Ed.”

“To retirement.”

“To Spain.”

“Ole.”

“To the spires of Oxford and Quigley and the silent Briscoe and to his Mollies du jour.”

“Amen, Ed.”

“To the last job and the ladies of Spain.”

“It’s almost time. One more for the road?”

“What time does the mark pass?”

“His walk will take him past here in half-an-hour.”

“It’s been pissing down?”

“I think he’ll dress for the conditions, Ed.”

“Dog?”

“Plural. We’ll hit them first. Underline the overall seriousness of the situation.”

“Poor dogs.”

“There might not be, but likely.”

“Kelleher will want evidence.”

“We take a photo. Send it to him. Drop the phone in the bog as discussed. Collect the envelope at the Parcel Motel, split the difference and leave the body here. No mess, no fuss.”

“I love dogs.”

“They’ll bark, Ed. They might draw attention. Best start with them. If you’re not up to it; I’ll do them.”

“Quick?”

“Yes, Ed. Quick. You’re squeamish about dogs but ok with people?”

“Dogs don’t make choices. Dogs don’t make life or death decisions. The mark knew the rules.”

“The dogs are collateral damage. That’s all.”

“It’s almost time – better tool up, Brian.”

“One more for the road, so?”

“One more for the road.”

“Hand me another egg there, will you?”

“You disgust me, Edmund.”

“Slainte. Now let’s get our coats.”