Darren Clarke suffered the good natured slagging and endless golf puns of his workmates every week as he made his way around the office suite where he worked. The unfortunate coincidence of having the same name as an Open Champion golfer opened him up to all sorts of comments none of which were hurtful or wounding. He took it all with good grace and even stoked the temperature further by offering better, or at least different, puns of his own. This morning was no exception. Trevor McKeown, a junior financial analyst working from a corner cubicle in a densely packed ground floor open plan sweat box, had offered a weak one.
“You’re looking a bit under par this morning, Darren, on the piss again?” he said.
“You’re not looking so good yourself, Trev,’ Darren replied, “but there’s a fair way of this day to go yet. At least this is the worst I’m going to feel today, unlike you, who looks like you might take another stroke at any time.”
He didn’t mind the comment, but he hadn’t touched a drop for over a week. His thoughts were distracted elsewhere as he tried to come to terms with the source of his troubles. He dismissed them as he was approached by Eamonn Maxwell, his cocky walk and crooked smile signaling that he had gotten himself laid recently.
“I take it by that smug look of satisfaction that you’ve been lucky with the ladies again,” he said, almost begrudgingly.
“It’s not luck when they don’t want you to leave.”
“It is when they don’t know any better and you’re paying them for the, for want of a better term, privilege,” Darren said.
“I was with the lovely Alićia last night,” Macker, as he was called, informed him.
“I’m sure that means something in the land of prostitution, Eamonn,” Darren said, “but it means absolutely fuck all to me.”
“Alićia Sexy, nearly six foot of Brazilian red-haired perfection,” Macker said, “smooth soft skin, pussy you could drink out of, tits like cumulus on a soft spring morning, and legs that go on for absofuckinglutely ever. She answered the door wearing a set of the sexiest see-through black lingerie that you’d pay to just look at for a while. Fuck me. She’s better looking than any model, Darren.”
“She sounds nice.”
“Nice? Nice? She’s fucking gorgeous,” he almost screamed, “she threw me out after the fourth hour because she couldn’t take any more.”
“Four fucking hours?” Darren said in shock. “Did you delve into her Proustian proclivities? How much did that cost you?”
“A cool grand,” Macker said, “but I dropped a second one on her in appreciation.”
“You get your money easy,” Darren said. “What does Claire think about all these escorts?”
“Fuck her,” he said, “it’s none of her fucking business.”
“What? She’s your fucking wife, Eamonn!”
“I’m hoping she gets a pain in her balls with me soon and fucks off somewhere else,” he said.
“She’ll take you to the cleaners if she finds out about your harem of hookers, you know.”
“Don’t worry about that, pal, it’s too well hidden,” he said, “even Paul Daniels couldn’t find it.”
At lunchtime, Darren stood smoking in the sunshine of Mayor Street in the Irish Financial Services Centre in Dublin city centre and watched Eamonn walking down the street for a lunchtime hook-up with a new Columbian girl in town. He admired Eamonn’s stamina, but that was about all.
His marital relationship was a disaster, but his wife adored him, even though he didn’t give her the time of day. If he wasn’t out working or drinking with his mates, he was playing football, off in Glasgow watching Celtic, golfing, chasing women or fraternising with escorts. The annoying part was that he was quite good at it all, except for his work, at which he was fucking brilliant.
Eamonn was an economic investment genius and worked with clients of the firm to advise, cajole, and coax fees from them. In return, the team he led poured through the minutiae of economic law, seeking any little corner of space to tease out instances where a loophole might be of some advantage to clients of the firm.
The level of hospitality he helped them enjoy was legendary in the industry. The quality of the sex shows and parties he had access to and the beauty and capabilities of the female courtesans he had in his contacts list was way beyond compare. He knew where to go and who to contact, and he trod right up to the line of respectability, stopping just short of everything turning into an irresponsible moral miasma.
Truth be told, Darren envied Eamonn his laissez-faire attitude to life in general and women in particular. Darren, and Caroline, his wife of three years, seemingly just barely existed together in the same house, passing each other by like ships in the Irish Sea, visible but disinterested. They communicated on a very distant level about work and little else and the amount of time that had passed since they’d had any intimacy was growing further as the weeks passed.
