Abstract: Gavin Kelly will do anything to avoid being sent back to his miserable Irish village…even impersonate a member of the Irish Republican Army.
How far will his farce take him before it blows up in his face? And exactly what does he know about the famous art theft at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum? A comic examination of Irish identity in America set among the Irish community of Dallas, Texas, in the 1990s.
Submission Sample
“Full cable. Help yourself. And I’m sure you need to make a phone call. The phone’s on the hutch. Neal and I will go pick up something to eat, so you can have some privacy.” Larry winked meaningfully and held the door open for Neal. “Coming?”
“Yeah,, sure.” If Neal was confused before, he was twice as confused now, but he didn’t seem to have a gracious alternative. So he smiled congenially and followed Larry to the van.
As soon as he closed his door, he turned to Larry. “Do you know this guy, Larry?”
“No.” Larry locked his door and fastened his seatbelt.
“So you just left some guy you don’t know alone in your house.”
“He’ll be okay. He has to make a phone call.”
He didn’t say anything about having to make a phone call.”
“He didn’t have to.” Larry started up the van.
“So now you’re psychic, Larry?”
“Don’t you know anything, Neal? The man has to call his contact.”
Neal let this sink in for a minute before he spoke. “I thought you quit smoking dope, Larry.”
“This isn’t about dope, Neal. Do I have to spell out everything for you?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think he wants regular or extra-crispy?” Larry pulled into the drive-through at Southern Belle’s.
“How the hell do I know?”
“I can see that you’re not going to be any help in this operation. That’s all right though. I can handle everything just fine. They eat baked beans inIreland, don’t they?” He leaned out the van window and shouted directly into the fiberglass antebellum maid’s puckered lips. “Bucket of extra-crispy. Double baked beans. Three pudding cups. Chocolate.” Larry thought the pudding cups would be a nice extra. Southern Belles always put real maraschino cherries on them. As opposed to” imitation” maraschino cherries? Sometimes it didn’t pay to examine things too closely.
“Operation? Larry, did you say operation?”
“YORE-TOAD-DULL- EEZ-AH-HEEN- DIRTY-FORE-IVE-RU-PLEE.” The fixed fiberglass pucker was flashing red now.
“What did she say? I never understand these damn things.”
“What? You mentioned an operation.”
“IVE-RU-PLEE!” The car behind them began to honk.
“Hell, it can’t be more than twenty bucks.” Larry pulled out his wallet and drove to the pick- up window.
“Are you sure this isn’t about drugs, Larry?”
“Shut up, man. You don’t know who might be listening.”
The bored adolescent at the window exchanged Larry’s twenty for a greasy paper sack and a fistful of change.
“If this is about drugs, you better drop me at the bus stop right now, Larry. Do you know what a drug conviction could do to my substitute teaching career?”
“Would you shut up about drugs, Neal. I told you this wasn’t about drugs. This is about justice.”
“What?”
“The guy we saved. He’s an operative. Gotta be.”
“I still don’t get you.”
“Oh come on, Neal. Don’t the letters I.R.A. mean anything to you?”
“No way.”
“Why do you think all those cops were chasing him?”
“Maybe he stole something. He could be a thief. Maybe he’s in your house right now unhooking theVCR.”
“He didn’t have anything when we found him.”
“He could have dropped it.”
“Neal, he just as much told us he was IRA.”
“He told us he was Irish.”
“Same thing.”
“No it isn’t and you know better.”
“Why did he come with us then? We could have been axe murderers for all he knew, but he came along with us. What does that tell you? That he’s not afraid. That he can take care of himself. A soldier. And look how he put on the disguise I brought. No complaints. No surprise. He’s used to doing things like that. Undercover type.”
“He came with us because he didn’t have a choice.”
“I disagree. I say he’s IRA and I’m going to help him. You can do what you want.” Larry pulled the van quickly into traffic. Neal had to lunge to keep the bag of chicken from flying out the window. He set the bag in his lap. The juice from the baked beans began to seep through the bag and on to Neal’s lap. Neal looked for a napkin. The girl had forgotten to give them any. Neal sighed. Larry drove on.
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