Exit Unicorns (Exit Unicorns Series) (74 page)

“And then what?” Jamie asked taking a heady drag on the cigarette and wondering if he’d revived another destructive habit.

“Oh,” Casey turned and grinned, “I’ve an idea or two.”

It was rather well known in certain less-than-elegant circles that many a Republican and wanted man, though not necessarily in this particular order, could be found of a Saturday night tipping his elbow at the Sniffy Liffey. It was a comfortable establishment with the required dark corners for the faces and whispers that wished to remain unnoticed.

The Sniffy never had a set of regulars except for the two old men who sat at the bar and talked to Mike the publican and proprietor, their claims to glory harking back to back Easter 1916, where one claimed to have stood shoulder to shoulder with Padraig Pearse and to have heard his last words before he was carted off to be shot. The story was told several times a day to any stranger that passed through and generally assured the man of his five daily pints. The second, a wee gray man who went by the name of Eamonn, claimed to have been part of the entourage that was guarding Michael Collins on his ill-fated trip through his home county of Cork. Which to be certain was nothing to be after bragging about said Mike the proprietor, for sure hadn’t the Big Fellow been slaughtered right by his car in the middle of the road, without a body to protect him? To which, old Eamonn would hang his head and say with a great sigh ‘tis true, ‘tis true, but it might have been worse.’ How it might have been worse, Mike wisely did not inquire and other than the occasional eye roll he let them ramble on to various and sundry clientele. They were harmless enough and a welcome distraction to men who did not wish themselves to be noticed, who avoided direct eye contact and straight answers.

On this particular Saturday night things were a bit quiet-like, there was a nervy looking group over in the corner and one or two loners. Eamon and Matty were at the bar, stools shaped with years of use to their backsides. Then through the door came the oddest looking pair Mike had ever seen outside a circus tent.

The taller of the two, a big man by any standards, wore a gently bemused expression and seemed to float rather than walk. His hair was dark but streaked with powdery white whorls, his eyes, barely discernible behind thick glasses, were decidedly myopic. He wore a robe of sorts, unbleached cotton with ‘Gunderson’s Best Baking Flour’ stamped at random across it. Around his neck was a monstrous rosary, crude wooden beads interspersed with what, given the dim light, looked to be garlic. Certainly the smell that wafted ahead of the man was enough to attest to it. At the tip of it, hanging halfway down his chest, was the largest cross Mike had ever seen strung about a human neck.

As odd as this first apparition was however, it was the second man who elicited the most gape-mouthed observation from the men at the bar. He had red hair that curled and sprang from his head and was saved from outright riot only by the grubby elastic that held it together and from which it spilled in abundant abandon down his back. Each ear held four earrings apiece and he’d a three-day growth of brightly red beard. On his head was a hat, one of those floppy hippie things, on which ‘Jesus Loves You Man’ was harshly emblazoned. The arms of his t-shirt were cropped off and across his chest was the message, ‘Bikers for Jesus—Ride the Righteous Winds.’ His long legs were encased in a dusty faded pair of denims and on his feet he wore a pair of shiny snakeskin boots.

The first man sat at a table close to the bar, still wearing a benignly confused look and the second made his way over to Mike.

“Guinness, two,” he said with a smile that split his dark face into amiability.

“Travelin’ through?” Mike asked. He prided himself on being able to spot foreigners at a glance.

“Yez might say dat, da good Fadder and oy’ze jist come home from Sout America. E’s a bit by way of bein’ a celebrity over dere.”

“Really, he’s—he’s a priest then,” Mike asked looking dubiously over at the flour sacked gentleman in question.

“A praste man, e’s da fookin’ eighth wonder of da world, yer lookin’ at the right reverent holy of holies, dat’s de Father Joseph Jesus Bunrattey, have ye never ‘eard of ‘im then?” The red-headed man looked at him as if he could not believe anyone would not have heard of Father Joseph Jesus Bunrattey.

“I can’t say that I have,” replied Mike calmly.

“Weel, that jist fookin’ beats it then don’t it? We comes ‘ere at the request of de pope ‘imself an’ find dere’s been no advance notice.” He leaned across the counter in one sudden snakelike movement and poked Mike with a grubby forefinger.

“Yer lookin’ at a fookin’ natural wonder, ‘is mudder named ‘im after da holy family an’ e’s been performin’ miracles since ‘e was three years old. Can make light dance on da ends of his fookin’ fingers an’ water pour up instead av down. ‘E saved me life an’ blinded me in the left eye the first time I laid me eyes upon ‘im.” The man elaborately crossed himself and kissed the tips of his fingers, “Da virgin bless an’ preserve him.” He leaned even closer to Mike and smiled evilly, one eye rolled back in his head exposing a pale bluish white. Mike who had seen all sorts of freakish flotsam and jetsam took an involuntary step back. “It’s glass, ‘isself says ‘e’d never gazed upon sich wickedness short of a daymon. ‘is purity it burned me eye clear fookin’ troo, can ya beat it? I’ve been followin’ ‘im ever since.”

