what?” This was becoming more confusing. Paul wished he hadn’t asked now.
“
Piles
. You know, those things old people get up their arse.”
“Up their arse …” Paul felt bewildered “What the fuck do you mean? What’s up their arse?”
“Piles – haemorrhoids. Bunches of swelling blood shaped like grapes. Old people stick the cream up their arse to make the swelling go down. My da uses it every single night. Swears by –”
“
Arse cream?
You made me stick arse cream all over my face? Are you fucking mad. If this ever gets out I’ll be called Arse Face for the rest of my life, you mad bastard.” Paul made a lunge for Willie, but it was too late. The front door had already been slammed. “You ever,
ever
breathe a word of this, Will
ie
, you’re dead,” hissed Paul, threateningly through the letterbox. “Do you hear me?”
“You’re my best mate, Paul. I would never tell a soul. Honest …” replied Willie, hunching down to speak to Paul through the other end of the letterbox. “The moment I saw you I knew I wanted you for a friend – a best friend. I’m so lucky …”
“I was over near North Queen Street, yesterday,” said Paul, handing Lucky his pint. “There’s an old pawnshop at the bottom of the New Lodge with a great collection of cues.In about four weeks, I’ll have one.”
“Listen to Rockafella,” grinned Lucky. “Just make sure you get me a few pints in between, before you start setting the world on fire with all your money.”
Hugging their pints of Guinness, the friends strategically sat themselves down in the far corner, their backs against one of the two potbelly stoves heating the Hut on cool nights like this. Paul felt a satisfying glow emanating from the pregnant belly of the stove plus they had the advantage of seeing the competition in action, warming up in the rows of snooker tables.
“The owner – some old man with sideburns like Elvis – didn’t seem too enthusiastic when I started asking him the price of some of the cues,” continued Paul. “It was almost as if he didn’t want to sell any item in the place.”
“That’s Philip Kennedy. He’s not the owner. His wife is,” said Lucky, sipping on the beer.
“Still, you’d think he’d be only glad of a sale. Didn’t look like they were doing too much business, when I was there.”
“Would you listen to yourself, bursting with so much money, you don’t know what to do with it. Anyway, if you knew that poor bastard’s wife, you’d understand why he looks so fucking miserable. Cathleen ‘Zipper’ Kennedy. Know her?”
“Unlike you, Lucky, I’ve better things to do with my life than to know every one in this town.”
Lucky took another sip of Guinness. The only thing better than a nice cold pint of Guinness was a nice cold pint of
free
Guinness.
“Cathleen came from a well-to-do family. Rumour had it she looked like Marilyn Monroe … only ugly. Her da – JackyDenver – was in the scrap metal business. Loaded to the gills, the bastard. Years ago, he bought an old rusted ship down in the docks, repainted it and sold it to a dictator in some tiny country. Made a fortune – as well as all the headlines. Anyway, when he died he left most of his money to the Church – probably trying to buy his way into heaven. Cathleen received a few crumbs and from the crumbs came the pawnshop. Not much really, when you consider what her da owned at the time. You can imagine the bitterness eating away at her arse, all these years. A princess relegated to a pauper.”
“Well, she stills owns more than most people in town. Fair play to her,” Paul managed to say, just before the smirk appeared on Lucky’s face.
“Fair play, you say?” Lucky sipped the Guinness slowly, peering over the glass with razor eyes. Paul knew that look could only mean one thing: he, Paul, had walked right into a big pile of shit.
“Fair play, you say?” reiterated Lucky, placing the glass on the table, smiling his
“
Piles
. You know, those things old people get up their arse.”
“Up their arse …” Paul felt bewildered “What the fuck do you mean? What’s up their arse?”
“Piles – haemorrhoids. Bunches of swelling blood shaped like grapes. Old people stick the cream up their arse to make the swelling go down. My da uses it every single night. Swears by –”
“
Arse cream?
You made me stick arse cream all over my face? Are you fucking mad. If this ever gets out I’ll be called Arse Face for the rest of my life, you mad bastard.” Paul made a lunge for Willie, but it was too late. The front door had already been slammed. “You ever,
ever
breathe a word of this, Will
ie
, you’re dead,” hissed Paul, threateningly through the letterbox. “Do you hear me?”
“You’re my best mate, Paul. I would never tell a soul. Honest …” replied Willie, hunching down to speak to Paul through the other end of the letterbox. “The moment I saw you I knew I wanted you for a friend – a best friend. I’m so lucky …”
“I was over near North Queen Street, yesterday,” said Paul, handing Lucky his pint. “There’s an old pawnshop at the bottom of the New Lodge with a great collection of cues.In about four weeks, I’ll have one.”
“Listen to Rockafella,” grinned Lucky. “Just make sure you get me a few pints in between, before you start setting the world on fire with all your money.”
Hugging their pints of Guinness, the friends strategically sat themselves down in the far corner, their backs against one of the two potbelly stoves heating the Hut on cool nights like this. Paul felt a satisfying glow emanating from the pregnant belly of the stove plus they had the advantage of seeing the competition in action, warming up in the rows of snooker tables.
“The owner – some old man with sideburns like Elvis – didn’t seem too enthusiastic when I started asking him the price of some of the cues,” continued Paul. “It was almost as if he didn’t want to sell any item in the place.”
“That’s Philip Kennedy. He’s not the owner. His wife is,” said Lucky, sipping on the beer.
“Still, you’d think he’d be only glad of a sale. Didn’t look like they were doing too much business, when I was there.”
“Would you listen to yourself, bursting with so much money, you don’t know what to do with it. Anyway, if you knew that poor bastard’s wife, you’d understand why he looks so fucking miserable. Cathleen ‘Zipper’ Kennedy. Know her?”
“Unlike you, Lucky, I’ve better things to do with my life than to know every one in this town.”
Lucky took another sip of Guinness. The only thing better than a nice cold pint of Guinness was a nice cold pint of
free
Guinness.
“Cathleen came from a well-to-do family. Rumour had it she looked like Marilyn Monroe … only ugly. Her da – JackyDenver – was in the scrap metal business. Loaded to the gills, the bastard. Years ago, he bought an old rusted ship down in the docks, repainted it and sold it to a dictator in some tiny country. Made a fortune – as well as all the headlines. Anyway, when he died he left most of his money to the Church – probably trying to buy his way into heaven. Cathleen received a few crumbs and from the crumbs came the pawnshop. Not much really, when you consider what her da owned at the time. You can imagine the bitterness eating away at her arse, all these years. A princess relegated to a pauper.”
“Well, she stills owns more than most people in town. Fair play to her,” Paul managed to say, just before the smirk appeared on Lucky’s face.
“Fair play, you say?” Lucky sipped the Guinness slowly, peering over the glass with razor eyes. Paul knew that look could only mean one thing: he, Paul, had walked right into a big pile of shit.
“Fair play, you say?” reiterated Lucky, placing the glass on the table, smiling his
Similar Books
