Rumble in the Jungle (Fight Card Book 13) Read online

  FIVE

  O'Toole woke up in a single bed, amid unfamiliar surroundings.

  The room was small and spartan, furnished with just a bed and a small dresser. A tiny window with a drawn blind was on the opposite wall.

  O’Toole’s face had been bandaged, and he had been stripped down to his underclothes. His whole body ached, but he threw the blankets off and tried to sit up. He felt giddy. Using his hands for support, he pushed himself to his feet and took a pace toward the door. His mind was willing, but his body wasn't. His legs buckled under him and he crashed to the floor.

  He cursed.

  The door opened and Dan Reilly quickly entered the room.

  “Sweet, Sister Sadie!” Reilly exclaimed, seeing O'Toole sprawled on the floor. “What do you think you're doing?”

  “Gettin' out of here.”

  “And where is it you'd be goin'?”

  “Home.”

  “You're not going anywhere in your condition, Slugger,” Reilly said, as he helped O'Toole back to the bed. “You need rest.”

  “Where am I?” O'Toole asked.

  “You're in one of the boarding rooms in the back of the bar,” Reilly responded.

  “And my clothes?”

  “Maureen, is washing them. You were in a quite a state when you were found and dragged inside. But don't worry about that. You need rest.”

  “I'm fine,” O'Toole protested.

  “You can't even stand up,” Reilly countered.

  O'Toole grunted, but had to admit Reilly had a point. He agreed to rest for a while.

  But only a short time.

  He didn't need charity.

  SIX

  O'Toole struggled to sleep. Heaven knew he needed the rest, but his battered and bruised body ached from his skull to his very toenails. Now that the anesthetic fog of the booze had worn off, he was in pain. He tossed and turned in the small bed, trying to find a comfortable position, but the search went unrewarded.

  Several hours later there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” O'Toole growled, wrestling with the pillow.

  The door opened, and Dan Reilly's wife, Maureen, walked into the room with his clothes. They had been washed, dried, and pressed.

  Maureen was a few years younger than her husband, probably in her in her late fifties. She was a large lady of neat appearance, her gray hair tied tight in a bun. She was wearing a festive shimmering green frock, with a bow around her middle.

  As O'Toole recognized her, he tried to sit up.

  “Mrs. Reilly, I'd like to apologize for the inconvenience I have put you through,” O'Toole started, but she quickly spoke him down.

  “That'll be enough of that, Mr. O'Toole. You're very welcome here.”

  She was a woman of mirth and merriment, and always the first to extend a helping hand or offer hospitality.

  “All the same, I'd like to thank you.”

  Maureen smiled as she put his clothes down at the end of the bed.

  “What will you being doing with yourself for the rest of the day?” she asked with her fingers steepled in front of her.

  “I'll be heading home and let you good people be,” O'Toole responded. He didn't want to be a burden.

  “Alone?”

  Alone? He didn't understand what she meant. Of course he'd be alone. Who else would there be?

  “I guess so,” he responded.

  “Oh, no you won’t. I will not hear of such a thing. I insist you join us for Christmas dinner tonight.”

  Christmas! O'Toole had forgotten it was Christmas.

  “I... I would be delighted,” he stammered.

  SEVEN

  For the Reillys, Christmas was one of the biggest family events of the year. Sixty relatives had turned up for the shindig. The bar was closed. However, the doors were not locked. It was the Irish tradition to leave the doors unlocked at Christmas in case a stray traveler should need to take refuge for the evening. Candles had been lit and were lining the windows, lighting the way.

  The barroom tables were lined up in a row in the center of the room, and a large tablecloth had been spread along the length. An amazing array of food had been set on the long table, most of it fresh out of the oven. The family and guests would be feasting on turkey, chicken, glazed ham, roast potatoes, pumpkin, cabbage, steaming gravy, and much more.

