{"id":2100,"date":"2011-11-18T13:27:42","date_gmt":"2011-11-18T13:27:42","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/?p=2100"},"modified":"2011-11-18T23:44:55","modified_gmt":"2011-11-18T23:44:55","slug":"the-ghost-of-rory-gallagher-by-jim-fusilli","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/?p=2100","title":{"rendered":"The Ghost of Rory Gallagher — by Jim Fusilli"},"content":{"rendered":"Tweet<\/a>
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author Jim Fusilli <\/center><\/div>\n

Jim Fusilli<\/a> is the Rock and Pop music critic for the Wall Street Journal. He is also the author of six novels. His latest novel is Narrows Gate<\/b><\/a>, an epic tale set in the years surrounding World War II in the city\u2019s Italian-American community. He has also contributed short stories to various anthologies including \u201cChellini\u2019s Solution,\u201d which appeared in the 2007 edition of the Best American Mystery Stories. Of particular interest to Rory Gallagher fans is a short story Fusilli wrote that was included in Ken Bruen’s 2006 short story anthology, Dublin Noir: The Celtic Tiger vs. The Ugly American<\/b>. The title of Jim Fusilli’s story is “The Ghost of Rory Gallagher” and deals with an unrepentant white collar criminal who is finally laid low by his obsession with Rory Gallagher bootlegged recordings. The idea for the story came from a chance attendance at a Rory Gallagher tribute night at New York’s Bottom Line Cabaret<\/b> in 2002.<\/p>\n

A buddy dragged me to tribute show at the Bottom Line a couple of years ago, and Rory’s family was there and a bunch of good quality Irish musicians. It was a kind of a middling show with a lot of high spirits. The last guy was this kid from Red Bank, NJ, and he was unbelievable. A total buzzsaw on a beat-up old pre-CBS Strat. Stunned, my mouth hanging open, I said, “That’s the ghost of Rory Gallagher.” Not long after, Ken Bruen asked for a story for “Dublin Noir.” — Jim Fusilli<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Jim has graciously allowed me to post the story here. Be sure to check out his latest novel, Narrows Gate<\/b><\/a> at Amazon.com.
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The Ghost of Rory Gallagher<\/h3>\n

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HE\u2019D LEFT LONDON in disgrace. A banking scandal, one of the worst. More than a half-billion pounds sterling in losses, bolloxed up every trade he made for months, going deeper and deeper. The end of days for the 230-year-old Ravenscroft Bank. Hundreds sacked. Pensions gone. Dreams shattered. Suicides, at least five of them, including Desmond Chick, for thirty-eight years the janitor at the Con Colbert Street branch in Limerick, a widower, raised three sons himself, working dusk till dawn. Sent away without so much as a plaque for comfort, he cried himself to death, they say, too old to start anew and as heartsick as if he\u2019d lost his Minnie all over again.<\/p>\n

The trader, meanwhile, was sentenced to four and a half years. Got out in three. Good behavior, though the arrogant shite never owned up to what he\u2019d done. Eleven hundred days in Coldbath Fields and every one spent planning to cash in like Nick Leeson did\u2014a book, Ewan McGregor on the silver screen, lectures\u2014his reward for breaking the Barings Bank in \u201995. Now you can play poker online with Leeson, punters thinking, Here\u2019s yer guy, he\u2019ll ride a bad patch straight to hell.<\/em><\/p>\n

None of that for this trader, save a photo that went on the wires: scowling, bruised, itching, hollow eyes darting this way and that, maybe two stone lost to labor. No publishers, no producers; banking scandals old news now, a story already told. His wife gone off with an orthodontist, moved to Hamburg. Not even a word from his mott Trudi, tossed aside by the Sun after she told of their life together, all coke and cognac, laughing at regulators and the likes of Desmond Chick before they tracked him down.<\/p>\n

