by Ken Bruen
Then he gave a soft tap to his head, exclaimed,
“Oh my gawd, how could I forget?”
And ran to the door.
Then back a moment later, carrying a large parcel, said,
“As a wee token of my deep gratitude.”
Suspicious, I pulled the paper off to reveal my all-weather Garda coat, and like new!
He said,
“I took the liberty of having it dry-cleaned and, trust me fella, an expensive job.”
Not sure what to say, I asked,
“How did you? I mean...”
He shrugged, said,
“I made the young Guard who took it an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
I was impressed, I think, said,
“Thank you.”
He made a dismissive wave, said,
“You saved my life, I saved your coat. Seems fair.”
I pushed then.
“You felt guilty about those twins, and that’s why you were going in the water?”
He gave me a long look.
“Fuck no. I was depressed about my lover. But the twins? I was delighted they got theirs.”
Pawn Carnage
One rook on the seventh rank is an advantage but two are usually unstoppable.
(Beginning Chess)
11
Jimmy Reagan was a close friend of my father. They went to the dogs together. Greyhound racing, in College Road. Were the races fixed?
Let me say this.
One evening as my dad headed into the track, a man stopped him, asked for his race card, and then marked every single race. Said,
“We mind our own.”
All six dogs won.
After my dad died, Jimmy really went to the dogs.
The demon drink was mentioned.
I met him a few years back. He stood in a doorway, wearing what was once a very fine suit. I gave him a few quid. He said,
“Jackie boy, see this suit? I bought it from the winnings me and yer dad had.”
His face got a wistful look and he added,
“Ah, sweet Lord, that was the best night of me lousy life.”
Such men were not built for rehabs. They slipped through the cracks of society, like sad ghosts of what might have been.
He was found dead in an alley, wearing the suit. I was told he had no one to bury him so I took care of it. Brought the one suit to the dry cleaner. The guy there said,
“In its day, this was really something.”
I said,
“Weren’t we all?”
He asked,
“Going somewhere special?”
“The cemetery.”
Odd, he didn’t ask me anything after that.
The funeral was bare, like the poor bastard’s life. Me, the priest, and two gravediggers. It rained.
I phoned Pierre Renaud but he was unavailable. I even went to his home but the house looked dead, like his sons, I guess. I wasn’t sure what exactly to do about him. Crossed my mind to set the Silence on him. How poetic would that be? If I did find him, how to begin?
“Did you have your sons killed?”
There’s a showstopper.
Tell the Guards?
Oh, yeah, like they had such a high opinion of me to begin with.
But
I could tell one Guard.
Arranged to meet Owen Daglish. He was not happy, asked,
“What do you want now?”
Not encouraging.
I said,
“In fact, I might have some information that would further your career.”
“Yeah, that will be the day.”
We met in Garavan’s. He yet again looked the very worst for wear, said,
“I can’t talk until I get behind two drinks.”
So we did that.
The change was near miraculous. Years seemed to drop from his face, his eyes opened, and his whole physical stature improved. He grinned, said,
“That is the biz.”
Looked at me, asked,
“How is that new lady of yours?”
“In America.”
He seemed to think about that, then,
“Will she come back?”
I acted like I was offended, which I was a little, asked,
“Why wouldn’t she?”
He gave a low whistle, said,
“Because you’re Jack!”
Not really an area I wished to pursue so I laid out the whole story of the guy named Silence and the murder of the twins.
He asked,
“The father had his sons killed?”
I nodded.
He took a long swig of his drink, then,
“That is bollocks.”
I pushed.
“But what if it’s not?”
He took a long hard look at me, said,
“Whatever it is, you need to leave it alone. The Guards think you’re the worst kind of trouble. If you tell them one of the town’s alumni is a killer, a guy who golfs with the superintendent, I mean, they’re going to kick your arse.”
I went to protest but he said,
“Leave it alone, Jack, and leave me alone.”
He stood up, a look of resignation on his face. I asked,
“Don’t you want another drink?”
He said,
“Oh, yeah, just not with you.”
