Grand Central Noir

Spice – by Seamus Scanlon

IN THE EARLY GREY GALWAY DAWN my brother Rob waited outside for me in his black Opel Vectra. He was driving me to Shannon Airport for my flight to New York. I lived half the year on the fifth floor of a walkup in the war zone of 186thStreet and St. Nicholas in Washington Heights. Outside in DR Land music (so called), i.e., merengue burst out of cars, apartments, bodegas, hair salons, bakeries and El Pollo Toxicado outlets. DR women burst out of nail salons and their tight-fitting tops. The other half of the year I lived in Galway, Ireland, home of Nora Barnacle, Lord Haw Haw and the Great Fire of Galway (see below). If I was needed for special jobs during my six months in Galway I flew back to the U.S. I hated the killing July sun in NY but sometimes you have to make sacrifices.

Rob had the driver’s window rolled down. He was blowing cigarette smoke from a Woodbine out into the quite crisp air. The car was pitted with rust and stains. His face was rutted with acne scars and knife cuts. I had perfect skin. Under the hood I needed some work. Ma was framed in the doorway as I sat in. She waved. We did not wave back. Our family foreshore was as bobby trapped as Omaha Beach. Psychic and emotional corpses floated facedown in the shallows.

Rob stared after every Shell Oil truck that we passed until their red taillights faded in the pale light. He was a menace on the roads. Not to mention around inflammable materials (coming). As we drove into Shannon Airport he examined the squat ugly oil storage tanks on the periphery of the runways. Once I checked-in he watched the fuel trucks pumping gas through fat fast hoses into the planes deep hidden places. He was a pyromaniac with exhibitionist tendencies. He started the great fire of Galway when he was twelve. He was a bit precocious. It lasted for five days and five nights – destroying timber yards, coal silos, turf stacks, the railway station, shops, pubs, cafes, garages and the Galway Family Planning Clinic (divine intervention proclaimed the Galway Christian Family Army). Tramps had to run for cover. It was their first cardiovascular exercise in decades so some of them had heart attacks and strokes and perished and were consumed. Their tissue alcohol levels meant they were perfect pyre material.

The firestorm stopped just short of the Galway Great Southern Hotel and just in time so that the annual weeklong Galway Racing Festival could go ahead. Otherwise there would have been trouble. Black smoke hung over the town for weeks. Petrol and diesel that had seeped into the soil for decades burned away underground – slow and long.

All the neighbors in Mervue knew Rob did it but kept it to themselves. Mervue was an open prison and no one liked the Gardai. They never found out. They were as thick as the medieval Old Walls of Galway that Rob’s torching had uncovered. TheGalway Archeological Review mentioned this as a very positive outcome of the Great Fire of Galway. Academics! During Race Week the Gardai had to deal with the annual invasion of 6,000 hooligans (Northerners, Dublin Jackeens, pickpockets, shop lifters, gamblers and three card trick hustlers) as well as 20,000 race goers from all over Ireland. It was easier for them to manage this influx than conduct a full-scale forensic arson investigation. Also they could not be arsed basically, races or no. They were hardwired lethargy-wise.

The Russians used Shannon Airport, which lies on the edge of the Western Atlantic, to refuel planes on flights between Russia and Cuba. Che Guevara had a pint of Guinness in Shannon Airport once while an Aeroflot transport plane (also know as a Flying Coffin) waited on the tarmac for a spare part from Mother Russia. Some Cubans and Russians defected during other stopovers. Che Guevara was probably sorry he hadn’t. He could have ended up in a Corporation house in Dublin where his guerilla acumen would have come in handy.

Mother Ireland wants to erect a statue to Che (as we now call him) in Galway. We will claim anyone. We already erected one to Christopher Columbus who allegedly stayed in Galway over night before he sailed for America. And the rest is history – yes Galway is now the B&B capital of the world.

I had to jerk my black hold-all free from Rob when we got to the departure gate. He was mesmerized by the smell of jet fuel vapors.

