Merrick (8 page)

I’d been sitting in Herald Square. Drinking a Starbucks Latte Grande, followed it with a

cig. I swear to God, as I cranked the Zippo, I looked round furtively, checking for The

Nicotine Nazi’s. Three obese people went by. I muttered

‘See, eat yourself to death. The American Bill of Rights.’

In Ireland, during our nigh ten years of Economic prosperity, we’d developed the obese

Problem. Not too surprising, a country starved for five hundred years, then rushed to

the other end of the scale. Fast food joints almost outnumbering the number of pubs, well

almost. Certainly outnumbering the number of priests, an endangered species. I could

hear Roisin, my ex wife screech

‘Anorexia, in my day, we called it poverty.’

Not your emphatic lady.

I’d heard that Herald Square was a stone replay of the feud between The Herald and The

Tribune. Like I knew what the fook that meant? The barista in Starbucks, notice the

barista, the guy said that’s what he was.

Ok, just gimme the bloody coffee.

But he was not to be stemmed, I think the tip encouraged him, he pointed to The Square,

said it used to The Tenderloin Area. Now it was just sad. The dancing, brothel’s,

dangerous tavern’s long gone. Replaced by a dull shabbiness. A gone to shite blot on the

landscape.

Macy’s, in view, trying to look like it was on another block. Me, I think I’d have fit in

better with the edgy times rather than just plain decrepit.

I hailed a cab, headed for the hospital. Had gotten a call from Shona, Merrick had come

out of surgery, was doing well and sitting up in bed.

His cop buddies had wrangled him a private room. With the cost of Health care in The

States, it was like getting the mini lottery. Required serious clout or juice as they’d say. I

looked at the gifts id gotten him, thought……shabby, bit like The Square.

I met his wife outside the room, she looked knackered. Dark circles under her eyes, like a

Galway bad tide.

She glanced at the bag in my hand, asked

‘For Steve?’

Jesus, I’d never get used to his name. I said, going full Irish, which happens when I’m

nervous,

‘Tis nothing, nothing at all.’

She gave me a hug.

Said

‘You are such a great friend.’

File that under

Delete.

Merrick was sitting up in bed, IV tubes a riot. He looked tired and I hoped to fook, not

beaten .I asked

‘How’s it going mate?’

‘Could be worse.’

I handed over the bag, he took it, asked

‘Ryan, you going soft?’

I defended

‘The book was something I had for years.’

True, belonged to my mother in fact.

I pulled up a chair, and he tore open the bag, spilling the contents on his bed. He picked

up the collection of Yeats, checked it, said

‘Fuck, it’s a first edition.’’

Then a large bottle of Sprite. He stared, asked

‘No grapes?’

And held up the sprite, an incredulous gleam in his eyes, went

‘You brought me a fucking bottle of pop?’

Pop, soda, back home, we call them minerals. Pop is for absent fathers.

I said

‘You suspicious bollix, it’s not sprite.’

He took the cap off, hope alight, smelled, went

‘Jameson?’

I nodded, said

‘Mixed with the sprite, God forgive me for the desecration.’

and blessed me own self.

Then he surprised me ,the ultra cautious Merrick, took a slug, gasped

‘Oy veh, it is.’

He offered it, I said

‘No, I have to go to a funeral.’

I told him about Cloud Dancer, my voice trembled a little but I made it. Cleared my

throat, asked

‘Do they, you know, Indians?, Have like your ordinary funeral?’

He nearly smiled, said

‘I don’t know, there are no ordinary funerals, especially if you’re the guy being buried. I

never had any Indian friends, mine…………they’re all Brooklyn cowboys.’

Sensing my distress, that was the reason I guess we were friends, he changed tack

completely, asked

‘Ryan, you have any heroes?’

Then before I could respond, he looked at the Yeats, said

‘The Centre cannot hold.’

Did he mean, The World Trade Centre?

As an outsider, I knew not to mention it to New Yorkers unless they brought it up. But he

was into his own hero, said

‘Back in 2003, a young kid, twenty, was drafted to the Majors. At 5.9, for football, he

was small, but he won their respect with his raw courage and his fearless tackles. He was

offered a new contract, by The Cardinals, 3.2 Million. Instead, he volunteered for Iraq.