The BBC showed the fourth and final series of Luther,
starring Idris Elba. Luther is living in a house that is
on the edge of a cliff and daily sliding
toward doom. A cop asks him how he is.
“Tickety boo,” he answered.
“Totally disco.”
12
I was sitting in Eyre Square, on a bench close to the garden plaque for JFK.
As a child, I’d sat on my father’s shoulders watching the presidential car
Go by.
We sure loved JFK.
Not a whole lot of heroes since.
The Guards were in a whole load of shite. It was alleged they had tried to smear and destroy the career of a noted whistle-blower. Now, it seemed that over half a million breath tests had the figures inflated. The Garda commissioner refused to explain or resign.
Theresa May in the UK called a snap election.
I wondered how I got out of bed and, indeed, how the commissioner got out.
Trump was trying to cut the income tax rate for multinationals by fifteen percent to lure companies back to America.
I was watching the Meyrick Hotel when a slew of black SUVs pulled up.
Rock stars, I wondered?
Out hopped Father Malachy.
A longtime enemy, he had been my mother’s lapdog back in the days when vitreous women had a tame priest in tow to demonstrate their piety. Noting my mother was one cold bitch, you can guess what her priest was like.
Time back, I came into possession of The Red Book, a book of heresy that the Church was anxious to suppress. Bad publicity was the last thing it wanted.
Malachy inveigled me into parting with the book.
He had instantly become the Church darling. Of course, any attempts to reach him after were shunned. I headed for the hotel. The doorman was about to block me when he recognized me, said,
“Howyah, Jack?”
I asked,
“What’s the occasion?”
He raised his eyes to heaven, said,
“The Rotary Club are honoring some priest.”
Some priest indeed.
I spotted Malachy in the midst of a group of people. Least, I thought it was him but changed—changed utterly. A stunning new black suit, tiny hint of purple at the neck collar. I’d seen that on trainee bishops.
Bishop?
Surely not.
But then, in a Trump world, who knew? His hair was what I can only call coiffed. I’m not entirely sure what that means save that it’s not on the card of any barber I ever frequented.
More, he wasn’t smoking.
Him, the ultimate
diehard nicotine fiend. I approached and two young priests with, I swear, earpieces like sub–special agents blocked my path. Malachy saw me, said,
“Allow.”
Imperious.
I asked,
“What the fuck happened?”
One of the young priests pushed me, warned,
“Watch the tone.”
Malachy smiled, benevolently, as in suffer the little children. He said,
“My dear, wild, uncouth Jack.”
What the hell was he taking?
He sounded benign.
I knew then that even his name was indeed Malachi, no more Malachy.
He said,
“I have been the unworthy recipient of many blessings.”
I was near speechless. I tried,
“The Red Book, it made you a star.”
He smiled, touch of the old Malachy seeping through, though the yellow teeth of yore were now glorious white. He said,
“We are aware of your own tiny contribution to the miracle.”
Tiny.
I asked,
“Do you actually believe your own bullshit?”
Got another dig from one of the minders. Malachi said,
“We’ll try and fit you in, to have afternoon tea at the Residence.”
He raised his hand in blessing and, I swear, if he patted my head I’d have taken his blessed arm from the elbow. A hint of the old priest peered through the smoke screen and he withdrew his hand. He intoned,
“God mind you well, my son.”
And he was gone.
I headed out, the door guy waited, his eyes dancing with curiosity. He asked,
“How’d it go?”
I gave the answer that offered me the only chance to use the expression. I said,
“Totally disco.”
*
A young man, four times with his license suspended, got behind the wheel of a Toyota Corolla. He had been on a marathon drinking session, downing fourteen pints of lager, followed by three shots of tequila. The now standard kill rate for young motorists. At over 100 mph, he plowed into a Mini Cooper, killing a young mother and her daughter.
His defense cited his depression and deep remorse. His life, said the defense, was ruined.
Yeah.
He got eighteen months suspended and a year’s probation.
He celebrated in the nearest pub.
He wouldn’t, he said,
“Drink tequila anymore.”
A week later, in a field near a bus stop, he was found with his suspended license shoved down his throat, the word silence written in red marker across his forehead.
