‘If the Gords ever came calling, I was going to tell them that the old man is the actual criminal mastermind and I’m just his idiot son. The truth, in other words’
WHEN THE OLD MAN rang me and said he was in Crumlin Garda station, I have to admit that my first thought was for myself. Sometimes the work we do here at Shred Focking Everything would have to be described as, like, borderline illegal? A dude from a company you’d all know had given me 18 bags of documents an hour earlier and I swear to God he was sweating like a petting zoo – kept asking me about some technology that the FBI supposedly has that allows them to put shredded documents back together. He asked me did the Gords have it.
I actually laughed, because I remembered seeing one that morning, sitting at traffic lights on the Stillorgan dualler – on a focking mountain bike! “I wouldn’t worry yourself,” I went. “It’s backwards those goys are going.” But when Dick Features rang and said he’d just been questioned for, like, 16 hours, my first instinct – I have to admit – was that I was far too good-looking to go to jail. The company has a protocol that we’re supposed to follow if the Gords ever come calling – it’s written on the side of the van in red capitals. But I had, like, an alternative plan. I was going to sing like a focking treeful of swallows. I was going to tell them that the old man is the actual criminal mastermind and I’m just his idiot son.
The truth, in other words.
“No, no,” he went, “it’s nothing to do with the business, Ross,” and then he broke off and storted roaring. “Give me my bloody shoelaces, so I can get out of this confounded place!” I laughed.
“So, what happened?” I went. “You got into another fight in Shanahan’s, defending Michael Fingleton?” I have to admit, there was no preparing me for what he said next.
“If only it were just that again. No, I was arrested – if you can believe this, Kicker – on suspicion of attempted kidnapping!” I laughed. Er, kidnapping? I told him I was on my way.
I had to hear it. Even if it meant going to Crumlin.
When I got there, I noticed he had a black eye and a split lip, and he was having a major borney with, like, the desk sergeant? He was there, “Oh, you’ll be hearing from my solicitor. Make no mistake about that!” and then, after a few seconds, “What station did you bring him to, by the way?” “Store Street,” the desk sergeant went. “They released him an hour ago.”
I was like, “Come on, I’ve got the van porked outside.” He got in and just, like, shook his head. “Sixteen hours to establish my innocence,” he went.
It wasn’t until we were back in single-digit postcode territory that he could bring himself to tell me the story of what happened.
“Well, Hennessy and I had just enjoyed 18 at the K Club. Oh, your godfather was on fire, Ross – not just with the sticks either, but with the banter and the badinage – to say nothing of the friendly raillery. For instance, I made a complete mess of the famous seventh. Won’t even tell what I carded, Ross. I said to our friend, ‘How would you have played that hole if you were me, old chap?’ You know what he says? ‘Under an assumed name!’ I mean, have you ever heard the likes of it, Ross?
“Well, it got worse on the back nine. Says I to your godfather, ‘You know what, I feel like bloody well drowning myself in the lake.’ And says he, ‘Charlie, I don’t think you could keep your head down for that long!’ And that’s just a flavour of it, Ross – on and on it went! Hennessy! Oh, he’d humour a dying man!”
I was there, “Is there any danger of you finishing this story before I need to focking shave again?” because it never pays to be too nice to him?
“Oh, yes, of course,” he went. “Well, we were driving home and Hennessy had, well, one or two matters to attend to in Walkinstown.” “Walkinstown? Jesus.” “Well, he has one or two properties out there. Office buildings.
“Half-finished, of course. Or half-started. Depends on what way you think this bloody economy’s going. Anyway, as we’re going along in Hennessy’s car – the famous Bentley, naturally – I notice what looks very much to me like a kink in the shaft of my driver.” I laughed. “There’s no focking mystery there. He obviously did it while you were in the clubhouse having a hit and miss.” “Well, that’s always been the rumour about Old Hen, of course.”
“So, what, you wrapped the club around his head for cheating, he decked you and then you both ended up getting lifted?”
“No, no – nothing like that. No, I just happened to look up from my ministrations with Big Bertha when I spotted a woman – late 20s, early 30s – walking along the road in her pyjamas and slippers. Her pyjamas and slippers, Ross! At two o’clock in the afternoon, if you don’t mind!”
I just, like, shrugged? “Everyone out there does that. Why do you think they call it Sleepwalkinstown?” “Well,” he went, “I wish I’d known then what I know now. See, I figured she must have walked out of some hospital or other. And there she was, wandering up and down the Walkinstown Road in the middle of the day, dazed and bewildered. So I said to Hennessy, ‘Pull over here, old scout. Charles O’Carroll-Kelly is about to do his famous Good Samaritan act.’ So I jumped out, walked over to her and said, ‘In the car! You’re coming with us!’” “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I went, “did you have the golf club in your hand at the time?” “Unfortunately, yes.” My jaw just dropped.
He just shook his head – I think it’s a word – but ruefully? “Turns out she’d only popped out for a box of 20 cigarettes,” he went. “And she thought this was an abduction attempt.” “So who did that to your face?” “Well, she did. I wouldn’t mind, she was only a slip of a thing. It was as if I’d been hit by the South African pack, then Peter Clohessy had been told he could have whatever was left.”
I just cracked up laughing. “And did Hennessy not get out of the cor and help you?” “Afraid not. No, in fact, he centrally locked the doors. Well, he’s got an important pro-am coming up in Portmarnock this weekend. I expect he didn’t want to aggravate that troublesome shoulder of his.”
My old man. Utter knob though he is, you’d have to say, there’s never a dull moment.
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