Ah, Trudi, bleached-blonde and beyond plump, a hostess now at the Odyssey in Bristol, and she knows her time has passed. Her fifteen minutes and all. Let the Remy warm her belly and she\u2019ll talk the ear off a man\u2019s head, give him something she never told them at the Sun. \u201cEver hear about the only time he expressed regret? No? Well, Ducky, we were in that big comfy bed of his in that hotel in Tokyo, and he props up on his elbows, and he says, \u2018Trudi, they can keep it all, the bastards. Every last piece, every last shilling. But I\u2019ll tell you, I\u2019d give my left thumb to have back my old guitar.\u2019 That being what they call a white-on-white 1961 Fender Stratocaster. Owned and played by Rory Gallagher, it was. Rory Gallagher, love. Sure, you heard of him. Rory\u2014Rory Gallagher, for fuck\u2019s sake . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

As for the trader, the bitter prick, still thinking who he was, packed up and disappeared. Did a good job of it too. Four years gone by now, and not a word. Man barely qualifies as a bit of trivia these days. Funny, isn\u2019t it? Sometimes, when the world is turning and the craic is good, it almost seems as if it had never happened. <\/p>\n

The trader, clever man, re-emerged in Dublin, just another stranger brought in on the wave of the Celtic Tiger. Had a plan, he did: shaved his head, and when his auburn hair grew back he had it done blond and spiked. Put 80,000 miles on the Audi, nose redone in Nice, jaw in Seville. Teeth in Milan. Didn\u2019t have to do much about the accent. Born in Sligo, he was, not London, as he claimed.<\/p>\n

As for wardrobe: gone were the Spencer Hart suits, Turnbull & Asser shirts, Herm\u00e8s ties, Fratelli Rossetti shoes. Would\u2019ve run around like Kevin Rowland, scruffy Dexy himself, Come on, Eileen, if he could\u2019ve, if it wouldn\u2019t have drawn eyes. Instead, old jeans, T-shirts, a gray Aran sweater, and a brown knit, and he put holes in the elbows with a Biro, having tossed the Parker Duofold. (Not true: like all else, the fountain pen was seized and sold at auction.)<\/p>\n

Figured now he could hide in plain sight, more or less.<\/p>\n

With all the expenses, he still had about 300,000 euros stashed here and there. No one knew, not even Trudi.<\/p>\n

Decided to buy himself a perch and look down on the world, laugh as the rabble passed by. But then it came to him: no, he wanted his nose in it, wanted to smell the stench of ordinary life, to listen to the love song of the forlorn, revel in their petty grievances, in their miseries, watch as the bloody stasis took hold, watch as the light dimmed and died.<\/p>\n

The trader bought himself a pub.<\/p>\n

A dump over on the north side of the Liffey, off the Royal Canal, a regular shitehole it was, a right kip. Entrance in a stone alley beyond mounds of rubbish, and you couldn\u2019t stumble upon it without a map. Celtic Tiger, my arse, it seemed to say. Two steps down and the rainwater flooded the drain, and that was all right too. Mold and rotten wood, the floorboards sagging.<\/p>\n

The place reeked of failure, of resignation.<\/p>\n

Perfect.<\/p>\n

\u201cWelcome home, you bastard,\u201d the trader said as he
\nstepped over the moat, dusted his hands, coughed.<\/p>\n

It needed a name, didn\u2019t it?<\/p>\n

The trader, who by now was calling himself Eamonn or English Bill, depending, thought about it, and his first instinct is to call it \u201cRory\u2019s.\u201d No, \u201cBallyshannon,\u201d after Rory\u2019s birthplace. \u201cThe Calling Card,\u201d that\u2019s a good one, after Rory\u2019s–<\/p>\n

\u201cI must be out of me feckin\u2019 mind,\u201d said English Bill to no one.<\/p>\n

Which wasn\u2019t far from true now, was it? Talking to shadows, the cobwebs: took more than one roundhouse to the side of the head in the community shower in Coldbath Fields, he did, though well short of what he had coming.<\/p>\n

Pitch black now in the pub and he doesn\u2019t know it, maybe his eyes have gone weak again. Thinking a little crank would do him good.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Rag and Bone,\u201d he said, his throat feeling like he ate sand. Thinking of his childhood, and Yeats.<\/p>\n

