Ronan is smoking one of his famous rollies in the doorway of the Museum of the Irish Gangster when he sees me coming.
“Rosser!” he goes. “The fook are you doing on Capel Street dressed like that? Did you take a wrong turden cubbing ourra Chapter One again?”
I’m there, “Ro, I need to talk to you – in private.”
So – yeah, no – we tip inside.
He goes, “What do you think, Rosser?”
There’s, like, a red Fiat Punto hanging from the ceiling.
He’s like, “It was The Viper’s foorst car.”
I’m there, “Yeah, I’m delighted for you. Ro, I need to talk to you about something. It’s important?”
“What is it?”
“Sorcha’s engagement ring was stolen.”
“Are you accusing me?”
“Jesus, Ro, why are you always so defensive? Here, it wasn’t you, was it?”
“No, it wadn’t.”
“Right, well, it went missing from the gaff. And she’s convinced someone climbed through a window and lifted it.”
“Had she it inshewered?”
“Yeah, no, for 50 K’s.”
“You paid 50 grand for an engagement ring?”
“No, she thinks I paid 50 grand for an engagement ring. And now she’s looking for the receipt before she puts in the claim.”
“Moy Jaysus.”
“My words exactly. Although maybe pronounced differently.”
“So how much was the ring?”
“Five hundred quid.”
“Five hundred quid? Where’d you get an engagement ring for 500 quid?”
“From you?”
“Soddy?”
“Your mate got it for me. The dodgy jeweller.”
“Which one? I’ve known a few in me time.”
Ah, hang on. Carats is inside as well. In Limerick
— Ronan
“He had a cowboy’s name.”
“Was it Glint Eastwood?”
“That’s the dude. Do you think he could give me a receipt even after all these years? And make it out for 50 K’s?”
“Glint dudn’t do receipts, Rosser.”
“Why doesn’t he do receipts?”
“Generally, people who sell diamond rings for 500 quid don’t expect customers to be cubbing back at them looking for paperwoork – do you get me?”
I feel my mouth fall open.
I’m there, “Wait a minute, are you saying it was stolen?”
He goes, “Drop the Carmela Soprano act, Rosser.”
“Can we at least ring, er–.”
“Glint Eastwood.”
“Glint Eastwood. I mean what’s he doing now?”
“Ten years in the Midlands Prison.”
“Fock.”
“So he’s in no position to write you a receipt, Rosser.”
“Is there, I don’t know, someone else looking after the business for him while he’s inside?”
“The business? Jesus, Rosser, you’re as green as a fooken cabbage. He has an associate, but. You remember Carats?”
“It’s not ringing any bells.”
“He was on me stag. He bought you a lapdance.”
“Yeah, no, I remember Carats.”
“Forgery is his thing now. I could ring him and ast him for a receipt. It’ll cost you, but.”
“How much?”
“A few grand would be my guess. Ah, hang on. Carats is inside as well. In Limerick.”
It’s at that exact moment that my phone rings. And – yeah, no – it’s Sorcha.
I’m like, “Fock.”
Ronan goes, “Why doatunt you tell her the throot, Rosser?”
I’m there, “Because I never have before and it’s always worked out for me.”
“Honesty is the best podicy.”
“Says the man running Ireland’s first ever gangster museum.”
There’s, like, 20 seconds of silence that feels like 20 hours
“You’re maddied, what, 20 years? This was all a long time ago. She’ll wontherstand.”
“Do you think?”
“Thrust me, Rosser.”
So I answer the phone and put it on speaker. I’m like, “Sorcha, I went to Weir’s like you said – but unfortunately I couldn’t get a receipt.”
She’s there, “Why not?”
“Because – in fairness – I didn’t buy the ring in Weir’s.”
“Excuse me?”
“I bought it from a friend of Ronan’s called Butch–”
“Glint Eastwood,” Ronan goes.
I’m there, “Sorry – Glint Eastwood.”
“Glint Eastwood?” Sorcha goes. “Oh my God, was it stolen?”
I’m there, “Stolen?”
Ronan goes, “Don’t be a tout, Rosser. Remember, he can get to you – even from inside jayult.”
I’m like, “Of course it wasn’t stolen. What do you take me for?”
“So why can’t this Glint Eastwood provide a receipt?”
“He’s, em, gone away for a little while.”
“For how long?”
I’m like, “How long, Ro?”
He goes, “Ten years – if he keeps he’s snout clean.”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, quite a while, Sorcha.”
“So who’s running the business while he’s away.”
“Some dude called Carats. A good goy but it turns out he doesn’t do receipts either.”
“Ross, that ring was worth €50,000.”
Ronan goes, “Tell her the throot, Rosser – or I widdle.”
I’m there, “Look, Sorcha, cords on the table here, when I told you how much the ring was worth, I may have possibly exaggerated?”
She’s like, “Excuse me?”
“What I mean is, it may not be worth exactly 50 K’s?”
“So how much is it worth?”
“Okay, before you overreact, Babes, let me point out that the rule in regords to buying an engagement ring is to spend, like, two to three months’ salary on it. Well, at the time I bought yours, I’d never worked a day in my entire life. So what I spent was way over the odds when you think about it.”
Eventually, she goes, “How much, Ross? How much did you spend?”
I’m there, “Five hundred quid.”
There’s, like, 20 seconds of silence that feels like 20 hours.
Then she goes, “The reason I was ringing, Ross, was to tell you that I found my ring an hour ago.”
I’m like, “What? Where did you find it?”
She goes, “Between two sofa cushions.”
Ronan drops his cigarette and twists it into the ground with his shoe. He goes, “Good luck, Rosser. You’re on yisser own.”