  Maureen led O'Toole into the room and began to introduce him to the gathered family members. After the first few introductions, O'Toole began to forget the names and the branch of the family to whom the relatives belonged. However it didn't seem to matter. All the guests seemed amiable and good-natured.

  Behind them, the door to the bar billowed opened, and a young man stepped through to a hearty chorus of greetings. Maureen looked around, a huge smile on her face.

  “Mr. O'Toole, there's someone special I would like you to meet,” she said, steering him toward the newcomer. The young man, who was suddenly the center of attention, was nineteen-years-old, fresh-faced, bright-eyed, and dressed in a sharp black suit. Over his suit, he wore a heavy overcoat to keep out the cold. His black hair was neatly trimmed, and he wore a pair of thin-framed spectacles. In his left hand was a bunch of flowers.

  When they were close enough, Maureen broke away from O'Toole and enveloped the young man in a crushing hug, kissing him on the cheek.

  “I'm so glad you made it,” she said. Tears of joy sprung into her eyes.

  “These are for you, Ma,” the young man said, thrusting the flowers toward her.

  Maureen took the flowers with one hand, pulling her son along with her other hand to present him to O'Toole.

  “Mr. O'Toole, this is my youngest son, Patrick,” she said with pride.

  O'Toole held out his hand and they shook.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Patrick said.

  “Likewise,” O'Toole responded.

  “Our Patrick is back from Las Vegas,” Maureen said.

  “What did you do out there?” O'Toole inquired.

  “I worked at Golden Nugget casino.”

  At the mention of the casino, Maureen became agitated. It was clear that she had not approved of her son's career path, and did not want him talking about it.

  “Oh, look. There's your uncle Brian. He's been dying to see you,” she said as he hooked Patrick's arm. “If you'll excuse us, Mr. O'Toole.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Nice to have met you,” Patrick said as he was led away.

  O'Toole couldn't help but wonder what Patrick's story was.

  EIGHT

  It was O'Toole's first Christmas in five years without Merryn and the occasion made him miss her more than ever. He felt like he was cheating on her, by spending Christmas with someone else. If that did not make him feel bad enough, he couldn't help but be embarrassed by the bandage around his head, and sticking plaster on his cheek. No one commented to him directly about his appearance, but it was sure to raise eyebrows.

  As the food was passed around, O'Toole was reserved in the portions he took. Despite being ravenously hungry, he didn't want to appear greedy. However, there was plenty of food for everyone, so on the second pass he snagged himself a juicy chicken thigh, and several large slices of turkey breast. The dinner was excellent, almost making him feel human again.

  The Reilly clan was a real bunch of Ceilidh Cowboys, many of them bringing instruments to the Christmas shindig. Once the dining was over, the celebration began.

  Four musicians took up a position in the open space near the door to the bar. One had an accordion, another a violin, which he played from the hip like a gunslinger in a John Ford western. The two other musicians had acoustic guitars.

  Together they played their own unique version of Christmas carols. The songs were played with fire and vigor. Without urging the crowd was dancing, jigging, reeling, and laughing. Family members would take turns singing or joining the band. Children ducked and wove through the legs of the adults, playing their own games, as the songs and festivities r
ambled through the night.

  And, of course, a big part of the festivities included drinking. Everybody had a drink of some sort in their hands. Some drank whiskey, others drank beer or wine. So far, O'Toole had abstained. Still seated, he glanced over at the bar, and the large selection of bottles lined up against the mirrored wall. Then he thought about the trouble booze had brought him in recent months. His bandaged head was a reminder for all to see.

  Did he need it anymore?

  Could he break free of his dependance on demon drink? He thought about it long and hard, but honestly couldn't answer that question.

  NINE

  Patrick Reilly had been trying to get his parents alone all evening. He was desperate to talk to them. The opportunity arose when he caught up with them in the relative peace and quiet of the kitchen. Maureen was washing dishes, and Dan was lending a hand, drying the crockery with a tea-towel.