Yeah, and soon tour buses are parking out front and the Japs are snapping photos, thinking they\u2019ve tripped over history.<\/p>\n

Back to square one, and two hours later, still not a clue.<\/p>\n

And then another hour after that, come and gone.<\/p>\n

Cheesed off, he came up with \u201cP\u00f3g Mo Th\u00f3in,\u201d as in \u201cKiss My Arse,\u201d but he let it float, and he fell asleep on the bar, woke up to the gnawing and cheep-cheep chatter of a rat inches from his skull.<\/p>\n

Got up, pissed in the sink when the jax was two feet away. Cupped his hand and took a mouthful of brown water, felt the rust wash over his Italian teeth.<\/p>\n

Soon, sunrise and thin white light through the veins in the painted windows, and he can see the booths against the mudbrick walls, drunk-tilted and ready to fall in on themselves, creaking even in the shouting silence, and who\u2019d give a shite?<\/p>\n

And then, like inspiration, like Yeats dreaming, \u201cCathleen Ni Houlihan,\u201d it comes to him: \u201cDesmond\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brilliant.<\/p>\n

But he don\u2019t know why.<\/p>\n

\u201cDesmond\u2019s,\u201d and he likes the sound of it. \u201cDesmond\u2019s.\u201d Likes it because it don\u2019t mean nothing.<\/p>\n

They started coming within minutes after the Guinness and Murphy\u2019s trucks pulled out, smelling it as they stumbled along, squat little men, and they were the dregs and had nothing to say. The same story, again, again: never had a break, this bastard or that, she was hell on earth she was; ah, but me dear sweet mother, I\u2019ll tell ya, and me da, Fecky the Ninth he was, but, God, I loved him. Sitting but a stool apart, three, four of them, each brutalizing the same tune. Clay faces in the flicker of cheap candles, a motley bunch straight out of Beckett, and moths flew up from under their tattered greatcoats.<\/p>\n

The trader wanted entertainment, stories of the long, long fall, and soon he realized he had put Desmond\u2019s at the end of the shite funnel, and who but them was going to appear?<\/p>\n

\u201cJaysus,\u201d he said as he rinsed a glass in foul water, \u201cthe sin of pride, my arse.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that you say, Eamonn?\u201d asked one of the sagging men, spider veins, rheumy eyes, fingers stained piss-yellow, paralytic before noon.<\/p>\n

\u201cI said, \u2018Get the fuck out.\u2019 All of you.\u201d Shouting, bringing it from the bellows. \u201cYou and you and you!\u201d Finger stabbing the air, and there\u2019s the door. \u201cOut! O. U. T.\u201d<\/p>\n

The men shrugged, plopped down, hitched up their trousers, and slouched out, forearms a shield from the sun.<\/p>\n

And then the trader made a mistake.<\/p>\n

He jammed the bolt across the door, poured himself a
\npint to wash the crystal meth off the back of his throat, went into a threadbare carton, and dug out Rory\u2019s BBC Sessions, cut in \u201974 but released when he was in Coldbath Fields, four years after Rory died. Whipsnap \u201cCalling Card,\u201d \u201cUsed to Be\u201d like a cold knife against yer skin. The trader blasted it, oh did he blast it, and they heard it in the alley through the cracks, the ancient splinter wood, rattling bricks. The trader had every piece of music by Rory Gallagher that was ever recorded\u2014all the officials, bootlegs too, bits of tape, third generation copies; snatches of solos, rehearsals, sound checks, Rory turning the white Strat into a chainsaw, Rory levitating.<\/p>\n

The bastards didn\u2019t get the trader\u2019s stash when they sent him up, the pricks, they let his lawyers cart it away; and he could tell you which was the solo in \u201cWalk on Hot Coals\u201d on Irish Tour \u201974 and which was the night before, two nights hence, thanks to some boyo who smuggled in a recorder under his coat. The trader had twenty-one versions of Rory doing \u201cMessin\u2019 with the Kid,\u201d one more kick-ass than the next, and he blasted every one of them, and more, for four days and nights straight, shaking Desmond\u2019s to its foundation.<\/p>\n