Rob – fuck off home!

He nodded, turned abruptly and left me there. Brotherly love.

The plane I was catching was a Jordanian Airways jumbo jet from Amman on a stopover. None of those passengers ever jumped ship. Too rainy. Too windy. Too blustery. And no sand. Except the grey coarse Irish variety blowing inland from various desolate inlets. It was like a Bedouin camp as I made my way down through the cabin looking for my seat, stepping over kids and adolescents sprawled on the floor. Old men and women with creased faces – desert effigies – sat huddled, talking in harsh guttural accents like my grandparents speaking rapid fire Irish. I could never understand them either. Their voices cascaded over me. I drifted off. Reverie was my middle name.

I woke when we touched down seven pitta hours later.

I got into the back of a yellow cab.

The driver turned around – where to Gringo?

What a jokester! He was from Haiti. He shouted pigeon English and French into a cell phone. He had a transistor radio, hanging from the rear view mirror, blasting in his ear. He was smoking a thin cigarillo. He had a tribal cut on his cheek. He was as black as the toxic smoke plumes over Galway during the great fire. I had go to Poughkeepsie first before I could relax in the war zone of 186th and St. Nicholas. The Haitians and Dominicans did not really gel except napalm-ingredient wise so I was glad the driver did not have to take me there. He was labile enough already.

Grand Central – pronto!!

He didn’t like that I can tell you.

He drove like a maniac. Or a typical Irish driver back home. The breeze through the open window soon dissipated my jet lag. African rhythms rolled like war drums from the transistor that rocked back and forth on its thin strap as we raced past other cabs and ordinary decent drivers. The acceleration force pushed me back into the seat. When he passed a car he did a handgun shooting gesture out the open window. I had a Metro North timetable out trying to estimate what train I would get. It was hard to follow the small print with the swaying motion so I gave up in the end. It was possible we might not even get to Grand Central alive anyway.

We did though. He pulled up with a screech of brakes. I got out quickly in case he rushed off again. He was a perpetual motion machine. I put my hold-all down. I paid. I gave him a tip.

Brilliant driving. Here is an extra ten dollars for not killing us.

Fuck you cracker, he said.

He did the hand shooting gesture at me as he roared off. I picked up the black bomb-bag as Ma used to call it. It was handmade in the Galway Leather Shop in Prospect Hill. She used it for carrying groceries from town on a Saturday. She watched every news program on Northern Ireland and knew what a bomb-bag looked like.

I walked in and checked the departure board. I had plenty of time. I saw that the next train to Poughkeepsie was 4:55. I had 30 minutes. I walked up. I walked down. I walked around. House of Pain wise. For once the American tendency to exaggerate was justified. Grand in name. Grand in nature.

I noticed a tall Dominican woman in a Brooks Brothers tailored suit – so she lacked the breast breaking out tendency rampant in Washington Heights. She was arguing desultory with a heavy set Dominican man of approximately 200 pounds who was dressed in a Hugo Boss suit that was creased, I guessed, from lounging about waiting for his next assignment. He had minder/thug written all over him. Especially on his nose which had been broken a few times. But she was the real boss.

They were sitting near me in Café Spice at Table 32. I could not hear the conversation. Burst ear drum from jumping off rocks at Callow Lake. The guy was going on at length about something. She looked over. She did the eye-to-heaven move and smirked over at me. I nodded (the Galway bear hug). He did not notice. He kept talking. Eventually I walked over.

Is this guy bothering you? I asked her. She looked at me. She looked at the bomb-bag. She looked over at the minder. He was on his feet by now.

Fuck off, fucko – mind your own business.

Fuck off, fucko – I like that one. I might use it.

She laughed. He frowned.

He did the finger jabbing thing. At my chest.

Get away from us.

He looked like he was going to take a swing.

Shaun – hold it! she said.

Thanks for your concern but I am perfectly fine. Shaun here can be a bit impetuous at times. Just like yourself at the moment actually.

