Dead Yard Library Edition

Chapter 1: A Riot on Tenerife Dawn over the turquoise shore of Africa and here, under the fractured light of a streetlamp, brought to earth like some hurricaned palm, I woke before the supine ocean amidst a sea of glass and upturned bus stands and the wreck of cars and looted stores. The streets of Playa de las Americas were flowing with beer and black sewage and blood. Smoke hung above the seashore and the smell was of desolation, decay, the burning of tires and fuel oil. The noise of birds, diesel engines, a dirgelike siren, a helicopter, voices in Spanish over a loudspeaker -- all of it more than enough hint of the breakdown in the fragile rules of the social contract. I was sitting up and adjusting to the light and the growing heat when a kid hustled me under cover and the riot began again. Five hundred British football hooligans, three hundred and fifty Irish fans, all of them on this island at the same time for a "friendly" match between Dublin's Shamrock Rovers and London's Millwall. A riot. I wouldn't say I'd been expecting that but I wouldn't say I was that goddamn surprised either. Some people go through their lives like a mouse moving through a wheat field. They're good citizens, they pay their taxes, they contribute to society, they have kids and the kids turn them into responsible adults. They create no stir, cause no fuss, leave no trace. When they're gone people speak well of them, sigh, shrug their shoulders, and shed a tear. They avoid chaos and it avoids them. Perhaps most people are like this. But not me. You'd notice me in the wheat field. You'd notice me because the field would be on fire or the farmer would be running after me with a gun. The Bible says that man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. Well, trouble followed me like sharks trailing a slave ship. Even when I tried to get away it was there swirling in a vortex around me. Even when I tried to get away. Spain. Tenerife, to be exact, the largest of the Canary Islands off the coast of Morocco. It's a hell of a long flight from Chicago but the FBI won't let me go near Florida or the Caribbean. Seamus Duffy, the head of the Irish mob in New York City, has had a contract out on me for five years for killing his underboss Darkey White and testifying against Darkey's crew. With that in mind you can't be too careful about where you take your vacation. So O'Hare, JFK, and seven hours to Tenerife for a wee bit of R & R and of course this is what bloody happens. "Brian, are you all right?" the English kid asked. Pale skin, sunburned, wearing a Millwall shirt and white jeans. I stared at him. My name had been Brian O'Nolan since I'd moved to Chicago in January. It still didn't seem right. "I'm ok," I said. "I must have fallen asleep. What the hell is happening?" "The riot's starting up again. Those Irish bastards have all gotten ball bearings from somewhere." I gave him a look. One of those looks. My speciality. "Oh, by Irish bastards, I meant, uh, I meant no offense by the way," he stammered. I didn't say anything. I almost felt more American now than Irish. I ducked as stones and ball bearings landed in the shop fronts. Pieces of dark lava and Molotov cocktails flew back from the English side. The London lads were drunk and the Dublin boys had taken off their shirts, lookingMcKinty, Adrian is the author of 'Dead Yard Library Edition', published 2006 under ISBN 9780743266437 and ISBN 0743266439.