  “Can I talk with you for a minute,” Patrick said, walking up behind them.

  Both Maureen and Dan turned at once.

  “Sure you can. What is it, son?” Dan said sprightly.

  “It's Las Vegas. I can't go back,” Patrick explained, clearly embarrassed.

  Maureen fought to conceal a smile. Patrick recalled she had never supported his decision to work at a casino in Nevada.

  “I have lost my job at the casino,” Patrick added solemnly.

  Maureen took off the rubber gloves she was wearing, wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist, and stepped forward to hug her son.

  “My dear boy,” she said, offering solace she didn't feel, and treating him like a ten year old. “Never you mind. There's plenty of work for you here.”

  Tears of joy were almost rolling from her eyes.

  “What happened?” Dan asked.

  “I was caught watching the high-stakes poker games rather than doing my job,” Patrick confessed.

  “Well you're home now, and that's all the matters,” Maureen added cheerily, patting him on the back.

  Later in the evening, Patrick approached his father once again. This time, while his mother was out of ear-shot. The whole idea of being at home, and trapped in the bar was eating at him. He knew his mother was keen for him to stay, but there was so much more of the world he wanted to see.

  Patrick was nervous. The last thing he wanted to do was upset his family. Finally he worked up the courage to say what he wanted to say.

  “You know, Dad, I love you and ma, but I can't just stay here and work in the bar. I have to get out there and make my own way in the world.”

  Dan nodded. “I understand, son. I was young once too. Don't tell your mother I said this, but I think you're right. I also think you should talk to my cousin, Donal. He has some work coming up, and may be able to help you out.”

  “Thanks, dad. Thanks for understanding.”

  “Aw, I wouldn't be much of a father if I didn't,” Dan said with a chuckle, slapping his son on the back.

  TEN

  Somewhat of an outsider, O’Toole felt he was intruding. He hung at the back against a wall. A young girl asked him to join the dance, but he politely declined.

  Minutes later, Reilly sidled up to him. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, speaking over the jubilant background noise.

  “I am,” O'Toole replied. He wasn't lying, but his heart just wasn't in it.

  Reilly knew O'Toole too well, and saw right through his act.

  “You miss her, don't you?” Reilly said.

  “It's that easy to see?”

  “It's only natural. You wouldn't be human if you didn't.”

  O'Toole just nodded and leaned back, resting his head against the wall. He wished Merryn were here now.

  “Come on,” Reilly said, punching O'Toole playfully in the arm. “I'll buy you a drink.”

  “No. No,” O'Toole insisted. He had made his decision. “I'm done drinking!”

  “What's that?”

  “I'm done with drinkin'. I'm quitting.”

  “As the owner of this here establishment, and as you're one of my best customers, I am disappointed... But as a friend, I think you're making the right decision. It won't be easy.”

  “I know. I could do with a belt right now.”

  “I'll pour you one for the road, as it were, if you like.”

  “No. If I'm gonna do this, it has to start now.”

  “Good man ... What next?” Reilly asked.

  “Next? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what are you going to do with yourself?”

  “Well, I'll get myself a job and start again.”

  “A job? Doing what?”

  “Construction.”

  “Do you think anyone around here would employ you?”

  O'Toole had a hard think about it and realized Reilly was right.

  “No, I don't think they would,” O'Toole admitted, with regret.

  O'Toole lowered his head. It appeared he had messed his life up good and proper. He had no prospects, and very little future to speak of.

  “But you want to work?” Reilly asked earnestly.

  “Of course. I have to make a living somehow.”

  Reilly nodded.

  “Give me a few minutes,” he said. “There may be something I can do.”

  Reilly disappeared into the throng of heaving and dancing kinfolk. O'Toole took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. Having made the decision to sober up should have made his life easier. But, at the moment, he felt as if he was standing at the foot of a steep mountain, without any climbing gear.

