by Ken Bruen
I said,
“The Church gave me that.”
He whistled, said,
“Sweet.”
We headed out in search of, if not justice, at least retaliation. I figured if the children had been in the refugee camp in the Claddagh, and that was but a short prayer from the miracle memorial, I’d start there.
Turned out the woman in charge of the refugee center was known to me. She’d been married to a Guard I’d known and I had helped her out in some distant past. I asked her,
“How did two Hispanic children end up here?”
She was in her forties, a no-nonsense type, who’d seen the worst of humanity and didn’t expect that to improve anytime soon. She said,
“A fuck-up. The kids were swept up in Trump’s first roundup of the migrant columns from South America, then some bright spark allocated them on a ship bound for Europe as the Europeans were still a little tolerant. The kids ended up in the horrendous camps on Greek islands among the Syrian people. An Irish charity literally came in the night, took as many children as they could, and made it to the coast of Ireland.”
She seemed exhausted by the story.
I asked,
“And now, do you know where they are?”
She studied me, said,
“I do.”
I tried,
“Might you tell me?”
“No.”
I tried,
“Listen, those kids tended to me when I was hit by the truck. The very least I can do is thank them.”
Sincerity is not my best asset but I felt I managed it quite well.
She stared at me in disbelief.
I asked,
“What, I can’t be grateful?”
She shook her head in dismissal, said,
“Of all the things I’ve heard about you, naivete was never one of them.”
I was lost, asked,
“What do you mean?”
She was really dismayed, asked,
“You really don’t get it?”
Anger in my tone now, I pushed,
“Get what?”
She said very quietly,
“They weren’t helping you, Jack.”
When I didn’t answer, she said,
“They were trying to rob you.”
Keefer found the arsonist, or rather the arsonist found him. Keefer had done the round of pubs, dives, picking up bits and pieces but nothing solid and, down by the docks, he sat on the quay, rolled a smoke, heard,
“You are Mr. Taylor’s wingman?”
Turned to see a fairly nondescript man in a gray suit who said,
“I’m Benjamin J. Cullen.”
Keefer eyed him slowly, asked,
“You the dude who likes long nonsafety matches?”
Benjamin said,
“A question with a question, how terrifically Irish.”
Before Keefer could reply, Benjamin continued,
“But like my good self you are not Irish. Your heritage is somewhat muddled but you, I believe, did some long servitude with a rock and roll band.”
Keefer was slightly amused, did half admire the cojones of the guy, answered,
“The rock and roll band, the Rolling Stones.”
Benjamin made a mock bow, said,
“My apologies but the vagaries of such a genre are not my strong point.”
The element of mockery rode point on his tone: Keefer let that stew before he answered,
“But burning people, that’s more your line.”
Benjamin moved a foot closer, not quite a threat but not without a certain menace. He said,
“A perilous allegation and, alas, not a shred of evidence.”
Keefer stood, did a long flex of his back muscles, asked,
“What makes you think I’m the type who ever cared about proof?”
Almost sleight of hand, Benjamin produced a long match, said,
“A token of my esteem.”
Keefer took it, snapped it, flicked it to the water, said,
“We’ll bury you in the country, with the other crazies.”
Turned on his heel, hummed as he strolled away.
If Benjamin was a fait with the Stones, he might have recognized “Sweet Virginia.”
Benjamin shouted,
“There was no need to toss the match, let alone break it. I mean, that was just . . .”
He struggled for the word to describe the action, settled for the lame
“Mean!”
Keefer laughed.
In his world, mean was just about the most basic tool for survival; he took it as the height of flattery. It was a few hours yet until he met up with Jack, so he decided to take a pit stop. Headed for O’Neachtain’s, the kind of pub on Quay Street where his appearance wouldn’t cause any waves.
It was packed, guys who looked like they were something in the arts. What exactly that might be, even they hadn’t quite figured.
And the women.
Ah.
They looked like they’d come right off the stage of one of Synge’s plays, all shawls and wringing hands. The smell of hash lingered on the air and that of course made Keefer right at home. He ordered a pint, settled back to watch it being poured.
Done right, the drawing of a Guinness is a work of art, and the longer the better. He rested his boot along the stool beside him, leaned on the bar, feeling comfortable.
The bar guy put the pint before him, asked,
“Anything else?”
Keefer surveyed the pint in admiration, said,
“Maybe a shot of bourbon.”
Got that.
Keefer offered,
“Something for yourself?”
The bar guy gave a wide grin, said,
“No, thank you. Are you a Yank?”
Keefer said no but asked,
“You hear tell of a dude named Garvey?”
Before the guy could say the city had a whole shelf of Garvey, Keefer added,
“He lost his wife tragically some time back.”