Not just the regular Army, The Rangers, the elite. Say, 400 go into the Ranger training

course, all but maybe fifty wash out. He did his tour, came back and The NFL were

alight. A bona fide hero, with movie star looks, he could have been the next Jimmy

Caan.’

He stopped, took a slug out of the sprite, said

‘You know Caan wasn’t really Italian.’

I sighed, another icon bites the pseudo dust.

He shook his head, physically re-grouping himself, continued

‘Sorry, I digress. The kid, he re-enlists. You fucking believe the balls on this guy? For

Afghanistan! and his brother comes along too. He was killed a short time after. The team,

in respect, retired his number, 40.

He was done, silent. Was I expected to reciprocate? I had nothing. I don’t do heroes.

Went with

‘Hell of a story.’

Piss lame, I know.

He said

‘There’s a kicker.’

Ok, I waited.

‘A month after his funeral, The Goddamn Justice Department admitted………….he’d

been killed…………….by

………………………………………..friendly

………………………………………………………..fire.’

Oh fuck.

Now I truly had nothing.

The nurse came, with a tray of medications. But first, she had to fluff the pillows,

essential one in the Nurses manual, fluff the freaking pillows at all times, especially if the

patient just got off to sleep.

Shot me a look.

I wanted to try out my American, go

‘What am I, chopped liver?’

But let it slide.

I leaned over Merrick, took his meaty hand in mine, said

‘I’ll be back soon.’

He seemed to have already drifted off.

I go to the door, heard

‘Bring grapes.

‘DON’T BACK US INTO A CORNER. I’M TALKING JUST

ABOUT THE MEN, WOMEN ARE FIGHTERS TOO.’

CROW.

COMANCHE CHIEF.

Cloud Dancers funeral was held, if that’s the right word, in a large loft in Greenwich

Village. Shona gave me the directions, said she had to be there with the women to

prepare the food.

How do you dress? If you’re a white eyes.

With care I guess.

I wore dark chino’s, white shirt, black tie. If it were an Irish wedding, you’d bring a Mass

card and a bottle/flask. I stuffed cash in an envelope. If the kid had family?

I got there to discover they had already had the burial and Crow, taking me aside, said

‘No offence but you’re an outsider.’

Like being Irish was carte blanche to life?

Jesus, not even in Ireland.

The loft was massive, on one side, the women were lined, wearing traditional costume.

The men wore the gear too. I felt like I was in the movie ‘Soldier Blue.’

Shona came and held my hand, said

‘After, we’ll go somewhere.’

Returned to the women. Fook, there a mountain of food. Crow, who seemed to have

been

designated my mentor, said

‘I will explain the food later, we don’t want you eating raw liver by mistake.’

He nearly smiled, continued

‘Cloud Dancing is buried in the Wichita Mountains, among his ancestors, the caves there

hold our spirits.’

A young Indian approached, offered Crow something, he took it, asked

‘Like some Peyote?’

He explained it was made from cactus, and had powerful halogens. I said

‘Maybe later.’

Crow called to one of the women and she appeared a moment later with a long neck and a

tumbler of Bourbon. I started to get on the other side of that as the feast began, I kid you

not, a steady drumming started and some of the women began to dance.

The sound of

rattles, the drum beating seemed to be monotonous first and I thought, worse than Musak.

Then they added the chanting.

I’d barely

Registered that you know? But it started to sound different, meaningful.

The bourbon helped and shite, if I’d had the peyote, I’d have been out on the floor with

the

dancers, doing a very poor, Irish jig.

Crow had a gourd rattle and was steadily rattling it in time to the drums, almost without

knowing it.

The food was laid out on long wooden tables,

Boiled meat

Corn

Macaroni cheese

The afore mentioned raw liver.

To honor the buffalo said Crow.

Every time I drained my glass, it was instantly replaced by another. No complaints from

me and The Texas Long necks were sliding down real easy.

Crow said, listening to the drum

‘The dance is low energy movement, for the powwow, it will continue for up to twelve

Hours’.

He laughed out loud, at my expression of horror, I didn’t know that at an Indian

ceremony, laughter, crude jokes are not only tolerated but encouraged. A shout of

celebration against death.

Assured me

‘Shona will rescue you before then.’

No wonder I felt at home and I did.