  Twenty minutes later, Reilly returned excited, grabbing O'Toole by the elbow.

  “Come on, I've got someone I want you to meet,” he said, leading the way.

  O'Toole followed, weaving through the reeling Reilly clan. A man in a crisp pin-stripe suit was sitting on a barstool talking to Patrick Reilly. As Dan Reilly and O'Toole joined them, Patrick excused himself.

  “I'll leave you men to talk,” he said politely, before disappearing into the throng.

  “Donal, this is the fella I was tellin' you about,” Reilly said addressing the seated man. The man twisted on the stool and turned to face O'Toole.

  “This is my cousin, Donal McGee,” Reilly continued, this time addressing O'Toole. “He's lookin' for a handful of good men.”

  McGee was in his late forties, with his dark hair heavily flecked with gray. But his body hadn't run to flab. He was obviously a man used to hard manual labor. His face was cheerful, with deep laughter lines around his mouth, which appeared to be locked in a perpetual smile.

  McGee held out his hand, and O'Toole shook it, noticing the firm grip.

  “Pleased to meet you,” O'Toole said.

  “Likewise. Dan tells me you're in construction?” McGee said, lighting up a Lucky Strike.

  “I used to be.”

  “Can you drive a shovel, a low-loader, and a lorry?”

  “I can drive anything you’ve got.”

  “I am after a top flight crew. Men who know what they are doing. You sound like just the type of man I'm looking for.”

  “There must be hundreds of guys like me out there.”

  “Maybe? But here's the thing, we've got an international contract to build a hotel in Africa. The job's in Sezanda, and it will take three years to build.”

  “Sezanda? Never heard of it.”

  “Not many people have. It's a small country in the heart of Africa. It's a beautiful place, lush and green. Greener than Mother Ireland, with rolling hills and mountains.”

  “It shouldn't be too hard to convince a team of men then.”

  “It's harder than you think. Let me explain, so you know exactly what you'd be getting into. Two years ago, an American company poured a whole heap of money into building a hotel in the capital, Ragalla. It was supposed to be a grand affair, a veritable gateway to central Africa.

  “But Sezanda is having a lot trouble with rebels. They call themselves the Sezanda Socialist Army, but we call them the 'S
ez Sos.' Six months after the project was started, these Sez Sos started causing all sorts of trouble, and a state of emergency was declared by the Prime Minister. Since then, work has continued on the hotel in fits and starts. At the moment the project has stalled again. The team that was working on it has returned to the States and refuses to go back.

  “The thing, Brendan, is this ... the company that I represent could back out of the project and take a substantial loss. Or, they can give it one last shot to try and get the project up and running again. The Sezandan authorities assure us the civil unrest is coming to an end. They have promised the way ahead will be better. So, with that guarantee, the company has decided to take a final shot at getting this hotel completed. I need guys who are willing to tough it out till the job is done.”

  O'Toole nodded. It was work, but not exactly what he had expected.

  “You don't have to make a decision right away,” McGee added. “Take a couple of days. Think it over.”

  ELEVEN

  The clock had just flicked past three in the morning. It was technically Boxing Day and the festivities at the Reilly Bar were starting to wind down. Dan and Maureen Reilly were seeing people off at the door.

  Some family members would, as they say, sleep where they fell. One of Reilly's uncles had passed out near the bar. Another man, whose name O'Toole couldn't recall, was slumped at the dining table with his elbows resting in a greasy, gravy-spattered plate. Two more men were curled up in the corner, exhausted from the dancing.

  O'Toole stepped around them and walked to the bar. He stared at the bottles lined up behind it. Bushmills, Tullamore Dew, and Jameson's. He knew them all well.

  The bottles had been his only friends of late. But where had they got him? He didn't have a career. He didn't have any money. And maybe he didn't have a future.

  Perhaps he could take the job in Africa and start again. McGee had said it was hard work, but it couldn’t it be any worse than how he had been living.