Darren worked in the small financial investment firm of Myers and Cahill, a company founded by a former superior of Darren’s, Tommy Myers, and his partner, Mick Cahill. Tommy and Mick had been senior advisers with Halston Holdings before striking out on their own and taking some of the wealthier clients and more capable staff, including Darren and Eamonn, with them to their new offices in the IFSC.
Darren was studious about his work, demanding perfection of himself while exacting an intolerably high standard from those around him. Everything was researched to the Nth degree and all paperwork was scrupulously proofread at least eight times to ensure there were no errors, right down to the last little comma. The final edit was performed methodically and meticulously by Darren himself, causing him to work many late nights at the office, often until the wee hours of the morning, further exacerbating the atmosphere at home.
After lunch, Darren was joined at his desk by Eamonn and one of his minions, Big Fry. Big Fry’s real name was Paul McKenzie and he hailed from the Liberties, had the broadest Dublin accent imaginable and an infectious sense of humour to boot.
“How’re ya, Darrener,” he said, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m just finishing off me sand wedge here.”
Macker and him enjoyed a huge laugh at that.
“Maybe you should’ve pitched it in the bin before you came over, Fryer,” Darren said.
“Good one, Darrener,” he said, “but mine was better.”
“Good. So what the fuck do you two want?”
“The Big Stewpot’s coming in this aft,” Macker said, “he has another cockamamie project to annoy us with.”
“What is it this time?” Darren said.
“A golf development in Canada,” Big Fry said.
“Another golf project,” Darren said, bored. “Do they never stop?”
“We should just punt this fucker, Clarkie,” Macker said. “He’s a moany faced wanker.”
Darren agreed with them for once. Stewpot was an independent broker who brought clients on board to represent them to financiers with a view to accessing funding for various projects. He was messy to deal with as he didn’t understand what ‘no’ meant. In Darren’s experience, Stewpot never looked any further than his own 3% commission and had only ever succeeded in completing a deal once in all the time they had known each other.
“We can’t punt him, lads,” Darren said. “He might just have another Tuscany Downs project on his hands.”
“Yeah, and my cock is eleven inches long,” Fry said.
“So it’s less than a foot?” Macker said.
“Yes, because it’s a cock,” Big Fry said, and they burst out laughing just as Stewpot arrived beside them.
Stewpot, or Paul Stewart, as he was christened, wore his usual black overcoat, check shirt, jeans, and black formal shoes. He was a little shorter than Darren at six foot and had the pallor of someone who cleaned up bodies in a mortuary. Macker had him down as gay but the other two hadn’t a clue either way.
“Stewie,” Darren said, extending his hand in greeting, “we meet again.”
“Can you not just call me Paul for once, Darren?” Stewpot said in evident frustration.
“But Big Fry’s name is also Paul, Stewie. It’d be too confusing.”
“You lot are worse than those clowns over at Halston. Fucking stupid nicknames all the time,” he complained.
“What do they call you over there, Stewie?” Big Fry said.
“Casserole.”
“It’s better than crockpot,” Macker said.
“So what’s bugging you, Stewie?” Darren said.
“Can I at least sit down somewhere first?” he said.
“Relax, Stewie,” Darren said, “you look very tense.”
“Sorry, boys,” he said, as they all sat around the table, “it’s just been one of those days.”
“How?” Darren asked.
“Ah nothing,” he said, opening his satchel and pulling out a large pad.
He threw it on the table and opened it at page one.
“Have you got the presentation I sent you?” he asked of all three.
“Fryer, it’s over in the top drawer of my desk, will you get it for me, please?” Darren said as Macker began to talk.
“Did you present this over at Halston, Stewie?” he asked.
“Yeah, it was a waste of time,” he said. “They didn’t even look at it.”
“What’s the point of that? Did you even meet a team?” Darren asked.
“Just two fucking idiots who are obviously a courting couple,” he said, “flirting and touching like over sexed teenagers. It was easily the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It was most discomfiting.”
“Did you know them?” Darren asked.
“No I never met them before, Darren,” he said, “and I don’t wish to ever again.”
“Did you get names? My wife works over there,” Darren said, “I’ll get her to drag them into the office for a dressing down.”
“I think the bloke’s name was Jessie, not sure about that, though,” Stewie said. “The woman’s name was CC, whatever that stands for.”
