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Sharkey-Job-hunter Part 1

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June 28th 2013  |  0  |  Category: Tragedy  |  Author: Daryl  |  422 views

“Not having any of it Sharkey, ye can go and fuck off!” growled Michael.

“Ah but Mick, me aul mate, me missus is on at me to get a job. Me babbies are starvin’ and I haven’t had a decent kip in ages!”

Wearing his best(meaning here cleanest) set of clothes, Sharkey had walked confidently into Michael’s shop and asked for a job.

After Michael had had overcome his amazement at this piece of affrontery, he made it clear to Séamas that he was disinclined to grant him his request.

“Last time you were here, ya cute hoor ya, ya stroked a few tings from me counter. If you think I’d be stupid enough to have ya working in me shop you’re thicker than two planks.”

Sharkey was prepared for this outburst, had even expected nearly every word, and had set up what he thought was a suitable defense.

He gathered himself up and said in a clear voice: “Sure who else would ye trust more to be able to spot a teef than an even bigger one?”

On his way to McCarthy’s Grocery with Michael’s admonishments and the throbbing feeling of his fist against the back of his head to hurry him on, Sharkey wasn’t hopeful.

His wife understood him like no one else; she could see through his codology a mile off through a sandstorm in Arabia. She’d know if he’d tried hard enough to get a job and Sharkey had done his best.

There was no going to Patrick’s and asking for one there hauling the manure ever since the little incident a few days ago with the manure down his chimney.

The man stared suspiciously at him everytime they passed in the street, still not sure if he’d done it, yet possibly gauging the worth of giving him a hiding anyway.
Michael had been a long shot too, and he’d pretty much burned his bridges with the Gardaí, not that he’d ever consider himself being that desperate.

He didn’t have much in the way of skills either, so that pretty much narrowed his choices down considerably.

If only there was a job where my skills for bullshitting, evasive manoeuvring and devious plotting would be an asset, he thought to himself.

His feet worked on auto-pilot as he day-dreamed scenarios whereby a gentleman would throw him a big bag of money from a car passing by, or a neighbour would leave him in their will and then die suddenly leaving him with their hitherto unknown millions.

Lost in his own reverie, he never noticed he’d walked all the way to the pier.
There he sat down, his legs dangling over the edge. Lost in his own world he only vaguely registered the fishing boat coming in.

The day was a soft day, as his Donegal mate would say, all calm ocean and clear skies. So why the men seemed to be having a problem steering their boat was anyone’s guess. As they got closer Sharkey could hear angry voices, and it looked like the man at the wheel of the boat was fending off two others.

They seemed to take more notice of their own predicament that they completely forgot to berth at all and subsequently crashed into the pier Sharkey was sitting on.


He’d managed to hop up just in time to avoid to inconvenience of crushed legs and was about to berate the men, whom he recognised as Cathal and Eugene Ó’Cealaigh.
They were fishermen and rarely frequented the village only to buy food and sell their fish but Sharkey would know their boat and Eugene’s cock-eye and silk eye-patch anywhere.

The crash stopped the fishermen’s fight for a time and the one closest to him called for him to call the Gardaí.

“Dis fuckin’ prick is after tryin’ to rob our catch, get the guards ou’ heyor now!”

Sharkey could only understand every second word the man was shouting in his harsh acccent but he got the gist.

The man in question, however, seized his chance in the pause between arguments to escape the men’s clutches, hop off the boat and go sprinting up the road to the village.

“Fuck ‘em, good riddance to de cunt. Always said ye couldn’t trust a Lynch’s boy, all teefs they are.” snarled Cathal, a big burly mountain with a great big beard and a bloodshot eyes.

“Sure don’t I know! His Da, Gary Lynch, by God, would give the Devil a run for his money!” agreed Sharkey.

Eugene, who was at the wheel, joined the two at the pier. After making sure the boat was in no major disarray, they bemoaned the fact they’d lost another worker in as many weeks.

Sharkey’s ears pricked up.

“If youse are in the ha’penny place, I can work for youse no bother, I can even start today!”

The two men glanced at each other, frowning. They never spent too much time in the village, only to sell off their catch at the local market and even then they hated the place. Dreary and depressing, they had plans to sell up eventually and move on.

They knew who he was, had heard of Sharkey from their customers. Still, they were desperate and he knew it. Sharkey wasn’t a detective, thank god, but he could add one and three and make four.

They lowered their voices and proceeded to talk in hushed tones. After a couple of minutes they came to a decision, one they looked neither happy nor angry with.
“If ya can sell our fish for us at the market for us we’ll give ya a fair wage”, said Cathal. “But try to do one over on us and you’ll die roarin for a priest.”

Sharkey wasn’t too sure what was meant by that, but he shook on the deal readily.

He couldn’t wait until he got home, for once. The missus would be so happy with him they’d have to build another cot in 9 months time, thought Sharkey, whistling tunelessly as he bounced up the road

 

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