AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny comes to the rescue of work colleague and old mate Shanghai Jimmy who receives some bad news, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE
AFTER THREE weeks of growth, it was fair to say there was more salt than pepper in the fuzz swarming over Vinny Fitzpatrick’s upper lip. He had intended grooming a dark, luxuriant, moustache just like the ones Burt Reynolds and Tom Selleck used to sport in their lady-killer days. Instead, it appeared as if a cat’s tail had taken up residence under his fleshy nostrils.
As a regimental morning shaver, Vinny had been unsure where to start clipping the fluff when it began to appear, with the result the stubble had spiralled out of control. “Jaypurs, even Willie O’Dea doesn’t look like this,” he muttered to himself.
Vinny had been persuaded by the lads in Foley’s to support the “Movember” campaign for awareness of prostate cancer – they all said they’d chip in €20 a head if he lasted the month, which he intended to do despite the advance of the Triffids.
It was Monday morning and Vinny, fresh from a healthy Saturday profit on the back of a Paul Nicholls’ treble, had set aside time for some serial ante-post plotting, when his mobile phone beeped with a text.
It was from Shanghai Jimmy. “Elf Inn in an hour. Urgent.” Instantly, a red light went off in Vinny’s brain. Shanghai rarely got in touch unless there was something amiss.
For two years, the oldest member of Foley’s elite drinking and gambling corps had been battling a mild form of Parkinson’s Disease, which caused his right hand to shake, quite violently at times.
He disguised it with a combination of expensive medication and covert support from his work colleagues, especially Vinny, who all understood that a driver with the jigs was no use to Dublin Bus
More than once recently, Shanghai had clocked in for work, right-hand trembling only to be sent home quietly while Vinny and others shared out his shift behind the wheel.
It was a risky game to play but Shanghai was worth the gamble. Wiry in stature, Shanghai was a popular character who regaled the lads in the canteen with his days as a London clippie in the 1970s. If half the stories were true, Shanghai left behind a trail of broken hearts and heated husbands in Clapham.
His real name was Jimmy Toner but everyone called him by his moniker since his first summer back in Dublin, just after the finals of Euro ’88, when he’d won the Banana Cup for Clontarf with a single, double, treble finish in darts – the Shanghai legend had been born.
Shanghai lived on his own in Baldoyle. He never married but Vinny knew there was a son, James, living in London, of whom Shanghai was immensely proud.
“He works in the City and he’s making a mint. A son of mine with cop on, can you believe it?” he confided to Vinny one night.
As he alighted the 32 opposite The Elf Inn, exchanging pleasantries with the driver, Big Dave, Vinny saw Shanghai across the road. He watched him open the door to the bar using his left hand. “That’s not a good sign,” thought Vinny. The Elf had long been a stop-over point for the Foley’s golfing society on their return from outings to Deer Park and Howth and the pint was good, but on this chilly morning of heavy hail, Vinny’s mind wasn’t focused on Uncle Arthur.
Shanghai was in the snug, his twitching right hand wrapped around a large jemmy. He looked up as Vinny approached. “Well, if it isn’t Merv Hughes himself? Just in time for The Ashes, eh?” he smiled.
Behind the bonhomie, Vinny sensed pain. Shanghai’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying, which would have been unusual because he was a hard aul chaw. “Alright, Shanghai, what’s the story?” said Vinny casually.
With that his old friend reached inside his coat pocket, took out an envelope and pushed it across the table. “Have a butcher’s hook at this,” he said.
As soon as Vinny saw the Dublin Bus logo, his heart sink; he knew what was coming. The deal was fair enough, five weeks wages per year of service, which worked out at around €70,000 but it wasn’t the sum involved, rather the consequence.
The two friends didn’t say much for a few minutes, not until Shanghai sipped the last drop of his whiskey. “Twenty two years and it’s the end of the road,” he said softly.
“To be honest, I knew this was coming. Look at my profile. I’m 61, with a poor attendance record and a wonky hand with a life of its own. What’s more, everyone knows you guys are covering my backside.
“If they were looking for redundancies, I was a shorter price than Master Minded at Ascot last Saturday.”
Vinny said nothing. He stroked his caterpillar, something he had begun to do a lot of lately, and studied Shanghai. This, he knew, would break the old fellah, for all his bravado. Living on his own, Shanghai’s life revolved around work and Foley’s; he had nothing else. To take away one of his props was huge.
And yet, he knew Shanghai was smack bang in the firing line, just as he had been himself when ill health forced him off the road earlier in the year. But for his work in establishing a real-time system for bus stops served by the Clontarf network, he’d be on his ear by now. A driver who can’t drive is like a rock climber with a fear of heights – worthless.
Vinny thought of Napoleon’s strategy: surrounded on all sides, position useless, we attack. Instantly, he picked up his mobile and made a call to Socket Twomey, the depot controller and letter signatory.
The conversation was shorter than a Brian Cowen apology but Vinny made his point. “Socket, I need an extra body to help with this real-time system,” he said.
“The computer geek I have doesn’t have a Scooby Doo. I need someone good at crunching numbers to ensure Joe Public has up to date information at all our stops. We want to be out ahead of Donnybrook, don’t we?”
There was a silence. Vinny could almost sense the stirring of Socket’s little grey cells. The man was no gobdaw. “Go on,” he said. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Shanghai,” said Vinny. “He knows timetables like the back of his, er, hand. He’d be invaluable to me.”
Socket coughed. “How long are we looking at? We need this system up and running as soon as possible.”
Vinny went for broke. “Six months, two to implement and four to ensure it runs smoothly,” he said. ‘You can have him for three, no more,” replied Socket.
Vinny hit back. “Four months from January 1st and it’s a deal.” There was another pause before Vinny got the reply he wanted. “Alright, agreed,” said Socket.
At that, Vinny nodded, put the phone back in his pocket, mopped the sweat from his brow and gave a thumbs-up to a glassy-eyed Shanghai.
“Vinny, what can I say? I owe you big time. Will you have a quick one to celebrate?
Vinny patted his friend lightly on the shoulder. “Catch you in Foley’s later Shanghai. I’m on the 29A run in an hour.”
As he left The Elf Inn, Vinny knew it had been the closest of shaves. Stroking the runaway whiskers atop his upper lip, he was already counting down the days to the next one.
Vinny's Bismarck
2pt Lay Spurs to beat Werder Bremen in Champions League (1/2, Paddy Power, liability 2pts)
Bets of the week
1pt each-way Pandorama in Hennessy Gold Cup (9/1, Ladbrokes)
2pt England to win The Ashes (9/5, William Hill)
