A bank is a place that will lend you money

if…………………………………

you can prove you don’t need it.

I needed to visit me money. So many banks were going down the toilet and, like the clergy, being exposed for every abuse possible. With Laura arriving soon, I wanted to be able to show her I was, am, viable, at least financially.

I went to my local branch on Eyre Square. I managed to secure a face-to-face with one of the asssistant managers. He had a small walled-in space and a very harried look. I put out me hand, said,

“Jack Taylor.”

He was in his mid-thirties, with a posture that suggested a hundred. He took my hand, one of those dead fish shakes. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, just one of us working stiffs. He said,

“I’m Mr. Drennan.”

Mr.!

You have to be at least seventy and somewhat affable for me to call you Mister. But I rolled with the play, asked,

“How is my account?”

He had my file before him, peered through it, said,

“You have a very healthy balance, Mr. Taylor.”

I said,

“Show me.”

Threw him.

He asked,

“You want to see it?”

“My money, my call.”

He pushed it over reluctantly.

It was looking good. I was very relieved. He said,

“You are earning very little interest in that savings account.

Might I suggest some shares you could buy?”

“No.”

He was confused, asked,

“You don’t want to make some money?”

I looked him straight in the eye, said,

“If I wanted to make more money, you think I might have mentioned it? I want to see my money. The newspapers, they seem to think you guys have stolen every euro in the land.”

He looked around but help was not to hand, tried,

“You’d like a printout of your account?”

Unheard of in banking circles it seemed, so no wonder they were getting away with frigging wholesale larceny.

I sat back, relaxed. You get to fuck with the banks, enjoy.

I said,

“Unless you want to bring me the actual cash—and I have no problem with that, believe me. Put it in a bin liner and I’ll stroll out of here as happy as a Galway oyster.”

He rose, said,

“I’ll get right on it.”

I don’t think he meant the bin liner.

I got the readout and said,

“You need to chill mate, get out, have a few brews and tell yer own self, tis only money.”

He didn’t wish me God bless.

No wonder the fucks are in trouble.

It was pissing like a bastard, rain that is.

My dad was a lot on my mind those days. Probably the only hero I still had. I’d given up on wanting to be him. But it was a comfort while living in a new land of vultures and predators to think of him. He’d worked on the railways and to my surprise taken early retirement. I never asked him about it but I knew it weighed heavily on his mind.

He’d said to me one time, when per usual the banks were threatening the wrath of God as our mortgage fell behind,

“Jack, if you owed the bank fifty quid, they’d take the house from under you.”

I never forget that.

I never forget him.

Stewart was sitting in one of the very few authentic vegan cafés in the city. Situated but a lovely grilled T-bone steak from the Augustine Church, it was fundamental in its strict no-meat policy. Word was, a guy was turned away for wearing a leather jacket. Urban myth.

And footwear: canvas was, dare I utter, kosher. Stewart was wearing his winter crocs, differed from the summer style in that you wore socks.

A guy telling me about the Irish wardrobe during the summer, said,

“Roll up the sleeves on your sweater.”

Stewart was intent on his new venture. Investing in the growing boom of head shops. Legal highs in the High Street . He had a wedge of cash invested in one and was fretting about the government threats to close down the loopholes that allowed the shops to sell dope in all varieties. But clouds were gathering. Two students had died as a result of the products and the public was becoming volatile about the virus of new outlets.

One had even been burned out in Dublin.

Plus, the dope gangs were mightily pissed off about the loss in revenue this was costing them. He was seriously considering cashing out before the axe fell. That was his main gig, getting out before the shite hit the fan.

A shadow fell across his notes. He looked up, a heavily built man in his fifties was staring at him. The man had a face of sheer granite, with old acne spots across his upper jaw. Heavy tissue around his eyes testified to some time as a boxer. The broken nose confirmed it. He was wearing a very smart Crumby coat, collar turned up, with a fedora perched rakishly on his head. He asked,

“Mind if I join you?”

Pause.

“Stewart.”

Stewart nodded and the man sat, his heavy bulk straining the chair. A waitress appeared, asked,

“May I get you something sir?”

He gave her a lazy look, full of total uninterest, said,

“Yeah, coffee, black.”

He unbuttoned his heavy coat to reveal an ill-fitting brown suit with a puke green waistcoat, said,

“I’m Mason. Been looking for your boss, Taylor, but he seems to have disappeared. Probably sleeping off his latest piss-up?” Took Stewart a moment to grasp the cadence of the accent, British but muted. He answered,

“He’s not my boss.”

Mason actually raised an eyebrow, then said,

“You seriously believe that?”

The coffee arrived, Mason took a sip, spat, asked,

“The fuck is that swill?”

The waitress beat a fast and faster retreat.

Mason pushed the cup aside, said,

“Trust me sonny, I’ve done my research; you’re the gofer.”

Stewart applied all his Zen mastery, tried to envisage a sunlit meadow, but the sheer bulk of Mason blotted out the light. He asked,

“Who are you?”

Mason gave a deep smoker’s laugh, full of phlegm and venom, reached in his jacket, produced a wallet with a gold badge, said,

“I’m a private investigator. The real deal. Not like your employer’s half-arsed attempt. I used to be with the Met and after retirement took full accreditation as the real deal.”

Stewart was tired of the guy, tried,

“And you want to see Jack, why?”

He fixed his flat eyes on Stewart, steel glinting on the rims, said, “I’ve no fucking interest in that has-been. I’ve been employed by the family of Ronan Wall to look into his disappearance. You’re a messenger boy so deliver this to the alkie. This is my case and he’s to keep well clear of it. You got that, son?”

Stewart was still grabbing for some serenity.

Working it wasn’t, but he managed,

“Jack has no involvement in that case.”

Mason snapped his wallet shut. You could see the slick movement had been practiced before the mirror a lot. He said,

“Good, keep it that way. There’s a world of hurt for those who fall foul of me.”

He stood up, buttoned the coat, asked,

“Ex-con, right?”

Stewart didn’t feel it warranted a reply and Mason smiled. No warmth had ever touched that smile and it certainly didn’t now.

He said,

“Good lad, you sniff around my case, I’ll have you back behind bars in coke time.”

Stewart had finally found a place, deep within, where he could trust his mouth, asked,

“Your intimidating manner get you a lot of results?”

Mason had been on the point of leaving but turned back, leant right across the table, into Stewart’s face, his breath an acrid blend of nicotine and belligerence, hissed,

“Dipshit, I eat the likes of you for breakfast. I can stitch you up in ways you’d never imagine.”

Then he patted Stewart on the head, said,

“Now run along, there’s a good lad.”

He was done, set to head for the door, when Stewart said,

“I did learn a thing or two in prison. The louder the mouth, the bigger the target.”

Mason laughed, said,

“Next time we chat, I won’t be so cordial.”

And was gone.

Stewart tried to imagine such an encounter between Mason and Jack.

Phew-oh.

The Dylan album came to mind, he’d been listening to these old guys at Jack’s probing. The album was

Blood on the Tracks.