Crow said

‘Our last ceremony was something, we had it in the baseball court, outdoors, where the

spirit belongs but the cops busted us.’

I remembered to pass over the envelope. Crow asked

‘You know about
giveaways,
to give something to honor a family?’

Nope.

But I got the drift.

He looked in the envelope, back home, that would be regarded as rude but for the

Indians, pure curiosity.

He gasped, said

‘This is a month’s wages, you risked your life for this?’

I said, truthfully

‘I liked the kid, a lot.’

He touched my shoulder, said

‘Ryan, for a white eyes, you have many Indian traits.’

Didn’t elaborate.

‘Come.’

Led me over to a large coal brazier, I wondered about the Fire department. Crow handed

me a plastic bag, said

‘Dried cedar sprigs, sprinkle them on the coals.’

A woman behind him handed him a fan, he put it in my hands, said

‘Eagle wing, wave it over the coals.’

Fook, I did.

Crow spoke some words as I did so. I should have felt like a horse’s arse but it seemed

right. He threw a pair of moccasin’s on the coals, said

‘Cloud Dancer will not be barefoot because you give him those.’

Okay?

A little later, Crow handed me a huge steak sandwich, fries on the side, laughed, said

‘It’s not Buffalo, it’s to soak up the booze.’

I said

‘I’d have eaten Buffalo.’

He gave me a long look, said

‘That I true believe my friend.’

I’ve no idea when Shona came, took my hand, said

‘There is a room below the loft.’

I said, no idea what this meant

‘There is?’

She laughed, those Indians sure laughed a lot, said

‘We need to make love, to celebrate Cloud’s Dancer arrival among his tribe.’

Worked for me.

…………………………FRIENDLY FIRE.

In The Bronx, above a dry cleansers, the hot dog vendor was trying to explain to his

Russian backers, what went down, the encounter with the large man. The most vital

talking he’d ever do. Fail to convince them and he was sauerkraut. A friend had told him

‘Borrow twenty five grand, the vig will be about two hundred a week. But in six months,

you’ll be free and clear, own the business yourself. The Russians will provide the cart,

get the meat etc. cheap. Never ask…………….never what’s in the meat and don’t eat the

things, ever. Oh, do not fuck with those guys, give them their money every week, they

will protect you but screw with them, you’re dead. Nobody, not even Russians fuck with

……The Russians.’

And he’d been right on target, even ahead. Until………….

One Russian stood behind him, Mr. Silent, he never spoke, just looked at you with cold

eyes. The other, in front, classic interrogation technique. He had a scar, like lightning

running all length of his face, on the right side. It looked like it had been high lit by blue

ink. Not re-assuring, such a memorable scar would have made most people in his

business worry about ID. That he knew this would never happen was too frightening to

contemplate. He led the vendor through the events again. Then pushed,

……………………………the man was there

…………………every day?

Why? To what? Stare at the sky. The workers in the sky./

Why?

You don’t

………………………………………….know?

He described the man again and again. Scarface, stepped back, grabbed a bottle of Stoic

from the table, drank from the neck, then handed the bottle across the vendor to Mr.

Silent.

The vendor could have done with a heavy slug of it himself. He wasn’t offered. Sweat

was cascading down his face, though the room was icy. Scarface rattled off a volley of

Russian to the other.

Who grunted.

The vendor didn’t know had a death sentence been passed. Scar face bent down , stared

into his face for over two minutes. The vendor was afraid to speak. He’d learned to only

answer questions, never volunteer them. Amazing how one solid punch to the back of the

head brought you up to speed on the etiquette of torture.

Finally, the deathly stare was over. Scar face stood up. Wrote something on a piece of

paper.

Said

‘You can go.’

The vendor wanted to ask if he was to continue business and realized, of course. They

wanted paying. Scarface pushed the note at him said

‘New place to sell, until we say.’

He got to his feet, his legs literally shaking. He made it to the door. Scar face, said

‘You need drink?’

Tossed the bottle at him and he never knew, how in hell he caught it. He was on the street

in ten seconds, trying to put distance between them. Not that you ever could witht hose

animals. He needed that drink so bad, raised the bottle, it was empty. A sound carried

from the room he’d been in, a low growling, laced with violence, it could almost have

been laughter.