A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle Page B

far past fifteen when she became the madam.
    —Has your tongue gone the same way as your leg?
    —No.
    —Good.
    She sighed, and peppermint joined her powder.
    —I am a businesswoman, she said.
    There was a hint of the foreigner in her words, just now and again. Nothing as strong as an accent, just a bend or a tiny fracture in a phrase. Or each word precisely delivered where the locals took shortcuts.
    —A businesswoman, she said.—Yes. And, Mister - tell me your name.
    —Henry.
    —Henry and?
    —Smart.
    —And, Mister Smart, what is my business?
    —Em—
    —Men come into my house, they fuck my girls and then they leave with less money. That is my business. Yes?
    —Yes, said my father.
    —They drink some gin and listen to the piano player murdering my piano but, essentially, they fuck my girls. Is that right?
    —Yes.
    —Yes, she said.—Prostitution. That is my business. She stopped. He was sure that she expected something from him.
    —Yeah, he said.
    —Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah. The men are happy, my girls are happy, I am happy. Say Yeah.
    —Yeah.
    —No. I am not happy. Why not?
    —Em—
    —Because there is no business taking place in my house. Because you will not let it take place. You will not let the men in to fuck my girls. There is not one man in my house at this moment. Except you. And you do not count, Mister Smart.
    —Sorry, said Henry.
    —Your apology I accept, she said.—But, still, I must dispose of you.
    How? he wondered. He considered telling her about his dead children, his son’s name, his fight with God. But he couldn’t.
    —I pay you how much?
    —Fifteen shillings a week, said Henry.
    —I will pay you fifteen shillings and fifteen shillings more and you will go. You are not good for business.
    He was getting the sack. He wasn’t going to be flung into the Liffey or fed to the pigs beyond Tallaght. It was only the sack. There’d be other jobs. There was always work for bullies, or other work.
    —However, said Dolly Oblong.
    Henry waited. He felt stronger now. He knew: she wasn’t even going to sack him.
    —However, she said again.—However, Mister Smart, I have other business ventures. You know this. I have partnerships.
    She was a grand chunk of a woman, Henry decided. Red suited her. Especially in the dark.
    —Mister Gandon speaks highly of you, she said.—You are efficient. You are cautious enough not to ask questions, stupid enough not to care. He likes this.
    —Good, said Henry.
    He was being insolent, he knew. But not too insolent. Fresh peppermint arrived at his nose. He liked it.
    —Yes, said Dolly Oblong.—I am glad that you say Good. Mister Gandon tells me that you do a very professional job. This makes me happy.
    He decided against more insolence. Stupid first, now he was being cautious. Mister Gandon knew his man.
    —Yes, said Dolly Oblong.—There are two Mister Smarts. One makes me unhappy, the other makes me very happy. Which Mister Smart am I addressing? Well?
    —I’ve always admired Mister Gandon, said Henry. Never met the man, he said to himself. Then, again to himself: She’s Alfie Gandon. It made him smile. It was brilliant; it thrilled him. He liked her even more.
    —Good, she said.—Good.
    He wanted to serve her.
    She clapped her hands. Powder and sin danced around his face. He decided to shave. And brush his coat.
    —Very well, she said.
    And varnish his leg.
    —I will not dispose of you.
    He waited for more.
    —I am going to give you a second chance, said Dolly Oblong.
    —Thank you, said Henry.
    —But you must allow the men to come into my house and spend their money.
    —Yes, said Henry.
    —That is how society works. Money. Making it, taking it, spending it. Without money we are nothing, not even animals. We are not efficient enough to be animals, Mister Smart, so we make money instead. So. You must give the men the opportunity to spend their money. This makes more money. It is good for society. It is good for the city, the country and the