by Ken Bruen
Benjamin J.’s house was impressive, one of those new mock Georgian piles that exuded money, if not class. Solar panels on the roof to showcase green credentials made me think of the recent European elections. The Green Party won big, Sinn Féin, not so much. A wit said they could unite to be
“Guns and Roses.”
A vintage Bentley in the driveway. I knocked on the door, waited. Opened by a young man wearing a boiler suit, like a would-be mechanic. He had blond hair, soft features, one of those moon faces that echoed steroids. His eyes were askew so that though he looked at you, it was as if he were seeing something in his peripheral vision. I figured some heavy drug dosage had scrambled his brain. He asked,
“Yes?”
I said,
“I’m here to see Mr. Cullen.”
This seemed to confuse him, so I added,
“Benjamin J.”
He considered this, asked,
“What’s the ‘J’ for?”
I guessed,
“Jerusalem?”
His face lit up. He asked,
“Really?”
God only knows how long this inane chat would have meandered on.
Benjamin J. appeared behind the man, touched him on the shoulder, said,
“James, go and see to the dogs.”
James looked at him, confusion writ large, said,
“We don’t have dogs.”
Benjamin gave a tight smile, snarled,
“Clean up the kitchen. Just go.”
Reluctantly, he did.
Benjamin managed to rein in his annoyance, asked,
“Mr. Taylor, how may we be of service?”
I said,
“A wee chat would be good.”
His mouth curled up at the idea. He said,
“Perhaps you might ring, make an appointment.”
I stepped toward him, said,
“It’s about fire insurance.”
He faltered but only briefly, made a show of looking at his watch, a Rolex, said,
“We can manage that.”
I followed him inside to a living room lined with books, the type of books for show, not tell, a large oil painting over the fireplace, and, no surprise, The Great Fire of London.
I said,
“Bit obvious that, no?”
He smiled, gave it a long appraisal, said,
“One of the greats, the pinnacle we might all aspire too.”
I said,
“For psychos, I’m sure.”
He frowned, as if seriously disappointed, said,
“I expected better of you, Jack. May I call you ‘Jack’?”
I gave him a look, asked,
“If I call you ‘Benny’?”
He did a twirl on his heels, turned to a drinks cabinet, said,
“I’m going to change the energy of this whole meeting. I feel a certain hostility from you so, to start over, let me fix you a drink. Jameson work?”
He poured two fine measures, handed me one, then moved to a high-back chair, said,
“Chin-chin.”
I thought,
Like people actually say this shit?
I was about to speak when he held up a finger, said,
“One moment before we get to what I feel will be unpleasant. Let me ask you two pertinent questions.”
Somehow, he had gained the upper hand in this sparring but I could run with it for a bit, said,
“Fire away.”
Got a brief bitter smile for my pun, then he asked,
“Your biker friend, the Rolling Stones chap, does he still have his farm outside of town?”
Letting me know he knew where Keefer lived. I said,
“Yeah.”
He mulled that over, then,
“Good, that’s excellent. Now the second question is . . .”
Paused.
“Have you ever watched a sheep burn?”
I let out a deep breath, asked,
“Are you threatening me?”
He stared at me for a long moment, then,
“Good Lord, no. Would I be so reckless?”
I stood up, walked over to him.
With a supreme effort, I didn’t wallop him, said,
“You really don’t want to fuck with Keefer. We have a witness who saw you bolt the door to the house where four people burned to death.”
He was unfazed, asked,
“And will this witness testify?”
When I didn’t reply, he pushed,
“Rather awkward case to actually prove, I would think. A judge would throw it out.”
I said,
“You’re making a basic assumption here that is wrong.”
He was relishing this verbal chess, asked,
“Pray tell.”
I said,
“You think it would be judged in court, we have a whole other method of dealing with a killer.”
He mocked,
“Vigilante justice? How film noir of you.”
I shook my head, turned to leave. James was standing behind me, asked,
“What’s film noir?”
“As
My
Body
Continues on its journey
My thoughts keep turning back
And
Bury
Themselves
In days past.”
(Gustave Flaubert, 1849)
As I tried to figure out what to do about Benjamin J., I considered the options.
1. Kill him.
2. Tell the Guards.
3. Do nothing.
Number 3 was what I excelled at.
Telling the Guards had proved futile. Killing him, phew-oh. I was spirit-spent on all the death that engulfed my life. Once, I had attempted to head for America, the great illusion, but it sustained me through many bad Februarys.
Ann Henderson, the shining love of my bedraggled life, was dead. She’d once asked me,
“What would your ideal life be like?”
Even I knew that if a woman asks you that, you better include her as part of the vision. Then and now, I didn’t know, but I could flippantly reply,
“To drink ferociously and not have hangovers.”
Like that would happen.