Something changed in what had been a friendly dynamic. The guy physically moved back, his eyes flicked over to a man nursing a pint in the corner, then back to Keefer. He said,
“Can’t help you there.”
Keefer let some time linger, then walked over to Garvey. Everything about the man spelled hostility. He was tall but stooped, a face like a wet rag, hair that needed a wash, and a track suit that had never known detergent. He looked at Keefer with malice, asked,
“Something bothering you?”
Aggression spilled all over his tone. He had his now empty glass clenched in his left hand. Keefer had encountered the type in many after-gig parties, the type who, as the term went, glassed you. Of the many varieties of violence Keefer had witnessed, a glass in the face he rated as the very pit of cowardice.
Keefer leaned back on his boots, said,
“I bet you a hundred bucks I can shove that glass up your ass before you can move it.”
Garvey’s face went through a permutation of decisions, most involving damage, but in his feral mind something told him, don’t.
He went with,
“The fuck are you?”
Keefer shot out a hand, letting it rest lightly on Garvey’s shoulder, said,
“I’m the guy who hates dudes that beat on women.”
Garvey tried,
“There’s no proof, nothing. I had an alibi when the bitch died.”
Realizing he’d spat bitch, he went,
“I mean . . .”
Trailed off.
Keefer gave him a final tap on the shoulder, said,
“Karma, now that’s a bitch.”
Nodded to the bar guy as he left.
“To think I left the countryside for this.”
A man stepped up to him, offered a T-shirt with the logo
All in all
I’m just another
Prick
With a wall
Keefer said,
“Pink Floyd okay with you nicking their lyrics? Those bands, they’re precious about copyright.”
The guy stared at him, asked,
“Who’s Pink Floyd?”
Keefer thought,
The world is more fucked than I thought.
Sister Consuela/Connie was about to pack it in. She hadn’t been able to locate the miracle children, and the projected increase in followers to her sisterhood not only had not increased but the few she did have had legged it.
She’d had huge hopes for her brand of religion; it glorified freedom and a certain laxity that should have been a draw.
No.
Didn’t happen.
She said aloud,
“Fuck.”
Her second in command, though precious little to actually command anymore, asked,
“So what now?”
Indeed.
For maybe the first time in her varied career, Connie was all out of ideas. She had been, among other things, a therapist (being Californian, it was near mandatory), a prison chaplain (how she’d recruited Brid, doing a jolt for assault), a real estate gal (the territory of divorcées who’d been shafted), and a financial adviser (which led to her near indictment), but in her mind she had never, never for fuck sakes, been a failure. So she’d skirted real close to the legal wind but was never out of schemes or self-belief.
With icy bitterness, she said,
“I need a blasted miracle.”
In the twisted way of the Irish universe, at that moment a man arrived and, if far from being miraculous, he was certainly out of the ordinary. He stood before the two semi-nuns, declared,
“I am Benjamin J. Cullen.”
Brid.
Brid was fucked by nurture and nature.
Coming out of Compton in the worst years of that doomed suburb, she was lost from the get-go. She was doing a jolt in the toughest prison in California when she heard of the golden chaplain.
Sister Consuela was the patron saint of inmates. It was rumored she supplied not only the hackneyed solace but pills, the most valuable commodity in jail. Too, she knew how to game the system. Brid was highly cynical before she met her, not believing the hype until . . .
Until
She met her.
And was smitten, utterly.
Here came the symbol of the California dream babe, tall, blonde, confident, and, best of all, sassy. When she walked into Brid’s cell, Brid had a shank ready, prepared to gut the bitch, but, instead, this vision moved straight to her, laid a tanned hand on her head, whispered,
“Be still.”
And she was.
The nun asked her,
“How would you like to be my wingbird?”
Whatever.
She’d be whatever was asked.
On her release, she went to work straightaway for Connie and now, many failed ventures later, they were in the West of Ireland.
Brid liked to drink, to drink a lot, and then she was prone to talk. Of the many features in Brid that Connie had curbed and changed, the booze was not among them. Plus, it did have an upside.
For Connie.
When dark shit had to be done, and God knows, with Connie’s checkered past, a lot of dark deeds needed doing, Connie had learned when you need the dirt dished, you loaded Brid with Jack and coke, let her loose.
Now Connie looked at this Benjamin J., then looked at Brid and knew intuitively that Brid had been running her mouth.
Benjamin said,
“Brid and I had a convivial few drinks.”
Then he giggled, mock admitted,
“So okay, we might have let the demons out more than we planned to.”
Connie froze: This was very bad.
