Three men with masks burst into the room. Burst is the right word, even if they slipped in unnoticed, its still a bit of a shock, and you sitting there, like a burst would be. Wondering yours or theirs, smell for a second. Then you knew who it was because a mask only covers the head. Except Jimmy Durante, who skipped before that second was up. Yours or theirs was all the same to him at that precise moment in time and space.
Now Jimmy was innocent but he would prefer to discuss and explain everything reasonably and calmly to some intermediary type understanding type person who could sort out any or all misunderstandings, not that there should be any since Jimmy Durante was innocent.
As he was now explaining to the three men with masks which they weren't wearing now because they knew Jimmy and Jimmy knew them. It was the day after. Same club. Nobody else there. Too early in the morning and if you wanted a drink that early. Fuck you. Buy it the night before or queue.
Yesterdays drink not drunk but on the floor, on the tables, on the walls under your collar, up your nose with the oily ash of ex-cigarettes, all the toxic fumes like Saddam Hussein would kill for, hugging floor level. It could take up to an hour for hard men to acclimatise, except Jimmy, who had it at least second on his list of worries. He was in the comfortable booth.
Three booths, sucking absorbent soft seats. Two vomit, one plain drink. Choose that one and stick Jimmy in the corner. Where it’s hard for a man to get up and get his round.
“Hello Shamey”. His real name in familiar colloquial, arm round the neck, I am your friend style. Seamus on the school register, along with a lot of noughts. The 'e' has a stroke nowadays, ‘e’ fada. He hadn't a big nose but then they called him Hunchy and he didn't have a hunchback either.
They being those close to him or those far away. For Jimmy would give you and me a dig in the head, for saying nothing even. A “what the fuck are you looking at, no response” dig in the head, even if you weren't looking at him.
And Jimmy didn't just pick on you or me, well - dressed and easy to tremble people. That would suggest logical cunning or something. The only way Jimmy knew he shouldn't have clocked somebody was a sustained kicking in return. And of course, it wasn’t because he was unintelligent, it just wasn't the first option.
Not like now, because these were serious people in front of him, going round the house with him, in an aimless way, taking him somewhere.
“Hello Shamey. What's this what's this about, Shamey? You know what this is about or you wouldn't have fucked off so sharp last night when we came in, Shamy”.
“Fuck sake I didn't know you were looking me, look what's this about?”
Smack. A hold-on look, from one to the other, we are taking him round the house, slowly.
“Why did you skip, Shamey?”
Of course he didn't really skip, not technically exactly. Skipping is skipping. Not staying round in your mates house, the second place they'd look. At six o'clock in the morning, before he could find an understanding intermediary. Six o'clock is fucking serious. Brits do that but they're on shift work, up all night. Six o'clock is really fucking serious because everything is still. Anything that moves is clocked by the chopper then meets a roadblock down the road. Four men in a car, hardly going to work. Hardly queuing early for the dole. Six o clock. Definitely a risky business, very serious.
