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You Can't Get Away from the Irish

by Larry Grehan and Mike Sousa

140 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0023; ISBN 1-4120-2099-9; US$15.99, C$19.99, EUR13.99, £8.99

Flight from Jailbait lands a Dublin lad in Boston, Woonsocket, Buffalo, Huber Heights, St. Louis, Oklahoma, Texas, Nuevo Laredo, Reynosa, Monterrey, Saltillo, Mazatlan, Acapulco and into the certifiably surreal.

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about the book    about the authors    excerpts    catalogue info

About the Book Loyola Boyle, a law student from Dublin, discovers he has made his girlfriend pregnant. Learning that she is only 15 and also that her dad is his dad's best client, he decides to scarper. Loyola sets his sights initially on the USA and Boston in particular, later deciding to hitch-hike his way down to the hot spots and morenas in Mexico. On route he encounters a litany of comical characters and situations, not least finding himself embroiled in an ancient unfinished celtic dilemma. Amidst all this turmoil Loyola never fails to take advantage of the delectable delights on offer from "Boys Town" or some other honky-tonk hacienda heaven.

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About the Authors Mike Sousa was born in New England, USA. He worked his butt off as a stock exchange broker... until he saw sense and got out. Mike has travelled extensively throughout South America and is currently a professional translator. He is married to Diva, a beautiful Brasilian lady. Larry Grehan grew up in Dublin, Ireland. He has worked in television broadcasting until his early retirement in 2001. Also well travelled, Larry now lives in Brasil with his companion Nadia and Reinier and his highly intelligent parrot "Lorinho". This book was conceived and given birth to in Larry's back garden, aided by copious amounts of "Brahma", interjections from Lorinho and countless hours of laughter. Finally, grateful thanks are due to Gerry Wills for his keen technical know-how. Also thanks to our illustrator, the one and only Don Conroy. To contact the authors please write to: youcantgetawayfromtheirish@hotmail.com

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Excerpts

Chapter 1

Filial Piety

January 20, 1974

Dear Dad,

By the time you get this I'll be far from Ireland and will stay there till it's safe to come home. I am heartily sorry for the grief, anguish and embarrassment - to say nothing of the loss of a lucrative client - I am causing you. But Dad, the burden of guilt does not rest upon my shoulders alone.

How was I to know Isabella was only fifteen? Christ, man, look at her! Take a good look at her! She told me she was eighteen and I believed her. For what it's worth, I did not deflower her. Another or others had got there before me. That's the Lord's truth. Besides, she cast a spell on me. I had no control over what I was doing. I'll maintain that till the day I die. And it was plain rotten luck that her sister walked in when she did. She was supposed to have been in school.

I'll stay in touch. Don't worry about that. This too shall pass. Isabella will keep victimizing unsuspecting fellows until people, including her father, realize she's just a little tart. My opinion is that he already knows and is simply being difficult about all this. I mean he has to know. He's her dad, right?

Don't forget me in your prayers. Sooner than later I'll be back to finish college and join you in the firm. I'll make you proud yet. I swear it.

Your loving son,
Loyal.

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Chapter 7

Not Father Flanagan's

The Nuevo Laredo of 1974 had not yet been hit by the NAFTA-shock of migrants and maquiladoras. A bustling bordertown nonetheless, its livelihood consisted of tourist shops, honky-tonks and whore houses. The latter were enclosed within a walled compound dubbed 'Boys Town' a couple of miles outside the city. Not far from the river, Loyal took a room for a dollar a night at the Oasis. The previous few hours had drained him. After tacos and a Corona at the outdoor lunchcounter up the street, he crashed and burned till seven the following morning.

By seven-thirty he was fidgeting in the waiting room of a nearby clinic the hotel clerk had recommended. He completed a form handed him by a willowy receptionist in tight whites and sought to distract himself by leafing through week-old newspapers. The first headline smacked of Fleet Street tabloids: SLAYS MOM WITH SHOVEL AND BURIES HER IN BACK YARD. The prime suspect, a son, commented during his interrogation: "At least she died at home." Another bore a front-page photo of a portly...

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Catalogue Information

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