Ofttimes, I sat on Nemo’s Pier, stared at the ocean for hours. I could yearn as an Olympic event.
I had recently read
Wild and Crazy Guys
By
Nick de Semlyen.
An account of the eighties’ comedians Bill Murray, Eddie Murphy, John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Steve Martin. After Ghostbusters, Bill Murray was one of the hottest stars in the world. It didn’t sit easy with him, to such an extent that he fucked off to France, studied philosophy at the Sorbonne.
That impressed the hell out of me.
One passage describing his daily life in Paris seemed as close to perfect as you’d get, especially if your mind was most ways fractured.
Before I lay out Bill Murray’s Parisian day, here is a rundown on what was going on in Ireland, in its entire insane color.
Trump arrived in Ireland, having literally fist-bumped with the queen during his U.K. visit. He did have talks with Farage on the very last day that Theresa May was in office as prime minister.
Farage had 33 percent of the European vote and, if a general election were to be called, the Tories were looking like they’d be decimated. Brexit, in its third insane year, continued to avoid solution.
All over Europe the far right were on the rise.
In Ireland, Trump was a huge hit in the tiny village of Doonbeg, where his hotel was situated. His sons went to the local pub and got a fierce welcome, even the parish priest coming out to
sing their praises.
Was this now what we were?
No wonder we embraced Katie Taylor’s fifth world title.
We so desperately needed a hero.
I needed to savor a day in Bill Murray’s Paris life to exorcise the sheer weirdness of what our country was experiencing.
Bill Murray had a routine. Every morning, wearing a battered pair of Converse tennis shoes, he strolled into Paris’s 5th arrondissement, passing such landmarks as the majestic Val-de-Grâce church and the tropical Jardin de Plantes. Arriving at Sorbonne University, he climbed a steep spiral staircase.
At his destination, a hushed classroom, overlooking the Eiffel Tower, he sat at a desk for the day’s lessons. When they were over, he headed back down, smoked a cigarette hand-rolled with Gitanes tobacco, bought lunch and popped into his favorite chocolatier for 150 grams of candy.
Then he treated himself to a silent movie at the Cinémathèque.
(Nick de Semlyn)
I could imagine such a day, a day that seemed surreally perfect. I replayed that passage so many times in my head that I could smell the Gitanes.
I’d probably have skipped the 150 grams of candy.
I called Keefer; had to. Benjamin J. had issued a direct threat so I had to warn him. He answered with
“Whatever you’re selling, we got it.”
I said,
“It’s Jack.”
He said,
“What’s up?”
I told him, laid it out as it had gone down. He was silent for a beat, then,
“So what are you going to do?”
Good question, but I went with,
“What am I going to do?”
I did let a touch of granite leak over the question. He said,
“You’re there, he’s there, and it’s not rocket science.”
Fuck.
I tried,
“What does that mean?”
He sighed, said,
“Deal with it.”
I changed tack, asked,
“How is Sara, our girl, doing?”
His voice changed. I could hear warmth. He said,
“She’s a trouper, real gem, that kid. She and the falcon are a perfect storm.”
I had to think about that, asked,
“Isn’t that unusual? I mean, for a falcon that’s used to another handler?”
He said,
“All I know is they are inseparable. She even sleeps in the barn with the bird.”
The thought flashed through my mind.
Killers find each other.
Good Lord, where did that come from?
I knew I better ask for Keefer’s new lady and, for the life of me, could I remember her name?
Could I fuck?
Something to do with music, yeah, definitely. Was it Melody? No, it had some Celtic connotation? I went with
“How is your, um, lady friend?”
Lame, huh?
At least I hadn’t said “significant other.” Keefer said,
“You’ve forgotten her name already.”
I blustered,
“As if. I mean, seriously?”
He hung up.
Teddy Nuland. The name suggested someone jovial, with a playful temperament.
He was the county coroner, medical examiner. Nearing retirement, he was not jovial, but put him together with his single malt he became very chatty. Not fun company but certainly gripping.
I’d known him for years but it was only in the last few that he allowed me into his company, a small circle of friends he drank with. I’d given him a rare single malt that cost the kind of money that had you mutter,
“Fuck me.”
In Forster Street there is a small pub named Ryan’s that is so incongruous most people pass it by. It caters to select professionals. The atmosphere is subdued, a serious tone for serious drinking.
I dropped in there on a Tuesday evening, a time favored by Teddy. The barman, named Shane, looked a hundred. He kept chat to the minimum. The pub itself was like a drawing room from the fifties.
Teddy was already seated in his usual booth, reading the Irish Times, dressed in a fine suit that might have been fashionable in 1963. He was once a tall man but his profession had stooped him; thinning brown hair was styled in a very bad comb-over. His face seemed as if it were carved from the very stones of Connemara. The eyes, behind small glasses, were vibrant, hinting at a suppressed devilment and, indeed, he had a sharp cutting wit. Badly needed in his line of work.
