Eight Fillet Mingons, man size and two full loins of pork, please.
The squinty eyed and unfriendly butcher cut the steaks, and went next door for the pork. He had a special look for Tommy, open faced, complimentary but still, hedged and less than whole hearted and if you looked closely, you could see bitterness. The rest just got the sneer and the curled down, narrow lips, the Faganesque glare.
They looked at each other, mumbling Saturday morning friends-ish but still, strangers in a queue.
Fillet Mingon, loin of pork? All had read the papers that week, heard the rumour, twenty millions, twenty bloody millions in a sea of billions.
But, he’d been caught!
Friends and clients, a small party, Sean said he’d do the beef and the pork.
Yeah Tommy, the squint narrowed, that’s seventy euro please.
There was always a crowd there up to mid-day, the great, the good; the brutal and licentious all got their meat here. The big fat smiling happy butcher statue outside welcomed everyone, they stocked all meats, all cuts, economy offal and high end sirloin, loin, knuckle, packet and tripe. They catered to everyone and priced intelligently.
Clients Tommy, after the match I suppose?
Yes, the match, framing the day – say a prayer for Paulie’s knee though.
Tommy worked as a lawyer in his town office. Not renowned for his constitutional knowledge, just another belt and braces solicitor who got greedy and lost.
Yes Mrs Quinn, a lb. of mince and four pork chops.
Mike, lamb steak and kidneys, the usual? I think he has it away – I’ll just check.
Mike’s kid poked him,
Done? Are we done now?
Seven and a half euro and nine to you, Mrs Quinn.
They shuffled along, rashers and sausages, a roast beef for five – yes please, cut it there – two lbs of round steak Mrs Murphy, is it?
Tommy reached out and picked up his order. It might have been the stretch and the weight, it might have been that but he stopped, stopped guffawing and held himself still, as if in a suspended animation. His jowls stopped blubbering, eyes narrowed and he made as if to burp.
The queue watched, noticing the paling face and the bluing lips.
He clasped his hand to his chest, exhaling loudly.
The crowd backed away, watched him fumble confusedly for support and tumble heavily to the floor, white face grimacing and contorted in agony. They watched his navy lips and backed further away. A dark patch appeared around his groin, a trickling puddle of piss.
Mike waited long enough and then leant down, loosened his belt and un-buttoned his collar. Mrs Quinn told him firmly to stand back, taking charge as she had learnt in the manual.
She put her hand behind his head, drew out a stiletto knife and stabbed Tommy repeatedly in the fontanelle. The blood spilled, spurted and evaporated in an instant, the jagged head gashes tucked in and disappeared.
What happened Dad?
Tommy got a banger, son.
God’s way son.
But Mrs Quinn Dad?
An angel from above..
Tommy got a banger kid.