Benjamin moved fast, had his arm around Brid (very risky as Brid usually took the arm off anybody who touched her), said,
“But hey, no sin, no foul, we’re on the same page, from Brid’s little revelations. I surmise we might be kindred spirits.”
Connie, used to regrouping fast, snarled,
“She’s a dipso: Any mad shit she told you is the product of booze insanity.”
Benjamin seemed delighted, echoed,
“Dipso, how wonderfully retro and yet not entirely off the mark”
Connie didn’t like this guy. Everything about him creeped her out. If you’ve been chaplain at a women’s prison and could still function, if erratically, it took major creep show to faze you.
She said,
“Thanks for dropping by but we’re kind of busy right now.”
Benjamin was still beaming, said,
“Bravo, good try, but, lady, you are so busted.”
Connie looked at Brid, who seemed frozen in place, figured she’d have to handle this her own self, said,
“Let me be clear, like crystal clear. Fuck off.”
Benjamin seemed to give this some thought, then said,
“No.”
Connie was not used to the no word but it seemed every asswipe in Galway felt free to tell her that. Before she could unleash, Benjamin reached in the pocket of his very fine tweed coat, took out a fat packet, laid it gently before her, said,
“I would like to say this is a small donation but I’d be selling us short. It is indeed a sizable amount, the type that makes even a holy lady like your good self go Holy shit.”
Connie, no qualms about cash, ripped it open, did a rapid count, looked up, did a recount, then said,
“Holy shit.”
Benjamin smiled, mimicked a very poor Irish accent, said,
“’Tis but the beginning, me lady.”
Connie felt a glow, the glow of opportunity, asked,
“The beginning of what?”
Like she could give a fuck, she was in, whatever mad plan he had.
Benjamin took out a calfskin wallet, pulled out a rush of notes, turned to Brid, asked,
“Be a sweetie, purchase us some happy libations, there’s a good girl, while I natter with your boss.”
Brid bristled.
Didn’t take the notes, snarled,
“What am I, the message wanker?”
Benjamin reached over fast, pinched her cheek as you would a fat baby’s, said,
“Thine own words hath described it so.”
Connie said,
“Go do it.”
In a tone that Brid had never refused. She tried,
“What’s a fucking ‘libation’?”
When she’d gone, Benjamin gave Connie what might actually be interpreted as a flirtatious grin and Connie, if cash dollars were on the horizon, would fuck a pope.
He produced a small book, said,
“If I may be so bold, I presumed to risk buying you a book.”
Connie was intrigued and already feeling something of a hot flush, and phew-oh, that was a long time dormant. She said, coquettishly,
“As long as it’s not Jane Austen, you’re in with a shout.”
Bang.
They were on each other.
Benjamin, as might be said, gave good wood.
Connie virtually swooned, screamed,
“You glorious animal.”
From such random couplings have dynasties begun. See any story line in Game of Thrones as proof.
Think Lady Macbeth meets the psychopath from The North Water.
Spent, Connie fell back on the only comfortable armchair,
gasped,
“What’s the book?”
Benjamin, looking like he’d not a hair out of place, adjusted his trousers, crease intact, handed her
Scary Nuns.
Complete with photographs of “Brides of Christ” toting AK-47s.
Connie muttered,
“I think I’m in love.”
“In
Greek
Tragedy
They
Fall
From
a
Great
Height.
In
Noir
They
Fall
From
the
Curb.”
(Dennis Lehane)
Quotes of the week
February 24, 2019:
“I heard on the radio that there was a win in Ireland and I caught the last three numbers. I checked the numbers online.
And
I was
Numb.”
—375 million euro winner of the lottery
“Sweatpants are a sign of defeat.”
—Karl Lagerfeld, RIP, aged eighty-five
“By ‘too big’
I don’t mean ‘too famous.’
I mean
Too fat.”
—Edie Campbell on being dropped from Milan Fashion Week
“I get up
And then, you know,
I sit down.
I don’t do none of this trotting around.
I think it’s bad for me.”
—Keith Richards on exercise
Benjamin and Connie were in bed again, after trysts
In/on.
The hallway.
The front garden.
The kitchen table (shades of The Postman Always Rings Twice).
And Brid sulked, drank, fumed, despaired, and raged.
Smashed furniture, slammed her head into the wall (headbanger?).
Wept.
Oh, wept bitter tears of abandonment.
Connie was oblivious and Benjamin could, if you’ll forgive the pun, give a fuck.
Smoking in a rare moment away from their frenzy, Connie asked,
“Are you rich?”
He told the truth.
“Very.”
She was thrilled, asked,
“How?”
For the second time in years, he told the truth, said,
“I’m a forensic accountant, a financial investigator: I do some very creative shady bookkeeping for extremely shady folk.”
She mulled that over, then,