Dublin Noir: The Celtic Tiger vs. the Ugly American

Dublin Noir: The Celtic Tiger vs. the Ugly American

Dublin Noir: The Celtic Tiger vs. the Ugly American

Dublin Noir: The Celtic Tiger vs. the Ugly American

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Overview

Gritty crime fiction filled with dark Irish wit from Eoin Colfer, James O. Born, Laura Lippman, and many more.
 
The Irish master of noir Ken Bruen—and an all-star lineup of award-winning authors from both sides of the Atlantic—shine a light on the dark streets of Dublin in this collection of short fiction.
 
Dublin Noir introduces secret corners of a fascinating city and surprise assaults on the “Celtic Tiger” of modern Irish prosperity. It explores how the Irish see themselves and how outsiders see them—and provides evidence that their storied literary reputation extends into the realm of mystery and crime writing.
 
Brand new stories by Ken Bruen, Eoin Colfer, Jason Starr, Laura Lippman, Olen Steinhauer, Peter Spiegelman, Kevin Wignall, Jim Fusilli, John Rickards, Patrick J. Lambe, Charlie Stella, Ray Banks, James O. Born, Sarah Weinman, Pat Mullan, Gary Phillips, Craig McDonald, Duane Swierczynski, and Reed Farrel Coleman

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781936070282
Publisher: Akashic Books
Publication date: 03/01/2019
Series: Akashic Noir Series
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 234
Sales rank: 924,902
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Ken Bruen (b. 1951) is one of the most prominent Irish crime writers of the last two decades. Born in Galway, he spent twenty-five years traveling the world before he began writing in the mid 1990s. As an English teacher, Bruen worked in South Africa, Japan, and South America, where he once spent a short time in a Brazilian jail. He has two long-running series: one starring a disgraced former policeman named Jack Taylor, the other a London police detective named Inspector Brant. Praised for their sharp insight into the darker side of today’s prosperous Ireland, Bruen’s novels are marked by grim atmosphere and clipped prose. Among the best known are his White Trilogy (1998–2000) and The Guards (2001), the Shamus award-winning first novel in the Jack Taylor series. Along with his wife and daughter, Bruen continues to live and work in Galway.
Ken Bruen (b. 1951) is one of the most prominent Irish crime writers of the last two decades. Born in Galway, he spent twenty-five years traveling the world before he began writing in the mid 1990s. As an English teacher, Bruen worked in South Africa, Japan, and South America, where he once spent a short time in a Brazilian jail. He has two long-running series: one starring a disgraced former policeman named Jack Taylor, the other a London police detective named Inspector Brant. Praised for their sharp insight into the darker side of today’s prosperous Ireland, Bruen’s novels are marked by grim atmosphere and clipped prose. Among the best known are his White Trilogy (1998–2000) and The Guards (2001), the Shamus award-winning first novel in the Jack Taylor series. Bruen continues to live and work in Galway.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

TAKING ON PJ by Eoin Colfer

There were three words that Christy didn't want to hear.

"He sent PJ," said Little Mike, pulling his head in the apartment window.

Those were the three words.

"He's on the way up."

Those five weren't great either.

"Shit," swore Christy. "One bloody can of Fanta. One can."

Little Mike shrugged. After the high wind, his black hair looked drawn on with a crayon. "It's the principle with Warren. Steal a little, steal a lot. He don't care, Christy."

Christy chewed on a nail. "I was waitin' and I was thirsty and the fridge was right there. Hummin'. So one bloody can."

Little Mike tried to flatten his hair. "He does that. It's like a test. Leave you waiting in his shop, surround you with product, see if you can keep your paws off. Go against your nature. Did you ever hear the story about the fox and the scorpion?"

Christy threw whatever was handy at Little Mike. "Fuck off with your scorpion. The whole world knows that story. Every time the shit hits the fan, some fucking wise man trots out the fox and the bloody scorpion. I am up to here with those two, honest to Jaysus."

Mike rubbed his crown, where the Fanta can had clipped him. "I was only sayin'," he said, sulky now.