Eamonn’s and Darren’s eyes met for a beat. CC was what they called Darren’s wife, Caroline. At the nod of Darren’s head, Eamonn excused himself from the table as Big Fry returned, and they all focused on the file in hand. Eamonn found the nearest deserted desk and called Halston. Peter Moore answered.
“Hey, Peppy, Macker here, how’s it hanging?” he asked quickly.
“Great, Eamonn,” Peter said, “what can I do you for?”
“We have Stewpot over here trying to sell us something,” he said, “I’m just wondering if he’s given it to you to look at.”
“He was in here this morning but didn’t stay long.”
“Why?”
“He met CC and Jess Black, but he left kind of abruptly,” he said, “I don’t really know what happened. Do you want to speak to Jess?”
“Yes, why not?” Eamonn said.
Peter put him through. The phone rang for quite a while before Eamonn hung up. He sat back in his chair thinking through the possibilities. About three minutes later, the phone rang in front of him, he picked it up.
“Eamonn Maxwell,” he intoned.
“Hi Eamonn, Jess Black over at Halston here, I believe I missed a call from you.”
“Yes,” Eamonn said. “You had a meet with Paul Stewart this morning, and I just want to know how you’re handling the proposal before we waste any time on it.”
“We’re not doing anything with it,” he said, “we took the meeting, but CC said not to waste more than five minutes on it.”
“CC?”
“Yes, do you know Caroline Clarke?” Jess said.
“Can’t say I do,” Eamonn said, “is she new?”
“No, I think she’s been here a long time,” he said, “I just started last month.”
“Oh, I see,” Eamonn said, “I worked there for years myself.”
“So I heard,” Jess said, “that’s why I rang back so quick, you’re famous.”
“Where did you work before that?” Eamonn asked.
“PWC on the river.”
“Who did you kill to get fired out of there?”
“Good one, Eamonn,” Jess replied, “I just needed a change of pace.”
Eamonn laughed.
“I get that. Is this CC on your team?”
“No, I’m on The J team.”
“Jimmy Judge’s team?” Eamonn asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Jimmy asked me to take the meeting and bring someone in to make it look good, so I brought CC in.”
“That’s a maverick move, Jess,” Eamonn said, “you went rogue and ignored the other members of your team? Are you and her canoodling or something?”
“You could say that, Eamonn,” he said, laughing, “although I haven’t sealed the deal with her yet. I’m sure you, of all people, know how that goes.”
“Gotcha,” Eamonn said. “Well, good hunting, Jess. We must have a coffee one of the mornings.”
“Love that, Eamonn,” he said, and they ended the call.
He dialled Tara O’Haverty at PWC and left her a message to call him urgently. He then called Liam O’Dwyer in Halston’s. Liam answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Liam, Eamonn Maxwell here.”
“Macker! You little cunt,” Liam said with delight, “what’s the occasion?”
“Thanks for that, Liam, but less of the little, eh?” Mackey said, “I’m a bigger cunt than you’d think. Besides, that’s an awful way to be addressed by a head of HR.”
“You’re getting very touchy in your old age,” he said, trying to wriggle an advantage and rescue the situation. “So what’s up?”
“Have you relaxed your policies surrounding staff fucking each other?” Eamonn ventured.
“We certainly have not,” Liam was almost apoplectic.
“That’s not the word on the street.”
“What have you heard?” Liam said seriously.
“Some guy called Jesse hooking up with one of the female staff, that’s all I heard,” he said. “You do realise that if it’s true, you’re opening yourself up to a huge amount of litigation from aggrieved former employees.”
“Your mate Clarkie amongst them,” Liam said, sounding worried.
“Yes, that would be true if he actually gave a fuck,” Macker said, “but if he did, you know that he’d drive you insane.”
“Don’t remind me,” Liam said, “I’d have to go into hiding. Where did you hear this, Eamonn?”
“Stewpot, he’s over here telling us how unprofessionally he was dealt with this morning by this guy and a woman whose name he didn’t know.”
“They’d both have to be fired, Eamonn,” Liam said, “so I’d need the woman’s name too.”
“From what little I know, Liam, it sounded like this woman was plucked out of the female pool, she’s not even on one of the teams over there, certainly not the J Team that Jesse works on and who deal with projects like Stewpot’s and the like.”