“And who might you be?” Mike asked with a slight stutter.

The man sighed elaborately and leaned back into a stool.

“Lutie O’Toole and no I ain’t Peter’s brudder before ye ask.” He pointed to his chest, “Biker for Jaysus, rode me Harley clear crost Sout America, takin’ Fadder Joseph Jesus to minister to the sick an’ unholy, dere’s a powerful lot of unholies in dis world man.”

Mike slid the dark frothing Guinness across the bar and darted a look at the priest who was fingering his rosary and mumbling incoherently, his face a picture of beatific holiness.

Lutie leaned close again and said in a whisper, “Could ye help me out an’ tell ‘im dere’s like a three drink limit or sumfin’ coz fer all his religiosity de Fadder ‘as a powerful keen likin’ fer da drink.” He looked about himself suddenly as if every ear in the place were trained on him, which indeed most were, “if e’s ‘ad too much ta drink ‘e’ll start channeling’ da Virgin ‘erself. Oy’ve seen ‘im do it meself,” Lutie shuddered dramatically and recrossed himself, “’an it’s not a sight I’d wish on de Scratchman ‘isself, it can go on fer hours, ‘til ye fair tink yer ears are goin’ ta bleed if ‘e don’t stop. Mind now dere’s no one I’d radder have on me side in a fight, ‘e’s de former Golden Gloves champeen of Brazil an’ Paraguay, ‘e knocked an ape out colder dan a witch’s tit one time.” Lutie smiled reminiscently and took a slug on his Guinness. “Fookin’ amazin’ it was. I’d best git ‘im ‘is drink now, e’s a mightly thirst on, ‘e always does after da bleedin’ though.”

“The bleedin’?” Mike said, swallowing as a chill raced down his normally implacable backbone.

“Aye, da bleedin’. It’s only rare an’ ‘e gets no warnin’ as to when it’s comin’.” Lutie lowered his voice even further and darted his eyes from side to side, rolling the glass one round in an arc that did terrible things to the pit of Mike’s stomach. “E’s got da stigmata on ‘is ‘ands, like the very man ‘imself,” he hissed directly in the barman’s face, letting fly a warm Guinness impaled spray of saliva, “da peoples in Sout America, dey tougt ‘e was da Messiah.”

“An’ is he?” asked Mike recovering some of his composure.

“Weel, I’ll not say ‘e is an’ I’ll not say ‘e isn’t, but oy’ve seen ‘im do some powerful strange tings.” Lutie grabbed the two drinks and made his way over to Father Bunrattey, who was becoming progressively more pained looking at each ‘fook’ out of Lutie’s mouth.

Mike was rather taken aback when the priest took his Guinness and in one fluid motion drained the glass, then leaned across the table and grabbed Lutie less than gently and said something rather urgently into his face. He would have been even more surprised had he heard the conversation that was taking place in low hissing tones.

“Channelin’ the Virgin fer Chrissake that’s layin’ it on a wee bit thicker than I’d like,” said Father Bunrattey, “I only said to create a distraction not put on a fockin’ sideshow.”

“Indeed,” said Lutie in a well clipped, Oxford honed voice, “well I’m thinking on my feet here and not used to being the lure for some murderous lout, you’ll simply have to follow my lead.”

The Father, his myopic eyes shooting black flame through his heavy lenses was about to retort when a voice above them broke into their cozy tête-à-tête.

“Would ye be the self-same Father Joseph Jesus Bunrattey that saw the face of Jesus in his ma’s kitchen curtains when he was but an infant?”

Father Joseph Jesus looked startled then suddenly jumped up in his seat and upon regaining his perch shot a murderous glance across the table.

“Weel ‘e would be if yer talkin’ about da very same Joseph Jaysus Mary Bunrattey that was born in a caul an’ could speak in the tongues of angels from da time he was six months old,” said Lutie O’Toole rising rather menacingly out of his seat. “An’ indeed ‘e would be if yer talkin’ about da man who was struck dumb for ten long years, ‘an ‘e certainly would be if ‘e’s da man dat sat on a mountain top in Tibet fer forty days an’ nights widout da benefit of food nor drink an’ lived to bear witness to it. Would dis be da self-same Father Joseph Jesus Mary Bunrattey dat ye speak of wid yer sinful tongue, an’ furdermore,” said Lutie puncturing the air with his index finger,” who da fook would you be ta ask about the likes of dis holy an’ righteous man?”