Christy folded immediately. He had enough enemies, and one of them was on his way up the eight flights.

"Sorry, brother," he said, knuckling the spot where the can struck. "I've a bad case of the freaks. This fucker is an animal. Did you hear what he did to Father Hillary?"

"The Paschal candle thing?"

Christy shuddered. "Jesus Christ. You know how big those things are? Some of 'em have studs too."

"Hillary was a nice old eejit. I mean, what did he do?"

"Wouldn't split the Sunday take, I heard. Sixty-forty, Warren says. Hillary says go to hell, so PJ did the job with the candle." Christy was pacing now. "A priest. A bloody priest. What will he do to me?"

Little Mike wasn't the best with rhetorical questions. "Jesus, now you're asking. I'd say he'll break a few things, make an example of you. Zero tolerance, as he's always saying."

"That, and do you like the car's new bulletproof windows? I mean, they look the very fucking same. What's to like about them?"

Little Mike cleared his throat. "To get back to PJ. Please God, he'll stay clear of your mickey. Some of these enforcers are a bit quare, you know. They do stuff to you. I've heard stories about PJ. Worse than the Paschal candle."

Christy sank into the sofa, wiping his mouth over and over. "Maybe if I explain ..."

"What? Like, talk to PJ?"

"I'll tell him. I was there to turn over the bag money. I was just waiting for Mister Warren, and I forgot where I was. Thought I was in a normal shop. Just robbed the can like I generally would. So here's the euro, no harm done."

Little Mike hadn't the strength to laugh. "I hope you lie better than you tell the truth. Jesus, that was shite. He'll ride the both of us with the leg of the table if you tell him that. I think we better just go."

Christy had always been the brains of the duo. "Go where? We're on the top bloody floor. The lift's knackered. So unless there's a helio-bloody-copter on the roof, the only way is down."

Out in the hall, the banisters clanged and vibrated. PJ was battering a tattoo. Jungle drums. Every door in the block would be locked before the rattle faded.

"We're shagged," breathed Christy, the mascara running down his cheeks.

"That makeup looks fuckin' stupid now," said Little Mike. "You look like a bloody panda or something."

Christy found a nugget of pride somewhere. "This is cool, right. Yer man from Manic Street Preachers wears this, and yer man from Busted."

"Mebbe. But they don't go streaking it by bawling all over their faces, do they?"

Christy's panda eyes squinted. "Well, PJ is coming up the stairs with God knows what under his coat. Any rock star you care to mention would shit himself."

"Not Lemmy," said Little Mike defensively.

"Yes, fucking Lemmy. And Bon Scott."

Little Mike crossed himself. "Ah, now. That's a step too far. Don't talk about Bon."

Christy could actually hear footsteps on the stairs. Slow and deliberate. PJ was giving him time to jump out the window. Focus, he told himself. Think about what's actually happening.

"Shut up, Little Mike. I need to think about what's actu- ally happening, not Bon Scott."

"That was always your trouble," said Mike with a few sage nods. "Drifting off. Remember when Miss Doyle asked you Colombia's main export and you said forty-eight? Sure, that was the day before."

A soft idea began firming up in Christy's head. "What if we took PJ on?"

"Coffee," said Mike. "Any eejit knows that. But it wasn't that you were stupid, you just never nev ..." He stuttered to a halt. "Who? Take what on? Do what?"

Christy jumped to his feet, grabbing his friend by the shoulders, trying to keep the idea going. "Look, PJ's coming in that door any second. He's going to break a few bones, and probably do a few deviant things in the riding department. You're not walking out either. You know what he's like."

A tear appeared in the corner of Mike's eye. "You and yer fuckin' Fanta."

"I know. Don't I know. So why don't we have a go? There are two of us."

Little Mike realized that his friend was actually serious. "Two of us? Father Hillary had God Almighty helping out, and look where it got him."

"I know. But we're a team. For years, since primary. Batman and Robin."

"Robin got killed," said Mike.

Christy was shocked. "He did not, did he? Jesus, I didn't hear about that."

"Yeah. It was a big shock. The Joker kilt him."

"That fuckin' Joker. I didn't see that coming."