“I don’t understand why that would happen at all, Eamonn,” Liam said, “I mean, why would he even do that when a junior could have accompanied at the meeting?”
“I think you know why, Liam,” Macker said. “A standing cock had no conscience. We all do it, showing off for the ladies as a way to get their knickers off. Next thing you know your office furniture is used as a sex aid and the smell of cock will be your new air freshener. Eau du Cock by Febreze, I should patent that.”
“Ok, thanks for bringing that to my attention,” he said, “do you think Stewpot could put that on an email for me?”
“You’d have to ask him but, would you? I mean, there are cameras around the place,” Eamonn said, “all meetings are logged and timed. If we take Stewie’s project on after this, you lot will look like wankers, and I’ll be putting it out all over the place.”
“So what are you saying, Eamonn?”
“I’m saying that you should just do your fucking job.”
“Ok, I’m on this, Eamonn, thanks for the call,” Liam said, “will you let me know if you hear anything else?”
“I worked there for years, Liam, and I was happy there. I’d hate to see it lose credibility because of someone with a prick disorder.”
“Do you think that you’d be into Stewie’s project? I mean he doesn’t have a great track record, Eamonn.”
“I know,” Eamonn said, “but you come over and tell that to Darren, he’s on it like a bloodhound and thinks it could be the next Tuscany Downs. If it is, think of the ramifications.”
“Shit!” Liam said. “It would be Clarkie that gets the file.”
“We wouldn’t even know about it if it wasn’t for Jesse’s carry on at the meeting. Stewie is still traumatised.”
“Has the non-compete been offered yet?”
“It’s Darren Clarke, Liam,” Eamonn said, “what do you think?”
“Fuck. Ok, thanks Eamonn, I appreciate the heads up.”
Eamonn hung up the phone and stayed in his seat, thinking through his next steps. The phone rang and he picked it up.
“Eamonn Maxwell,” he said, mechanically.
“Hi Eamonn, Tara O’Haverty at PWC. You were looking for me.”
“Hey Tara, how’s Kenny?”
“He’s good, and Claire?”
“The same. What about you? All good?”
“Yes, it going well. Is this a booty call?”
“Would you like it to be?”
“Would you respect me in the morning if I agreed to it, Eamonn?” she laughed.
“Probably not, but you wouldn’t love me any less if I did. Would you?”
“That’s probably true. So what are you thinking?”
“Oh, you and me in the Spencer Dock hotel, naked with a bottle of bubbly, sipping it from your navel. Resting and recovering to enjoy the next, more sensual, part of the evening where you come all over me as you’re trying to lower the volume of your screams.”
“Hmm, that sounds perfect, Macker,” she said dreamily. “You can clean the room up this time, though.”
“I think we should leave it for the housekeeping staff, Tara. I’m getting a semi just thinking about it.”
“Are you,” she teased, “only a semi? Am I losing my touch?”
“OK, it’s more than a semi. What are you wearing?”
“A black business suit.”
“Skirt or trousers?”
“Skirt, of course.”
“What will I see when I slip it off you?”
“What would you like to see?”
“Where did I put that list?”
She laughed and he joined her.
“You’re just like a child at Christmas, aren’t you?”
“Only where you’re concerned, Tara, imagine if I sat on Santa’s lap in Arnotts and asked him for a naked woman lying on my bed with a black Victoria’s Secret G-string on and begging me to take it off with my teeth.”
“Then she wouldn’t be naked, Eamonn.”
“She would be ten seconds later, Tara. You, on the other hand, will be made to wait a little longer while I lick you from head to toe first.”
“I don’t have any VS lingerie with me, but I do have a pretty sexy little Honey Birdette confection in pink and red. It’s in my bag in the boot of the car.”
“Ok, you talked me into it, Tara. Can I take a picture of you wearing it?”
“I’m not sure ….. yet.”
“What time are you free?”
“I’ll be good in an hour.”
“Can you stay overnight?”
“I’ll make that call as soon as we hang up.”
“I’ll book the room and text you the number.”
“See you in an hour, Eamonn.”
He hung up the phone, adjusted the crotch of his trousers to hide his erection, caught Darren’s eye with a twirl of his finger and beckoned him to an empty office.
TBC
