The barman laughed.A big, rounded laugh from a big, rounded body. "Lad that was brilliant. I put the card back into the pack, but it ends up in your wallet. How do you do that?" The barman's voice held a trace of Dublin brogue, but it seemed to be playing peek-a-boo behind the clatter of New York twang. "Hey guys, come and join us over here. You should watch this fella...he's really something."
Jack humbly accepted the praise piling up. He loved this part of his work. The acting. The false humility. He was good, and he knew it. This was how he earned his living: he had to be good. The faded but well laundered jeans, the bright colours of his Hawaiian shirt, the slightly dishevelled hair and summer coloured skin were all contrived, were all costume to create an outwardly attractive character. His good looks, ability to communicate, and, of course, his exceptional conjuring skills, were God given tools that helped put the bait on the hook, the poison on the sting."No smoke, no mirrors...just takes practice. Anyone can do it, if they really want to." Jack spoke in a deep malty voice with strong overtones of the Scottish Highlands and, for the moment, he spoke the truth. It simply took practice. Lots of practice and lots of time.
Al gathered up the ashtrays that threatened to spill their contents over the scarred surface of the bar."I thought I'd seen all the barroom stunts going, but Jeeziz that was like real magic."
Manhattan seemed keen to ignore this genuine Irish pub, one that the Irish themselves would recognise. It was smoky, it was dark, it was simple,...but the ceiling was clad with embossed tin panels, the pock marked mahogany counter and worn floorboards seemed to reek of beer and the photographs on the walls showed Dublin's Shinty Teams, Van Morrison, and The Pope. Best of all, the beer was ebony and cream, and served in pint glasses.
Tonight Jack felt a rare, strange sense of comfort and belonging as he looked round the dimly lit bar with its scattering of solitary people. Not lonely people: solitary people. They stood like cactus in a nameless desert. Jack felt that here was a bar he'd like to waste time in, with a barman whose company he enjoyed, but knew that after tonight he'd never stroll within two blocks of "The O'Connell" and hopefully would never see Al again."I'll take another jar of your Guiness," Jack said passing his empty glass over the broad counter.
"Sure you will, but you won't be paying for this one." Jack was surprised to see that Al didn't use a fresh glass but watched in admiration as the dark liquid was poured in a confidently controlled stream. Al noticed Jack's intense interest. "Just takes practice, anyone can do it, if they really want to." A cocky twitch of the square, balding head towards Jack signified a bond shared by all skilled persons. "On the house, lad."
Jack took a long, slow swallow, then replaced the tumbler on the bar. Lifting the pack of cards, Jack began to cut, riffle and shuffle with an eye-popping degree of dexterity. Al concentrated on the manipulations as he asked: "So tell me, what's a Scotsman doing in a Manhattan bar?"
"Apart from enjoying myself? Simple. I'm one of those guys who needs to sniff the breezes. I wanted to prove to the dour cynics back home that I could travel and support myself with only my magic tricks....after a fashion. No fees, just tips, free beers and an occasional meal thrown in. I do my stuff, and if I'm on form, I get fed and watered. Next day I'm on the road again." Jack was always astonished at how effective this romantic tosh could be.
"Go on then lad, let's have one more. I'm a sucker for this stuff." Al's broad smile stretched out into a broader grin revealing a set of oversized false teeth that looked ready to spring from his mouth and skitter across the bar.
"You certainly are" thought Jack. "Sure, but let's move away from cards. Dig a high value note out of the cash register for me."
"Hey, free beers only...no fees." Al laughed at his own ad-lib.
"Nice one" responded Jack convincingly, although in his head he was considering how he could stop the process that had begun with the first card trick. He didn't want to shaft Al, didn't want to feel like a scavenger tonight. But it was too late. The adrenalin was beginning to rush through his body. The addiction was too strong. This was a time to stay sharp. Sharp and focussed. And cool. Al spun on his heels, turning his broad back to Jack. He reached into the till and plucked out a fresh looking one hundred dollar bill. He made the note swoop and dive gracefully, like a child with a paper aeroplane, before finally sliding it across the bar to stop at Jack's fingertips. "The eagle has landed. This better be large enough for you because they seldom come any bigger in here."