Christy shook Batman out of his head, trying to focus.

"So we have a go. You distract him. And I hit him."

Little Mike had two legitimate questions. "Distract him with what? And hit him with bloody what?"

Christy looked around. There wasn't much left in the flat other than the bare essentials. A sofa, fridge, widescreen TV, and PlayStation 2.

He ripped the foam on the sofa arm and yanked out a bit of a plank.

"This for the hitting."

"That?" said Little Mike doubtfully.

"There's a nail in it."

"A nail. Are you de-looo-sional, Christy? Two letters for ye." Little Mike cupped his hands around his mouth. "Pee Jay. We're fucked. We take the breaks and hope there's no freaky stuff."

Christy wouldn't hear it. "No. He comes in this door here, right?" "The door, you mean. The one door."

"So he comes in, and you distract him. Then I fucking whack him straight between the eyes, with the nail. And we're off on the ferry to England. Or down into the deep country. Waterford or something. I heard they got jungles down there, brother. Local natives that will get up on ye for fifty cent. Like fuckin' Mexico."

Little Mike was sucked in by his friend's enthusiasm. "And just how am I supposed to distract him?"

"You know how," said Christy meaningfully, nodding in a respectful and non-homosexual way at Little Mike's bollock area.

"Fuck off," said Mike, cupping said area.

"The big lad has to come out," said Christy. "It's the only extraordinary thing in the flat. It's all we have."

"It's all I have. Fuck off and get yer own."

Little Mike's dick was legendary in the flats, in the entire north side. This was mainly due to the fact that Mike himself had spray-painted every hoarding in Dublin with the legend, Little Mike has thirteen inches. Followed by his mobile number. Morning, noon, and night he was on that phone.

"PJ is bad enough without taunting him. If I have the lad out, it's just rubbing his nose in it. He'll have to cut the big fella off."

Christy had it all figured out. "No. He comes in, expecting two fellas to either have a go, or be shitting themselves in the corner. What he doesn't expect is Mister Thirteen Inches eyeballing him. So for one second, he's off his stride, then I whack him in the face."

Little Mike was a sucker for flattery. "You really think the big fella would put a professional like PJ off?"

Christy snorted. "I fucking know it. Jesus Christ, that thing has a shadow longer than the Spire."

Little Mike was amazed to find himself considering the idea. "Do we have anything? Beer, blow, fucking anything?"

"I think there's a drop of Fanta in the end of that can."

"Ah now, if you're going to start taking the piss, you can show PJ your own langer."

"Sorry, sorry. We've nothing. There's no time anyway. He's nearly here."

It was true. The footsteps were louder now. No echo. PJ would be kicking in the door any second. He was their future and there was no escaping it.

"Over here," ordered Christy, pulling his friend's shoulders. "Right in front of the door."

"And what? Just pull it out through the zip? Or drop the pants altogether."

"I'd say through the zip, in case you have to run." That was Christy, always thinking.

The footsteps were not going up anymore, they were going along.

"Nearly there," said Little Mike. "There's nothing in the bottom of your pocket. A doobie? A pill?"

"Nothing. Believe me."

"Shit. Sorry. Just asking."

Little Mike unzipped, rummaged, and flopped.

Christy had seen it before, but still spared a moment to look.

"Thirteen?"

"Yes, thirteen. Fuck off, begrudger."

"You know, those school rulers have two sides. Centimeters and inches."

Little Mike brandished his weapon. "You couldn't even see the ruler, mate."

PJ was coming. Each footfall firm and confident. He wanted to be heard. Fed on the fear. His legend grew larger with every step.

"Shit, I dunno, brother," said Christy, and it was his plan.

Little Mike's phone rang. He managed to answer without fumbling.

"Yes. This is he ... It's true what it says, amn't I looking at it ..." "Mike!" hissed Christy, tapping his watch.

"Ah, yeah. Listen, let me get back to you. We'll have text." This was Little Mike's standard hang-up line. He claimed to have thought of it himself.

Mike opened his knees wide, so that his langer would be framed by the gap between his legs. For first impressions a boner would have been good, but not likely.

