Green Hell (8 page)
“If you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.”
And still they ran long, harrowing advertisements of dying black children with Eva Cassidy singing in the background. Shaming, bullying, and cajoling a bankrupt people into donating what few euros they retained. If the people hated any song, they now hated “Fields of Gold.”
Em had agreed to actually tell me who/what she was, if
I got wasted with her.
Her words.
Meaning, go on the piss. Twist my arm.
She insisted we go to the G Hotel. Already noted for its theme rooms, as in: you wanted peace, you opted for the purple room. Em said,
“Guy in the bar there shakes one mean, multifucking cocktail.”
I said,
“I don't do fancy.”
She got the look, she asked,
“You want the gen on me or not?”
“Guess I could go for a frozen margarita.”
She laughed, said,
“Dress to impress, slick.”
Been a time since I hit the charity shops. With the recession, the new scandal about top executives of the leading charities on massive salaries, the people on the ground, the actual working staff, were bearing the brunt at the Vincent de Paul shop. Rita greeted me,
“Jack, we thought you'd brought your business to T.J. Maxx.”
And swear to God, she gave that Galway hug:
Real,
Warm,
Felt.
And fitted me out with a dark suit that hung a little loose but I can do loose. A Van Heusen shirt and brand new Dr. Martens. The costâ
fifteen euros.
I kid you fucking not.
Heading for the G in my splendor, I shucked into my Garda all-weather coat and was, if not hot to trot, at least ready to limp with attitude.
We were sitting, not close but not distant. From left field she just launched.
“My old man sends me hefty checks for the guilt.”
Uh-oh.
“What guilt?”
“For diddling me in every orifice until I was sixteen.”
Then she swiveled in her seat, exclaimed,
“Over there, I saw Iain Glen. Be still my heart. He's got that intense brooding gig going.”
Then switched again, said,
“Think of me as a cocktail. You take,
Carol O'Connell's Mallory
A note of Sara Gran's Claire DeWitt
A sprinkle of angel dust
Shake that mojo
And
Out
Pops
Me fein (me!).”
Before I could comment she added,
“You only need to know I'm less Sylvia Plath and more Anne Sexton.”
I said,
“Or you could just be full of shite.”
We were on our second margaritas and those suckers were sliding down bad and easy. Em took out an e-cig, the green light glowing against the tequila sheen in her eyes. She said,
“I descended into a complete full madness and if you can know and accept that, you can function on a whole other level.”
I watched her exhale the nicotine-based water vapor and felt a powerful urge to smoke. A kick-in-the-gut, honest-to-God, unfiltered Lucky Strike. Em continued,
“Some people, before bed, they lay out the next day's clothes. Me, I lay out a slew of personalities, then, come morning I wake, pop an upper, chase it with a double espresso, and see who I'm going to be that day.”
I asked,
“Isn't that tiresome?”
Now, she was coming to it, asked,
“Jack . . .”
Pause.
“Don't you ever want to be somebody else, even for a little while?”
“I'd settle for being some
where
else, even for a little while.”
I could feel the tequila, settling then whispering, so I let it talk, said,
“Truth is, I only ever wish to be a fictional character.”
She was delighted, asked,
“Oh, do tell, and please . . . sweet Jesus, don't be predictable and do a James Bond shite song . . . let it be colorful!”
I said,
“Raylan Givens, as written by Elmore Leonard. Gets to wear a cool hat and not look like an eejit, has a side that is pure mellow. He's a U.S. marshal.”
She was disappointed or maybe the booze was on its rota of up/down swings, she said,
“You like him because of the hat?”
“No, because he legally shoots people.”
I didn't come to . . .
wake
would be too mild a word, to find myself naked in bed. The events of the night went blank after I'd sat on the sofa with Em.
I staggered out of bed, expecting the thundering hangover tequila guarantees, but no . . . and I certainly shouldn't have slept as soundly as I did. The norm would be the porcelain prayer, i.e., early in the morning (very early) puking my guts over the toilet bowl, on my knees, sweating like be-Jaysus. But no.