I headed over, asked,
“Teddy, might I join you?”
He put the paper aside, took his glasses aside, said,
“Young Taylor.”
I sat and Shane arrived with my pint and a short for Teddy. I didn’t pay, you settled up when you left. Very civilized.
I asked,
“How have you been?”
He gave that serious thought, then,
“I expect to see you on my slab one of these days.”
I said with absolute truth,
“God forbid.”
You waited until Teddy hit his stride, meaning single malt number five, then his tongue threw caution to the wind. I asked,
“That book I gave you,
Herbert Lieberman’s City of the Dead,
Did you read it?”
He nodded, said,
“Fairly accurate for a novel.”
You could see his features alter slightly as he prepared to spill some trade secrets. He said,
“Strange case recently. You remember that fire some weeks back, the Americans and the miracle child?”
I said, casually,
“Terrible business.”
He was quiet for a time and I thought he’d decided not to share, but then,
“Very odd. The fire was confined to the bottom part of the building, where the Americans died from smoke inhalation but, upstairs, the boy and a middle-aged woman.”
He stopped, a look of horror on his face, and with all he’d seen, examined, he was years beyond shock. He said,
“The boy and the woman, I think she was the carer, their throats were cut.”
I tried to process this, couldn’t.
He ended with
“The devil of it is, they’d been killed at least twenty-four hours before the fire.”
“An unappreciated miracle
Mutates
Into
An evil of such banality
That it almost
Passes
Unnoticed.
Almost.”
(Fr. Edmund Dysart)
Keefer was to meet me in Garavan’s. I’d rung him to say it was vital he come to town. He’d asked,
“Why don’t you come out here, see Sara, tend to your falcon, meet Ceola.”
Fuck.
I couldn’t face the girl-child Sara yet. Needed to get some space since Teddy made his shock findings. Worse, if possible, he’d said the murder weapon was a serrated blade, like the one Sara carried at all times.
I made lame excuses but emphasized he had to meet me. He finally agreed, then,
“Got to tell you, this girl Sara, she’s like the daughter I never had.”
I was nursing my first pint when Keefer arrived. He was dressed less biker and more urban cowboy: new bandanna and crisp white shirt, dark jeans, boots that had a spit polish, and, I swear, a haircut.
I was about to order his pint and a shot when he said,
“Sparkling water is fine.”
Not good. The news I had to lay on him did not warrant him sober, no way. I got a double Jay for myself and grabbed a table at the back. He gave me a long look, asked,
“What’s so urgent?”
No way t
o sugarcoat it so I told it straight. He listened without comment. Finally, I ended with a description of the knife. I sat back, exhausted. He shook his head, said,
“You’re unbelievable.”
All I had was,
“What?”
He said with total coldness,
“Some drunk quack spins you a wild yarn about time of death and murder weapon and you, the fucking ace investigator, the top private eye, deduce it’s a young girl who has suffered abuse of every description.”
Then he stood up, threw some money on the table, said,
“I used to wonder why all your friends left you. They got killed or just fucked off. But now I get it. You’re a paranoid prick with no loyalty, no real empathy, just a sodden drunk who thinks the odd book he scans gives him gravitas. I’d pity you if you weren’t doing such a fine job of that yer own self but, get this asshole, stay the hell away from me and my family.”
He strode out.
What could I say?
Thank you for sharing?
I was in Crowe’s, nursing my battered ego and a boilermaker on a Monday evening. Quiz night.
A guy was shouting into his phone beside me.
Like this,
“Sell, sell now, the shares will drop by morning.”
Yeah, I then realized his phone was dead. He was shouting into empty space, like most of us in one way or another.
iPhones, the modern plague.
iPhones are a blessing or a curse, depending on which neighborhood of the debate you choose. But one thing they have killed is the pub quiz. Unless you ban the phones for the evening, as Crowe’s did for their Monday event. Two teams, captained by Bohermore lads, Tommy McGrath and John Casserly. I’d forgotten the quiz as I went there for a quiet time to ponder the whole Sara/Keefer situation.
I was sitting in the back as the quiz teams piled in. I couldn’t really leave as they’d be more than a little offended. I tried to keep my head down as the questions began, heard,
“Who captained the Galway hurling team in 2005?”
Fucked if I knew.
“Who was in Downton Abbey and Game of Thrones?”
Tommy shouted at me.
“Jack, you should know this.”
I said,
“Iain Glen.”
John’s team objected to me being consulted. I was merely a spectator.
The questions continued,
“Who was on the Irish pound note?”
“Who wrote Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital?”
I knew this but said nothing.