"Okay, ready?"

Christy raised the piece of wood, making sure the nail was pointing away from him.

"Ready. This fucker's dead."

A split second later, PJ kicked in the door. He was mildly surprised to see Little Mike before him with his large langer swinging in the breeze, so he mashed it with his boot. And there was Christy, skinny, red mop, tracksuit, waving a piece of furniture at him. PJ caught the plank and reversed it into yer man's face. Two down. No sweat. He brushed a section of the sofa with a sticky fabric roller he always carried, and sat to wait for the boys to stop screaming.

Christy was the first to get a grip.

"We've no candles."

PJ toyed with his bleached goatee. "Your mascara's ruined. You want to get the waterproof kind. My lady says Revlon is the best."

"Thanks," said Christy automatically. There was a red circle in his forehead where the head of the nail had hit him. He looked like he'd been shot.

Little Mike was still wailing, trying to massage some life into his penis. "You don't know what you've done," he sobbed. "You don't know who this is."

PJ rolled his eyes, like a culture-vulture faced with atrocious opera. "Well, I'm guessing that's the legendary thirteen inches I've been reading so much about. You sure you weren't using a metric measuring tape?"

"Might have been," said Little Mike. That's what fear does to a person.

PJ linked his fingers, cracking the knuckles. "So, anyway. Christy boy, you stole from Mister Warren."

Christy tried the tell the truth strategy. "One can of Fanta. I forgot where I was."

"Yeah, well, whatever. The closed-circuit camera caught you in the act. So I'm here to make you pay."

"What's a can of Fanta? About a yo-yo?"

"Exactly right. Plus a million euros robbing tax. So if you can give me one million and one euro in cash, right now, I am going to walk out of here and not cut his mickey off and stuff it down your throat."

Little Mike started to cry.

"Little Mike?" said PJ, giving Christy a moment to consider the offer. "That's like an ironic name, isn't it?"

"Yeah," sobbed Mike. "Like Little John in Robin Hood was a huge bastard."

PJ took a lock knife from his pocket, flicking out the blade with his thumb. "Guess what they'll be calling you from now on?"

"What?"

"Mike," said PJ, grinning.

His grin grew to a hearty laugh. This was PJ's favorite kind of joke, one pertaining to a brutality he was about to inflict.

He raised a meaty hand, slapping it down on the sofa arm. This was unfortunate, as Christy had earlier pulled out the wooden plank under the foam. One nail had come out with the plank, the rest had stayed in because they were faced the other way.

PJ's arm sank through the slit in the foam and onto half a dozen nails.

The blood drained from his face and began coming out his arm. Orange foam turned red and soggy.

"Heaaaarrgh!" said PJ, who had been trying to say help, then lost the run of his brain.

Little Mike was a nice young fella, really. "Jesus Christ. We've got to help him!"

"Blooaaargh!" screamed PJ. More mangled words.

Christy pulled him back. "No. Help him and he'll kill us. How's your mickey?"

Mike examined it gingerly. "I need ice. And a splint."

"There are no bones in your dick."

"Maybe not in your dick."

Blood fountained like a fountain of blood. Christy and Mike were showered with sticky droplets. Little Mike picked up an empty cigarette box to reveal a blood-free rectangle below.

"Look," he said. "Remember blow-painting in school?"

They talked about art for a while to take their minds off PJ's screaming. The enforcer tried to free his arm from the nails, but he'd waited too long and hadn't the strength. You could see it in his face, that he didn't believe what has happening.

"But I'm PJ," he muttered, when he could get a sentence together. It was all he said before passing out.

Christy poked PJ's shoulder and got no reaction. "This is worse than the Fanta," he pronounced.

Little Mike was checking his mickey again. "There's a Nike swoosh on me lad."

"I think he's dead. We killed PJ."

Little Mike coiled his member and zipped it away. "No, Christy, he killed himself. It was an accident."

PJ looked dead. His entire shaven head was the color of his bleached goatee, and his tongue lolled out like a movie drunk. Amazing how quickly it could happen. Half a dozen nails in the wrong place.