Okay – if you say so.

I nodded. I stared at Shaun. We stared at each other. Love is a battlefield.

I said to her you are beautiful. You should not be smoking. It will destroy your fine skin. It will cause capillaries to break through the surface. Then Shaun will drop you.

She laughed.

Shaun will drop YOU actually if you are not careful. Thanks for the compliment and the Government Health Warning. I will think it over.

I nodded (what else?) and wandered off to catch my train. I took a window seat. I opened the Irish Echo so I could find out what was happening in Woodlawn and the rest of New York Irish America Land where I sometimes did jobs. Peter McDermott was covering 20 stories as usual. He was the paper. When the train pulled out I put down the Echo.

I always liked travelling on the Hudson Line. It soothed me. It moved me. First the black tunnel then the projects and storefront churches of East Harlem and then the 125th Street stop. Then the views of the Hudson wide and deep. Like an Irish grudge. Barges moved slowly upstream against the current. Across the river the New Jersey Palisades shimmered for me.

I looked up when I heard familiar voices and saw the beautiful couple walking down the aisle. They were headed to the dining car. She spotted me as they walked past. She winked and did a discreet follow-me gesture. Shaun did not notice. Great minder.

It was hard to leave the view of the slow deep Hudson but it was easy to follow her sinuous flow to the dining car. I sat as close to them as I could. When she spotted me she smirked. She was good at smirking. Smirking was her middle name. And smoking. They were studying menus. Then they ordered. The food arrived – pizza for Shaun, salad for her. A silver tea service was set on the table in front of them.

She beckoned me over. Shaun looked up. He frowned. He put down the pizza. I knew it was serious when he abandoned his food. I was wary.

Are you following me? she said.

No actually – sorry to disappoint! That’s Irish humor by the way.

I am très désolé. That’s French by the way.

Quelle surprise. That’s French plus irony.

Okay I got it I got it! Are you travelling to the end of the line?

Always!

She laughed. I could see her epiglottis. I could see her wet tonsils. They were pink. They were beautiful.

Buzz off bozo Shaun days.

Buzz off bozo – fuck off, fucko – you are into alliteration, Shaun-o.

Do you have an idea who this is? Shaun said pointing at the woman.

Not yet. Perhaps you can introduce me?

She’s Martin Laffey’s girl.

Interesting, I thought.

She’s a woman actually. Not a girl. You’re a girl’s blouse.

Harold got up swinging – I sidestepped it. I hit him on the side of the head with the silver teapot. He did not see it coming. I yanked his tie down as hard as I could. Ties are a liability. His head smashed off the table’s edge. He crumpled. More creases for the suit. The woman moved back to avoid any spilt tea.

I bet that smarts in the morning she said.

Unlike himself, I said.

She laughed.

She kissed me. It was spicy.

You better go before he comes around. Here is my card. Call me. I am staying at the Majestic in Poughkeepsie. I have a suite. You are sweet. Make sure you come and seed me. See me I mean. I love upper cuts. With teapots. I love Irish accents.

I am in luck, so!

She laughed.

The last stop was coming up unlike Shaun whose eyes were closed tight. He was dreaming black night. His pizza was getting cold.

I nodded at her. I walked away.

Outside I hailed a cab. This time the driver was a white guy with emphysema. Great! The cab smelt like a mobile cancer ward. Terminal end. I preferred the Haitian headhunter. I cranked open the windows. The guy’s lungs must be blacker than black I thought.

The AC won’t work with the windows open.

Yeah – but my fucken lungs might, so let’s go.

He muttered under his breath. He drove off.

I blocked out the cigarette smell.

I thought of the woman’s deep laugh – her pale pink epiglottis – tendrils of silver saliva laced with Latin spices. I might get to like Dominicans yet. Or at least one. I tried to focus on my meeting in central Poughkeepsie with my newest client, Martin Laffey.

I foresaw some tank traps on the foreshore.