"Sure. Put a mark of some kind on the bill ... down in the corner." Al plucked the tiny pencil stub from behind his ear, and with a few strokes, a neat little Shamrock was sketched onto the bill. "Now take a note of the serial number." Jack had to raise his voice to compensate for the sudden, loud drunken clatter coming from the other end of the bar Lifting the hem of his white apron, Al added the number to the collection of hieroglyphics that decorated the linen garment, every symbol telling Al how many beers each customer had swallowed. With a smooth reflex action, the pencil was returned to its standby place behind Al's right ear. In his twenty-four years at "The O'Connell" Al had never lost or even misplaced a pencil and the current model was now in its second year of service. Jack carefully curled the note into a tight roll which he then secured with a red elastic band. After draping a paper napkin over everything he handed the bullet sized wad over the bar into Al's nicotine stained fingers. Suddenly Jack lurched, exhaled sharply as his midriff crashed against the bar edge, then quickly regained his balance. "Asshole," muttered Jack in the direction of the drunken customer who was staggering across the barroom. Focus regained, Jack grasped on a corner of the napkin and sharply tugged.
Al seemed temporarily speechless as he stared at the tightly banded roll he was left holding. It was no longer the smoky blue of a one hundred dollar bill.... no, he was now holding a startlingly white roll of paper, still held in place by a scarlet band. "What's goin' on? This can't be real. You're doing my head in, buddy."
Jack felt the need to take control again, to take centre stage once more. "Unwrap it". Al followed his prompt, and the resulting laugh was as deep as it was spontaneous. Al read the neatly printed message aloud: `I.O.U One Hundred Dollars.`
"You're killing me, buddy, just killing me. How did you do that?" Jack knew why these people were called 'mug punters'. It was always a few minutes before they wondered what had happened to their cash. Now he just had to kill some time, and then his evening's work would be over.
"You want to know how I did it?" asked Jack. " OK, I'll tell you...I did it really well."
Al smiled at the gag. "You surely did, but now tell me, where has me money gone? In your wallet? Up your sleeve?"
Jack needed some more time, time for the job to be completed. His eyes wandered round the room in a pantomime of innocence. His voice changed to mock aristocratic English. "Your cash? Just goes, gone, I know not where."
Al smiled and replied "Hey, Noel Coward on a bad voice day." There was a moment of silence between the two men. Al seemed to grow darker and larger as he leaned over the bar, closer to Jack's face and quietly said, "I've lived in New York too long to take any crap. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks Now, my friend, where did you say my C-note had gone?"
"Let's go over to the other bar" said Jack, lifting the counter flap, inviting Al to step out from his work station. They made a strange duo as they strutted across the darkly varnished floor, leading the small, silent audience that had gathered to watch Jack's performance. Al, white apron almost luminous against the woodwork, towered over the much shorter Jack who walked in double time to keep pace with the barman's long strides. With surprising suppleness, Al ducked under the counter flap to join the other barman who was wearily wiping down the bar's surface.
"First job of the evening shift. God, I wish it was closing time." The accent was again Irish, but with a softer edge that made Jack think that here was a new arrival to New York.
"You're going to wish your life away, lad." Al was holding his open hand towards Jack. Deeply etched lines crisscrossed the leathery palm. "Now, why have you dragged me across here? Where's the money?" An element of urgency, a deepening shadow of threat was creeping into Al's voice, but Jack knew that the dangerous part of his work was already over.
"Hey, a genuine fifties Avery?" Jacked nodded towards the battered, but still functional cash register. Of course, he was right. Or at least he'd surmised correctly that there was nobody present who could dispute his statement. Jack pointed towards the machine. "Open says me."