And when he opened the door, they were lined up halfway to the Liffey, shivering in the cold, shuffling, frozen fingers tucked under their arms. Hopeful eyes now. Expectations.<\/p>\n

Word was a Rory pub was opening by the Royal Canal, and they wanted in. Rory was their man. Rory pushed the
\nblood through their veins, and if someone was going to pay him tribute, they were going to be there, ice and snow and wind and hunger be damned.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d the trader said, squinting against the silver light, suddenly wishing he hadn\u2019t the need for more crank and something other than stale crisps.<\/p>\n

By 8 o\u2019clock they were three deep at the bar, totally jammers, and the snug was swollen, and Rory wailed, setting the fingerboard ablaze, and the trader had hired himself a bouncer and a lass to clear the tables. The next day he needed a man to pull the taps, and a plumber to fix the jax.<\/p>\n

By the time he closed on Saturday night, he\u2019d netted 1,100 euros on nothing but beer and Rory. The guy from the chipper round the block offered him a stake, saying business tripled since Desmond\u2019s was born, thinking he\u2019s on to the new Temple Bar. The Black Mariah pulled up, the Garda\u00ed came in, and the trader prepared to slip them a gift, \u201cSinner Boy\u201d pounding the walls and all, but they loved Rory too and as long as no one lit up a fag and the coppers got in, Desmond\u2019s was sweet, at least for now.<\/p>\n

\u201cJaysus,\u201d the trader said as he made a neat stack of his notes, \u201cthe whole country\u2019s full of eejits.\u201d<\/p>\n

He folded the bills, crammed them in his pocket, and wasthinking he\u2019d found justice. Finally, he told himself, he was getting his due.<\/p>\n

He did the lass on the cold floor, ripping her from behind, and she went home in tears, mascara running down her baby cheeks.<\/p>\n

A week or so later, past closing time, but the little pink man in the far booth stayed glued to the wood, though the power had been cut and the votive candles gave little light.<\/p>\n

The bouncer was in the alley, tossing them off cobblestone, so the trader, his ears ringing, went across the beersoaked boards.<\/p>\n

\u201cThinking of moving in, are ya?\u201d<\/p>\n

The little pink man reached into his coat and placed an ergo machine on the tabletop.<\/p>\n

The trader blew onto his hands, the chill returning now that the crowd was gone.<\/p>\n

Suddenly, a piercing note from a Stratocaster split the air, followed by a blinding flurry that knocked the trader to his heels.<\/p>\n

The music continued for almost four minutes, burning ice daggers, an angel blasting pure light. Pinwheels, butterflies, blood spatter on virgin walls. Grace.<\/p>\n

Neither moved, the little pink man starting intently at his enraptured host.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019d you get it?\u201d the stunned trader asked when silence returned.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u201d being a Rory he\u2019d never heard.<\/p>\n

Little Pink Man eased back toward the brick.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell?\u201d the trader repeated. The crystal meth had him pumping nitro, bugs crawling on his lungs, and yet it had
\nbeen Rory, beyond doubt.<\/p>\n

In a small, eerie voice, Little Pink said, \u201cWe call him up, is what we do.\u201d<\/p>\n

The trader frowned, scratched the top of his head. \u201cListen, just what\u2019s your game\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe call him up and up he comes,\u201d Little Pink repeated. \u201cNow, for someone like yourself, that is all and more. A mystery, true. But all and more, is it not?\u201d<\/p>\n

The trader couldn\u2019t focus to study the visitor, there in his too-big hound\u2019s tooth, his black tie pulled tight to his pink neck. Nose a ball of putty, a hint of an impish smile.<\/p>\n

Little Pink reached with a translucent finger, popped open the machine and pointed to a silver disk much smaller than a standard CD. Candlelight skittered across its surface.<\/p>\n