Apart from light-headedness, not unpleasant, I appeared to be fine. Fuck, even wanted coffee and a smoke. Pulling on a Galway United long sweatshirt, I went to the front room. A neatly wrapped package on the table with a note.
Lover,
I slipped you a Mickey Finn lest you attempted
to slip me some Irish. I was up early, fucked with
you a little (kidding), went out and brought you
a present . . . for the Raylan in all of us.
Catch you nine sharp tomorrow. We're heading
for Portlaoise to visit your young felon. Dress for
jail!
Meantime, I brewed fresh coffee so there should
still be some kick in it . . . like your old self really.
Tootle-Pip,
The
Emerald
I poured the coffee, still hot and indeed with a punch and then opened the package.
A perfect cowboy hat, with the snap brim.
You had to love her!
Next morning, I was outside the apartment, no idea what to expect. A yellow VW Beetle pulled up. A very beat-up one. The window rolled down, Em, behind the wheel, said,
“Pickup for a Mr. Taylor?”
She wasn't wearing a chauffeur's hat but her voice had the vibe. She was dressed in lawyer mode again. This time a prim white suit, blue-striped and expensive, hair tied back, sensible shoes.
I got in
and she eased into traffic, hit the stereo, and music surrounded us.
I asked,
“A yellow bug . . . really?”
She was trying to identify the song, said,
“I know this? Why? Arcade fire?”
I asked,
“Ever hear of Ted Bundy?”
As we reached the outskirts of the city she reached down, then handed me an iPad.
“Some light reading for the trip.”
She said,
“
Taylorâ
Made.
“It's Boru's first draft of his book on you.”
“Jesus, how'd you get that?”
She was turning at the traffic circle, said,
“Young man in charge of the Evidence Room.”
“Yeah?”
“He has a Britney thing. I donned the outfit from her first video, the school gym? The wet dream of middle-aged guys everywhere.”
Skeptical.
“And what, he just gave it to you?”
She fumbled for a flask of coffee, said,
“I gave him a blow job.”
Jesus!
I poured the coffee, settled back to read, a way in, thought,
“Holy fuck!”
She asked,
“How you liking it so far, Mr. Johnson?”
“Christ, everybody seems to hate me.”
She shrugged, said,
“Now you know how Sting feels.”
She asked,
“So where's your manners, bud?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don't feel a wee mite of gratitude for the U.S. marshal hat?”
I let lots of hard leak over my tone, said,
“Rohipnol? Fucking date rape . . . you really want to go there, to revisit the source of the . . . misdemeanor?”
She laughed, mock-shuddered, said,
“Oh . . . scary . . . I think I'm a little turned on.”
No real answer to that involves any sanity. I noticed a small logo on the dashboard, read:
Go gangsta,
Go ghetto.
How non-Irish do you get? I asked,
“Might I inquire who you'll be today?”
She used a dashboard lighter to fire up. I kid you not, a fuckin spiff, inhaled deep, said,
“Hope the fuck I don't get the munchies.”
Offered me the joint, I said,
“One dope per car seems sufficient.”
She snorted, then,
“To answer your previous, in light of this . . .”
waved the joint,
“. . . I was thinking, Nancy Botwin, you know, from
Weeds
?”
Terse, I snapped,
“I know who she is, Mary-Louise Parker.”
She said,
“Jesus, got you already.”
Mercifully, we were approaching Portlaoise. She stopped the car suddenly, looked right at me, asked,
“Right now, this moment, what would you most like to be doing?”
“Not sitting here in a yellow bug, not a spit from prison with . . . Sybil.”
Her eyes were serious, no dancing lunacy, she said,
“I'm serious, tell me.”
“Well, in my apartment, sipping fifty-year-old whiskey from the oak, watching Borgen with maybe the collected short stories of Amy Hempel as backup.”
