Free The Scrapper by Brendan O'Carroll

fuckin’ respect, that’s what that is. No fuckin’ respect.’
    There was silence in the car for a few moments.
    ‘Sparrow!’ Simon said.
    Sparrow looked in his mirror at Simon. Simon’s expression had completely changed. It had got darker. ‘Yeh, boss?’
    ‘Take a right at the dairy. I’ll go up and introduce myself to this – new owner!’
    In a reflex action that comes from years of boxing, Sparrow’s stomach muscles tightened and tiny beads of perspiration popped out behind his ears. He had what his mother would have called ‘a foreboding’.
    * * *
Garda Headquarters, Dublin, 4.00pm
    The unmarked detectives’ car was parked outside the Harcourt Hotel. Detective Michael Malone sat in the passenger seat, with his wage packet on his lap, reading his pay slip. He frowned when he read the amount of tax deducted this week.
    ‘The bastards!’ he exclaimed, not caring that somebody had to pay his wages. He was alone and speaking to himself. He wondered what was delaying Kieran, and glanced out the passenger window just in time to see him leave the Garda Headquarters across the street.
    Kieran made his way over. He had a broad grin on his face. When he climbed into the driver’s seat there was an air of excitement about him.
    ‘So, what’s up?’ Michael asked.
    Kieran half-turned in the seat to face Michael. ‘Good news and bad news,’ Kieran announced. He saw the puzzled look on Michael’s face. ‘I’ve been transferred to the Special Task Force. I’ve just had a chat inside and they told me I’m taking over as Detective Sergeant of the Serious Crime Squad in Snuggstown.’
    Michael’s mouth opened. ‘God almighty, Kieran! That is bad news.’
    ‘No, Michael, that’s the good news!’ Kieran smiled broadly.
    ‘So, what’s the bad news?’
    Kieran leaned conspiratorially towards Michael. Instinctively Michael leaned towards Kieran. Kieran gave Michael a little poke with his finger on the shoulder. ‘The bad news is you’re coming with me!’
    ‘No way!’
    ‘Sorry!’
    ‘No bloody way, Kieran – you didn’t!’
    ‘I did, Michael, believe me I did! From Monday on, you and I are gonna be real coppers.’
    Kieran started the car and began to drive. Two hundred yards down the road he slapped the steering wheel. ‘The Series Crime Squad! Yes!’ Kieran was ecstatic.
    Michael Malone stared sheepishly out the passenger window. ‘Oh hell!’ he muttered.
    * * *
The Falcon Inn, Snuggstown, 4.30pm
    Fintan McCullagh, formerly of Belfast, was proud to be the new publican at the Falcon Inn pub. Built in the mid-1970s it was situated right in the middle of the west side of Snuggstown – the toughest side. Since it had opened its doors, the pub had had fifteen owners. Most went into the venture with a keen interest and came out with a nervous breakdown. Without doubt the Falcon Inn had been theroughest, toughest pub in Snuggstown. Fintan knew all this, but was undeterred, having lived in Belfast through riots, bombings and internment. He was not a man who scared easy. He had a sharp Northern Ireland accent. He had already heard the rumours that he was fronting the pub for the IRA, and frankly he did little to deter them. In fact, he used his accent to good effect.
    The previous night had been his opening and the beginnings of a fight had broken out. But it hadn’t reached the punch stage by the time Fintan arrived on the scene. He looked at the two men involved and simply said, ‘Are ye havin’ a wee problem here, gentlemen?’ The two stared at each other and then at Fintan, and slowly shook their heads. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘’Cause I don’t like wee problems, you see. When I come up against a wee problem I have to find a solution. Messy business, don’t you know. Enjoy your drink, gentlemen.’ The two men finished their drinks; there was no fight. When they were leaving, Fintan took them to one side. ‘Thank you for your custom, but don’t come back,’ he warned them. He could tell by