\u201cTake it,\u201d Little Pink said as he wriggled out of the snug. \u201cTake it and know there\u2019s more.\u201d<\/p>\n

The top of the man\u2019s head, covered in curly red hair, sat below the chin of the trader, who had snatched up the disk as if it were the gold of Magh Slecht.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d His accent slipped, revealing his years far from home.<\/p>\n

Little Pink turned up his coat\u2019s collar, the darkness carrying a chill. \u201cI\u2019m the man who\u2019s knowing how to bring you to Rory, I am.\u201d<\/p>\n

The trader watched as the little man leaped the moat and vanished.<\/p>\n

A moment later, the bouncer, whizz-wired like his boss, said he hadn\u2019t seen a little pink man, \u201cNo, Eamonn, why? And if you don\u2019t mind, I\u2019ll be on me way . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLock it behind ya,\u201d the trader said, turning his back.<\/p>\n

Pitch black save the light of the player, cranked to the gills he was, listening over and over and over to the guitar solo until near dawn, the hair on the back of his neck up, Rory, Rory, and the trader knew whatever the little pink man wanted he\u2019d get. All of it, the hidden 300,000 euros, the money in the till, the money yet to be made. Desmond\u2019s, if need be. All of it.<\/p>\n

All. Of. It.<\/p>\n

It took four days for Little Pink to return, four unbearable days, and he brought Fat Pink with him. They stood in the doorway on the business side of the moat, deadpan and composed.<\/p>\n

The trader saw seraphs, and he tried to turn off the frenzy in his mind and under his skin.<\/p>\n

The bouncer, dim bastard, held them back, being it was past midnight, and the trader had to scramble across the room to halt their dismissal, freezing the dope with an X-ray stare as he grabbed Little Pink by the forearm.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome,\u201d he said, almost desperately, \u201ccome.\u201d<\/p>\n

They went to the little office he\u2019d fashioned out of the storage room.<\/p>\n

\u201cJaysus, where have you been?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019ll cost you,\u201d Fat Pink said, his voice a throaty growl.<\/p>\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat me brother is saying is that the ghost appears at no charge, but we have our expenses,\u201d said Little Pink, collar up on the hound\u2019s tooth.<\/p>\n

He saw they had not a mind for charity.<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d said the trader. \u201cExpenses.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Pinks kept still.<\/p>\n

The trader took a breath. \u201cGo on.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe all get what we pay for,\u201d Little Pink said. \u201cIn the end, the accounts tally.\u201d<\/p>\n

And with that, the trader had found his hitching post. Negotiations had begun.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you\u2019ve seen this place,\u201d he said. \u201cBe flattery to call it a dump.\u201d<\/p>\n

Big Pink looked askance at the beam an inch or so from his head. The cobwebs had cobwebs, and the wood wore moss.<\/p>\n

\u201cSuit yourself,\u201d Little Pink said, with a faint shrug.<\/p>\n

The visitors spun slowly toward the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no. No,\u201d said the trader, groping again for Little Pink and to hell with negotiating. \u201cWhat I\u2019m saying is I don\u2019t know what I can raise.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure you do.\u201d Fat Pink said it.<\/p>\n

Little Pink dipped into his pocket: the machine, the button, and this time it was Rory on the twelve-string acoustic guitar, a slow, agonizing, gorgeous blues. No singing, not yet, but pain released from deep in the heart of Ireland filled the musty room. The sweet chirping of blackbirds too, and platinum rain, and yer ma\u2019s tears.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d the trader moaned. \u201cOh, sweet Jaysus.\u201d<\/p>\n

The music stopped when Little Pink popped open the
\ndevice. <\/p>\n

He held out the disk. A gift, and Fat Pink didn\u2019t mind.<\/p>\n

\u201cRecorded not twenty-four hours ago,\u201d said the little man.<\/p>\n

The trader swallowed hard. \u201cName your price.\u201d<\/p>\n

They settled on 75,000 euros\u2014Little Pink knowing the US dollar was weak\u2014and the Audi. In return, they\u2019d record for as long as the ghost chose to play.<\/p>\n