Al gave Jack a strange look that showed no understanding of the pun, tinged with a hunch that something wild was about to happen. `NO SALE` chimed its way into the glass rectangle at the top of the till, while the drawer flew open to the sound of coins rattling within. Al hesitated for a moment, then his hand shot into the small pile of paper money and withdrew a one hundred dollar bill that still showed a curl like the shavings he had seen on his father's workbench back in Dublin. He used his left thumb to pin the note to the bar top and the back of his right hand to sweep across the bill in an attempt to iron out the remnants of curve. The little pencilled shamrock in the corner seemed to flutter. He was already convinced, but still he lifted the edge of his apron and glanced at the serial number scribbled there. Al raised his head slowly, then thrust his right hand across the bar to grasp Jack's in a bone crushing handshake. "You are a goddamn genius. I've never seen anything like it. Frigging awesome." The compliments flooded out leaving no space for the questions queuing up inside Al's head. There was much back slapping, laughter, and tugging at the lapels of customer's jackets in an attempt to drive home the impossibility of the miracle. "What can I say?" Another Guiness? Or are you for a drop of the Jamieson's?"
"Thanks anyway, but no...time I was off. If I don't get down to the Y.M. soon the best beds will be gone."
"Buddy, tonight you deserve a soft bed and a pretty chambermaid to fluff up your pillow. This might help." Al plucked his wallet from underneath his apron and drew out a twenty-dollar bill, hesitated, then added another two fives. "Thirty bucks. Chickenfeed....you should be in Vegas, or on TV. You are the business, lad." Jack took the cash, gently nodding. His lips were drawn tight, and his eyes seemed to imply a flush of emotion. But it was pretence. In reality, he only wanted to walk out of the bar and into the New York night.
"I'll be back someday, and thanks for everything." He gave a wave, turned and strolled over to the door. "By the way Al, nice bar you've got here" and then he was gone.
New York's humidity hit Jack like flu. Sweat flushed through his pores gluing the thin cotton to the bony high points of his back. He walked down the busy street, resisting the urge to run, fighting the need to look over his shoulder. He was heading downtown, and his route soon wandered into the city's darker, less pleasant streets. Jack kept his head down and his eyes fixed on the pavement avoiding the gaze of the hustlers and spare change merchants.
Suddenly, a figure stepped into his path. Two arms flew round his neck, and a kiss was smacked onto his damp forehead. "Well, we sure did score tonight."
"For God's sake, Doug, you scared me half to death."
"Sure, but just think. One hundred bucks, less two for my beer." Doug saw every operation as a fiscal challenge. Like a legitimate businessman he maintained a running total for each scam. "We did well, man, we did well. I love buying that final beer with their money, pretending to be totally smashed.... 'Give me another Ginnish.'" The slurred speech was performed flawlessly. "And then putting the change into my pocket. I just love it. But, goddamn it, I wish I could see their faces when they count the takings and find they are short by a hundred. Wonder how long it takes them to suss how we did it?"
"I don't know, but listen up," said Jack, "you play a good drunk but be a bit more careful. Tonight you almost knocked me down. If we mess up that hand over, we're dead."
"Yeah, yeah, but we got away with it. We scored a hundred tonight, and it looked like you got a few beers thrown in. A tip at the end by any chance?"
Honour among thieves? Pause. Nah. The words flicked on in Jack's head like a Times Square neon sign. "Nope, just the offer of a whisky,"
"Damn Irish cheapskate." Doug tucked his shirt back into his trousers, cancelling the drunken character for the night. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out the red rubber band that had been used to wrap the hundred dollar note. Doug drew back his long, dark hair with his left hand and neatly used the band to fashion a well centred pony tail. He then handed over Jack's share. "We trying that Polish bar down by Brooklyn Bridge tomorrow? It's got the two bars and another pair of sadcase barmen."
"Sure, meet you at Washington Square at nine sharp."
"I'll be there. By the way, that Irish joint tonight...what a dump. No TV. And no juke box. A dump."
"Doug, you've got all the depth of a muddy puddle." Jack spun on his heels looking round for a Yellow Cab to take him away from this place, back to his room, where he would add tonight's takings to the leaves of cash that were carelessly scattered over his bedside cabinet. Money that held no promise of future pleasures. It was the challenge of earning that satisfied him, the knowledge that his skill and his charm could convince strangers to willingly hand over their money.
The day was now over for Jack. Exhausted, he only wanted the solitude of this room, where he would spend the rest of the night lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, till he fell asleep to dreams of dark bars and smiling barmen.
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