I thought I saw a wetness touch her eyes, then she was back to biz, grabbing a battered briefcase, fixing her hair, said,
“That's probably the saddest thing I ever heard.”
Portlaoise Prison is Ireland's only high-security prison. Beside it is Midland Prison, a newer medium-security unit.
Built in 1830, it is notorious for the number of Provos there. Now it houses Ireland's most dangerous criminals,
Drug gangs,
Killers,
Rapists.
Irish Republican prisoners are on the old E-Block.
Irish Defense Forces are used as Guards. An exclusion zone operates over the entire complex,
Assault rifles,
Antiaircraft guns.
Notable inmates: Angelo Fusco
Martin Ferris
Dessie O'Hare
John Gilligan
Paul Magee
In 2007, John Daly, an inmate, phoned the radio show
Live Line
. His call resulted in Guards seizing fifteen hundred items of contraband:
Mobile phones
Plasma TVs
and incredibly, a budgie, smuggled in by a visitor concealing it in his buttocks! Whole new meaning to “a bird in the hand” or indeed “doing bird.” Daly had to be transferred owing to the death threats from the inmates.
Released in 2007, he was celebrating with a night out and was murdered.
The Caged Bird Sang No More.
I asked,
“Who are we supposed to be to gain entrance?”
She was all manic energy now, said,
“I'm the lawyer of note and you are the beloved, elderly Irish uncle.”
“Hey, enough with the elderly.”
She nearly smiled, said,
“Least you won't have to work hard to get into character.”
The Guards gave us the full security gig, eye-fucking as they did. Eventually, we were led into a small room, told No. 2035789 would be along shortly. Em, who for reasons best known to herself had adopted a haughty Brit accent, snapped,
“He does have a name.”
The Guard, delighted he had riled her, said,
“Not in here.”
Pause.
“Ma'am.”
The tone was,
Bitch!
We sat on hard metal chairs, a beat-up table before us. Someone had gouged into the top:
Kilroy was here
. . . didn't last
Deep.
She said,
“You never asked what my ideal moment would be.”
As the door opened, I said,
“Like I give a shit.”
“Let he who has not been stoned
cast the first sin.”
A warden, built like a brick shithouse, led Boru into the room. He was dressed in faded denims, way too large. He looked like a twelve-year-old. The warden pushed him to a chair, facing us, then moved back to stand, arms folded, against the wall. A heavy link chain circled the guy's belt, clanked as he moved. It was the sound of punishment. Boru never looked up, his head down like a penitent's.
Em barked at the warden in a Maggie Thatcher “
Don't fuck with me
” tone.
“Some privacy please.”
Reluctantly, slowly, he withdrew. I said,
“Boru, hey buddy, it's Jack.”
He raised his head as if it hurt. A dark bruise ran from his right eye all down to his jaw. It looked swollen. I didn't ask.
“How are you?”
How he was, was badly fucked. I said,
“This is Em, she's going to get you out.”
Yeah, right.
Boru said, his mouth revealing a bloody gap where his fine American front teeth had been,
“I want to go home.”
It reminded me of Thomas Wolfe's
You Can't Go Home Again
.
I didn't share this literary gem. Em asked,
“Besides the underwear they found, has your lawyer said the prosecutors have anything else?”
He looked at her, his eyes off-kilter, then,
“I didn't take her . . . intimate things.”
Em slammed the table hard with the palm of her hand, startling Boru and me. She snapped,
“Get with the program, kid . . . man up for Chrissake.”
It focused him, he tried,
“Don't be mean to me.”
Unrelenting, she pushed,
“We're all you've got. Now I want to know if the bloody knickers are all they've got.”
He stammered,
“The st . . . stalking, they say . . . I did that.”
She waved it off.
“Overzealous admiration, no biggie.”
She stood up, said,
“I think we're done here.”
Boru was amazed, pleaded,
“Can't you stay a bit?”
She was already gathering her things, said,