Driving in the rain through Ballsbridge toward Kill o\u2019 the Grange, headlights sweeping across the diamonded windscreen, the trader had it figured. He\u2019d report the Audi stolen before he left Stillorgan Road for the meeting, record Rory, glorious Rory, and then he\u2019d double-back on foot to grab his money, putting the sight of the bouncer\u2019s Ruger MK right between Fat Pink\u2019s googly eyes.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d pick up a new set of wheels in Spain and be in Seville by tomorrow noon.<\/p>\n

That was fair play to the boys in Coldbath Fields, and he wasn\u2019t too far gone with the beatings and the crank to have forgotten what he\u2019d learned in the yard. A real tutorial it was, day in and out.<\/p>\n

The call made, he put the mobile back in his pocket, and rolled down the window, searching for a sniff of Dublin Bay. None, his nose as numb as stone.<\/p>\n

\u201cEejits,\u201d he said to the night air. \u201cEejits and wankers. Come to rip off Eamonn the barkeep, and look who\u2019s here. The man who broke the Ravenscroft.\u201d<\/p>\n

He was still chattering when Fat Pink opened the door to the cottage on a grainy road two rights and a left off Kill Avenue, and there\u2019s yer open field and the black tree branches groping for the indigo sky.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re early,\u201d Fat Pink said, filling the door frame, all but
\nblocking out the light.<\/p>\n

\u201cI got the money.\u201d<\/p>\n

The rustle of wings, or his imagination, all too alive.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell?\u201d said the trader, who\u2019d left the Ruger in the glove box.<\/p>\n

Fat Pink stepped aside.<\/p>\n

The wobbly stairwell was his only choice, and he all but leapt from his head when Fat Pink killed the lights.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhisht now,\u201d Fat Pink warned as he joined him on the creaking stairs. \u201cRemember what we\u2019re on about.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t see,\u201d the trader mumbled. He stopped at the landing, wondering where to go. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw a white knob and started for the door in front of him, but Fat Pink grabbed his shoulder and led him along the banister.<\/p>\n

The floor creaked too. The house 200 years old if a day.<\/p>\n

And in the room, gaslight.<\/p>\n

Little Pink and another guy, bulldog snarl, neck as thick as a post, his melon flat on top.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis him?\u201d Pug asked.<\/p>\n

Little Pink nodded.<\/p>\n

The trader squinted and he saw an old table, longer than it was wide, and two chairs. The fireplace had been shuttered a while ago, and the green shades on the windows were drawn.<\/p>\n

Fat Pink nudged him in.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do we do this?\u201d the trader said, his voice cracking. Darting bees xylophoned his ribs, the march of wind-up ants, barbed wire made of licorice and lace.<\/p>\n

Pug took a sip from a half-pint, offered it to no one.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe wait,\u201d Little Pink replied. He pointed to a chair.<\/p>\n

The trader walked in, and the trader sat down.<\/p>\n

Fat Pink took the chair to his left. The flickering gaslight made his features quaver and dance.<\/p>\n

Leaning against the slate mantel, Pug twisted his head until his neck cracked.<\/p>\n

As if anticipating the question, Little Pink said, \u201cHours, minutes. You never can tell.\u201d He took out his silver machine, set it on the table.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what you\u2019re using? No microphones? You\u2019ve got no facilities?\u201d<\/p>\n

Pug grunted and Fat Pink pushed down a laugh.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s what we use.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dumb bastards, the trader thought. You get the ghost in a recording studio and you\u2019re John Dorrences, you are.<\/p>\n

He folded his hands on the table, and Fat Pink turned round to Pug, but neither man spoke.<\/p>\n

Skeleton key in hand, Little Pink locked the door.<\/p>\n

Five minutes later, felt like five hours, the trader sat tall when he heard the snap-squeal of an electric guitar going into its amp, and a quick punch on the strings to make sure it was in tune.<\/p>\n