Father Joseph Jesus was rather desperately trying to wave the incensed Lutie back into his seat as a sizable crowd began to gather around their table. Even Matty and Eamonn who once seated had never been known to move until closing time had wobbled their way over to get a closer look at the growing spectacle.

“I would be Ben Hanrahan an’ I think yer both fakes.”

At the pronouncement of the man’s name, Lutie and Father Joseph Jesus exchanged a quick glance.

“Ah, it’s a sad old world when dere do be unbelievers in every fookin’ crowd, why just last month I wuz sayin’ to da pope, Pope sez I—”

“I was not talkin’ to ye, ye loudmouth huckster, I wuz talkin’ to the father here or is Jaysus still holdin’ his voice for ‘im?”

“Why ya impertinent, filthy-tongued, fookin’ eejit,” Lutie rose to his full height and cocked back one fist, “it’s lucky ye are that the good Fadder don’t be usin’ ‘is fists to spread the light of his Lord anymore, but I believe I can make yer teeth part of yer ballocks in short order, stand back men, stand back—”

Father Joseph Jesus Mary Bunrattey rose then and the crowd backed away a foot or two. He was a man of impressive stature and half of them believed the story about the cold-cocked ape.

“Lutie my child I know ye mean only to protect me but put down yer fists, if it’s proof these gentlemen want then it’s proof they’ll get. Though to my way of viewing things the world has come to a pretty fix when a man can’t even have a drink in peace.” The Priest’s voice was a bit shaky but nonetheless it held an authority that tolled as loudly as the angelus bell. He sighed and rolled his head about three times on his shoulders, cracked his knuckles and then seizing his head with his good hand, gave it a vicious yank in either direction. His head fell back on his shoulders then and his mouth gaped open, his right arm slowly rose until it was at chest height and straight out from his body.

“Leekin, spleekin, rom and nod, bookay, throm ud feddum—” intoned Father Joseph Jesus in sonorous chant.

“Jayse, what language do he be speakin’?” asked old Matty in a tremulous whisper.

“It do be da tongues,” replied Lutie “Jayse but it do be givin’ me the shivers when ‘e does this.”

“Michael Collins did occasionally be speakin’ in the tongues, now there was an angel of a man,” said Eamonn with a sigh.

“Jaysus but will ye shut up ye old windbag Michael Collins no more spoke in tongues than I am after speakin’ Greek an’ Latin to me old mother at tea on Sundays,” this said by a man who looked like an old wizened turkey.

“I’ll thank you to remember Mister that ye was still pissin’ in yer nappies when the Big Fellow was shot so don’t be tellin’ me what he did an’ did not do.” Eamon said indignantly his watery blue eyes near popping from his head in consternation.

“I would be thankin’ ye all to shut the feck up,” said Ben Hanrahan shaking one beefy fist in the general direction of Eamonn, Matty and the turkey-wattled man.

Father Joseph Jesus meanwhile had worked up a fine sheen of sweat across his face and was still chanting melodically on, “Swinkum, blinkum, sorgum and roo,” while the crowd began to get dangerously antsy.

“Back off men, back off, da good Fadder do be needin’ some room ta do ‘is miracles properly,” Lutie said waving his hands about as if to flap off chickens.

Joseph Jesus’ head snapped up and he stared off into the distance above the heads of the men who surrounded him, “Alright then, if you insist,” he said into the vacant air.

“Oo’s ‘e talkin’s to now,” whispered Matty squinting into the air as if he expected something to materialize.

“Ah, no,” sighed Lutie and pressed his heavily tattooed hands into his face, wagging his head back and forth in what appeared to be great distress, “ye’ve fookin’ done it now, wud wid da bleedin’ only hours ago an’ now da stress of havin’ yez call ‘im a fake, ooh no,” Lutie shook visibly.

“What the hell are ye goin’ on about?” asked Ben Hanrahan, a slight edge on his voice that hadn’t been discernible before.

“It’s well ye might ask,” said Lutie rocking back on the heels of his iridescent boots, “as ye wud be da fooker dat brought dis on. But ye’ll be excusin’ me language, as we’re about ta be blessed wid da presence of da Lady of ladies ‘erself, da Virgin Mary.”

“That’s—” began Matty but was smartly stopped by Lutie’s hand across his mouth.

“Not anudder word fer da sake of Christ, it’s more dan we’re all wort if she comes out mad. Oy’ve seen dat before an’ it’s a very bad scene ta be in.” With that pronouncement, Lutie shut his own mouth, which Matty commented, in a quiet aside to Eamonn, was sure miracle enough for him.