"Warren will blame us anyway. We're über-fucked now."

Über-fucked was one of Christy's sayings, which he claimed to have made up himself but had actually heard it in a blue movie.

Little Mike experimented with walking, cowboy style.

"Okay, so let's get the hell out of here, before the next wave."

Christy straightened his tracksuit, which was his equivalent of packing.

"Okay. We might have a few hours before Warren susses anything. Maybe we could get out on the ring road and hitch a lift to Waterford."

Mike grinned through his pain. "Chill with the señoritas."

"Sí, muchacho."

Christy was smiling a bit wide, so Mike said, "I'm grinning through my pain here, so don't get too fucking happy."

"Sorry, brother."

PJ's phone rang. It was a customized tone to the tune of Chas 'n' Dave's "Rabbit."

"Warren!" said Christy and Little Mike simultaneously.

Christy followed the ring to PJ's jacket pocket and pulled out the phone.

"The new Nokia," said Mike admiringly. "Nice one."

"I gotta answer it," said Christy. "If I don't, Warren will shoot some other wanker over here." He danced around with the phone, as though it were on fire. "I'll pretend I'm PJ. I have a deep voice like him."

"My arse."

"You do it."

"I wouldn't know what to say. I'm no good under pressure."

Christy slapped his own forehead to get the ideas flowing. "Okay. Start screaming!"

"What?"

"Look!" shouted Christy. "PJ's alive!"

Little Mike screamed. Christy answered the phone.

"Y'ello."

Warren sounded pissed off. "What the fuck's going on up there, PJ? Haven't you finished with those two muppets yet?"

Mike screamed again, getting the idea. Camouflage.

"Two minutes, Mister Warren!" shouted Christy.

"Yer not, like, doing anything, are ye? You know, 'cause if you are, make sure to video it, son."

"Will do, Mister Warren."

"Jesus, that fucker can scream. Is that the one with the makeup?" Christy was wounded. "Shut up, you ugly motherfucking wankstain! Not you, obviously, Mister Warren."

"Obviously."

"No, it's the other one. The one with the big cock."

"Yeah, whatever, just hurry it up. I'm a bit jumpy down here with the night safe bag. You know what the urchins around here are like. No fucking respect."

"On my way, Mister Warren."

Warren hung up, so he could hold onto his money with two hands. Christy dropped PJ's phone back into the dead enforcer's pocket.

"Cheers, brother," he said automatically.

Little Mike took deep whooping breaths. "Jesus. Screaming's not easy."

Christy peered out the flat window. "Warren is below in the car, on his own. With the day's money. Imagine the time we could have in Waterford with that."

Little Mike knew the look on his friend's face. "You're not planning something, are you? Because you know how your plans turn out."

"PJ's dead, isn't he?"

"I hope that's not the case for the defense, because he killed himself. Nothing to do with you. Dumb fucking luck."

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Dublin Noir"
by .
Copyright © 2006 Akashic Books.
Excerpted by permission of Akashic Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Title Page,
Copyright Page,
Introduction,
PART I: THE INSIDE JOB,
Eoin Colfer Taking on PJ,
Ken Bruen Black Stuff,
Pat Mullan Tribunal,
PART II: THE MANHATTAN CONNECTION,
Reed Farrel Coleman Portrait of the Killer As a Young Man,
Peter Spiegelman The Best Part,
Jim Fusilli The Ghost of Rory Gallagher,
Jason Starr Lost in Dublin,
Charlie Stella Tainted Goods,
PART III: HEART OF THE OLD COUNTRY,
Ray Banks Wrong 'Em, Boyo,
Olen Steinhauer The Piss-Stained Czech,
John Rickards Wish,
Kevin Wignall The Death of Jeffers,
PART IV: NEW WORLD NOIR,
Laura Lippman The Honor Bar,
James O. Born Tourist Trade,
Sarah Weinman Hen Night,
Gary Phillips The Man for the Job,
Patrick J. Lambe The New Prosperity,
Duane Swierczynski Lonely and Gone,
Craig McDonald Rope-A-Dope,
About the Contributors,

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