\u201cCalm yerself,\u201d Fat Pink said.<\/p>\n

Little Pink nodded toward the machine.<\/p>\n

And soon the sound of a Fender Stratocaster filled the room, and the ghost was running his blues scales, warming up, and soon he was toying with some old Muddy Waters lick, and the trader knew his man was working his way to something brilliant. And then the guitar let out a cry and a hole in the sky opened and here it came, lightning and molten gold and, God in heaven, it was glorious.<\/p>\n

The trader shut his eyes in bliss.<\/p>\n

And Fat Pink grabbed him by the left forearm and wrist, pressing the man\u2019s hand flat on the table, and with one brutal swoop of a hatchet, Pug took off the trader\u2019s thumb.<\/p>\n

Blood spurted, and it ran in a river toward the machine.<\/p>\n

The trader howled and the trader howled, and he was almost as loud as the guitar, the blizzard of blues notes, the screeching feedback, the beauty.<\/p>\n

Pug took off his belt, wrapped it around the trader\u2019s left arm, cutting the flow.<\/p>\n

Standing, Fat Pink put his hands on his shoulders, pressed the trader deep and hard into the chair.<\/p>\n

Little Pink, off the door and tapped the machine. Silence. Absolute silence, save a man\u2019s agony cry.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you had to name it after him, didn\u2019t ya?\u201d Little Pink said, glaring at the trader, his eyes colder than cold.<\/p>\n

Pug was digging in the trader\u2019s pocket for the Audi\u2019s keys.<\/p>\n

\u201cDesmond\u2019s,\u201d Little Pink went on. \u201cThat\u2019s your idea of a joke?\u201d<\/p>\n

The trader\u2019s thumb lay on the table, pointing with recrimination at its former host.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t\u2014Jaysus, my hand. Look at my\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Little Pink smacked him, and then Little Pink smacked him again.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name is Chick,\u201d he said through grit teeth. \u201cHis name is Chick, and the man going to your car is named Chick. We\u2019re from Limerick, and we don\u2019t forget.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know . . .\u201d Near shock, the trader blubbered and whimpered. \u201cMy thumb . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOur father was a good and decent man who didn\u2019t deserve to die \u2019cause of the likes of you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Despite the searing pain, the trader was starting to get it. Ravenscroft, and some people won and some lost, but who the fuck is Chick?<\/p>\n

Little Pink stepped back and he smiled, and when he smiled, Fat Pink smiled too.<\/p>\n

It was Fat Pink\u2014Larry Chick being his real name\u2014who came across Trudi in Bristol, and it was Bernie Chick\u2014him the one that the trader dubbed Pug\u2014who heard about the guitar player over in the States in Red Bank, New Jersey, who could play it like Rory done. Little Pink, who was Paul but went by the name Des to honor his father, put it together. The club off the Royal Canal was a gift, it was. The crystal meth situation too, meaning the trader didn\u2019t think to see if Bernie was behind him when he finally stumbled back to his ratty flat.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re going to take your teeth too,\u201d Des Chick said.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the nose,\u201d Larry nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the nose,\u201d Des agreed, \u201cif Bernie comes back emptyhanded.\u201d<\/p>\n

The trader could not believe he had been duped. Better than them all, and smarter, and yet he\u2019d been duped.<\/p>\n

Des said, \u201cAnd then we\u2019ll talk about regret.\u201d<\/p>\n

The trader looked at his thumb on the table, and he heard the one he called Pug trudging up the creaking stairs.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Tweet author Jim Fusilli Jim Fusilli is the Rock and Pop music critic for the Wall Street Journal. He is also the author of six novels. His latest novel is Narrows Gate, an epic tale set in the years surrounding World War II in the city\u2019s Italian-American community. He has also contributed short stories to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0},"categories":[12],"tags":[333,330,332,476,331],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2100"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2100"}],"version-history":[{"count":44,"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2100\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2140,"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2100\/revisions\/2140"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2100"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2100"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/shadowplays.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2100"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}