And gulped down a lungful of Blue Superkings.

I moved over to the dismal smokers’ shed. It should have a sign proclaiming:

“Give me your huddled masses.”

A motley crew of: frazzled nurses, patients, I kid you not, trailing IVs, stunned relatives, and

Dr. Ravin.

I know my kin. For once I did the decent thing. I pretended not to see him. A man, my age, with a jaundiced pallor, on crutches, said,

“Hiya Jack.”

I did the Irish gambit, when you haven’t one flogging notion of who they are, said,

“Jesus! Haven’t seen you in ages.”

He moved closer to me. He had the scent of death on him, I know it from familiarity. He said,

“I’m Gerry Malloy.”

I didn’t ask,

“So how are you?”

He was on crutches, looked desperate.

He was fucked.

I lied,

“Great to see you Gerry.”

He looked furtively around, then confided,

“I’m hoping to get a big claim out of this.”

I ground my cig under my boot, said,

“My fingers crossed for you.”

He licked his bottom lip, a gesture like the onset of dementia, said gleefully,

“If they cut off my right leg, I’m set for life.”

OK.

Before I could hazard,

“Good luck with that,” he asked,

“Jack, could you spot me a twenty? You can see I’ll be rolling in it so no worries about payback.”

An arm and a leg as they say.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I gave him the note and as I limped away, he shouted,

“Big hug to your blessed mother.”

I waved… yeah.

She was dead five years but I had a feeling he might be able to deliver the hug in person sooner than he reckoned.

A lapsed Catholic is simply one who is hedging his bets.

– Ken Bruen, from

“Reading at Random,” in Collected Essays, 2001-2005

I arrived at the pub, a long fifteen minutes after Gabriel. He’d found the corner table, and a lone ray of sunshine was beaming through. Did it illuminate him?