Page 126 of Player
Finn
“No Clarissa tonight?”
Fiona skulks up to the bar beside me, finally drawing the courage to approach me.
I’ve been drowning me troubles for a good part of an hour. Things should be happening quickly now. A week or so and I’ll be biding ol’ Ireland farewell. O’Brien will be six feet under. The boss will be focused on Africa. I’ll be nowhere but on the slow path to the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
That is if all goes according to plan.
“No Clarissa?” Fiona repeats.
“No Clarissa. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. No more.”
“You taking the piss?” she demands. When I don’t respond, she presses on. “Where’d she go?”
“On a slow boat to nowhere.”
“She ended things with you, did she?”
“Right about now, I’d say so.”
Fiona huffs. “Can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Not with yer problem and all. And, Clarissa, well she seems like the sort who likes to shag twenty-four seven.”
I choke on my beer.
“A handsome fella like you needing the Viagra. What a shame.” She clucks her tongue.
Christ on a bleeding bike. What bollocks is this?
She elbows me in the side. “Yer secret’s safe with me. Anyways, Johnny has a word for you.”
“Right now?”
“You have somewhere else to be?” She rolls her eyes. “He’s outside.”
I cringe. Last time I stepped outside to hear a word, the boss pulled the carpet out on me.
I feel Fionna’s hand on my arm. “Don’t be so torn up about yer wan leaving you. I’m no fortune-teller but I’ve a feeling she’ll find her way back to you. Mark my words.”
Doubtful. Not even if she were an Olympic athlete and swims back to Cork.
I’ve fourteen days to bring that motherfecker O’Brien down. I push back from the bar.
Let the shenanigans begin.
Outside, the tip of a lit cigarette greets me from the darkness. I scowl, never been fond of smoking. Johnny steps forward, his tall, lanky frame reminds me of a Slim Jim beef stick. Mercifully, he gets straight to the point. “There’s a few full day’s work for you starting the day after tomorrow.”
“What kind of work?”
“Heavy lifting. Loading shite from the warehouse onto lorries.”
“Tell O’Brien I’ll do whatever he needs me to do.”
“Hard up, are you?” His gaze skims over me. Suspicious? Or simply curious?
“Or maybe it’s that you can’t get it up?”
For Christ’s sake.