*
I got a call from Marion.
It did not begin well. She started,
“What were you thinking?”
Now when Jay Leno asked that of Hugh Grant after the Los Angeles hooker scandal, his tone was friendly, perplexed, as in
“Hey buddy, we get it, kind of.”
Marion’s tone was
Ice
To
Coldest
Felt.
She did not get it.
I tried for bumbling but lovable rogue, said,
“I thought the kid might be thirsty.”
She echoed,
“The kid.”
“Sorry, Joff.”
Fucked up again as she ice corrected,
“Joffrey.”
Phew.
Then,
“You think a pub...”
Let the word hover like a goddamn virus until,
“Is suitable for my child?”
I wanted to say,
“Actually, the docks would be the best place for the brat.”
But for once in my fucked-up life I went with caution, tried,
“I’ll do better next time.”
Silence.
Then,
“There won’t be a next time. He said you tried to get him to smoke.”
“What?”
I could actually sense the sheer rage coming over the phone. She said,
“Joffrey said that you said every boy needs to break loose.”
I was nearly speechless.
Nearly.
Said,
“He is a liar.”
Phew-oh.
She let the loaded word swim a bit, then,
“You are calling my son, my son, a liar?”
“I am.”
She hung up.
Save for the wee touch of trouble at the end, I think it went fairly okay otherwise.
Silence encourages the tormentor,
never the tormented.
(Elie Wiesel)
13
I was in the pub, the guy beside me saying,
“Listen to this.”
I said,
“Sure.”
Block out the click of Marion hanging up. The guy said,
“The White House has fallen into the hands of a bully, a boor, and a braggart, a demagogue who taunts his neighbors and revels in his own ignorance.”
He looked at me, checking I was paying attention. I made a vague sound of assent.
He continued.
“To his supporters he is a hero who speaks for the white working class against the sneering East Coast elite.”
He drained his glass, making a small burping sound, then called for a refill, got it, and asked me,
“You’re thinking Trump, right?”
Nope.
I was thinking,
“Shut the fuck up.”
He pounced.
“That was Andrew Jackson in, get this, 1829.”
Okay, I was a little interested, said,
“Wow.”
He wasn’t quite done with the quiz aspect, asked,
“You ever see a snap of the man?”
Andrew Jackson?
I said,
“Not so I recall.”
He was delighted, said,
“You’ve seen a twenty-dollar bill?”
“Well, yeah, probably.”
“Then you’ve seen Jackson.”
He looked ’round as if the whole pub might have been mesmerized.
They weren’t.
But he wasn’t about to give it up, pulled a page of a newspaper from his jacket, shoved it in my face, asked,
“What do you see?”
For a brief moment, I could see this lonely bastard in his lonely room, scouring the papers for articles that might make him appear interesting. That deeply saddened me so I looked at the cutting, saw a guy in what seemed to be very dirty stained jeans. I said,
“He’s got soiled jeans.”
He was near frothing now, said,
“Guess what he paid for them?”
I gave one last try, said,
“Don’t know.”
With glee, he said,
“Four hundred fifty quid. It’s the new fashion.”
I asked the obvious,
“Why?”
The drink turned on him, turned him mean as a snake. He snarled,
“Why? What the fuck do you mean why? It shows the world has gone apeshit.”
I asked with exaggerated patience,
“You’re only realizing that now?”
He took a step back, the brawler preparing to launch, mouthed,
“You think you’re better than me?”
I asked,
“The old Irish green pound note, who was on it?”
It confused him, he spluttered,
“What?”
“Yeah, the green note, back when the country was still Irish.”
He was showing tiny bits of foam on his mouth, spat,
“Who the fuck knows that?”
I said in a very patient, almost Dr. Phil tone,
“That’s the trouble with this country. We know who is on the dollar bill but not our own history.”
He tried to weigh the weight of the insult, decided to go with,
“Hey, I’m an Irishman.”
I shook my hea
d, said,
“What you are is a buffoon.”
Now he began his swing but his hand was grabbed from behind, moved up fast behind his back. A familiar voice said,
“Now you don’t want to be a nuisance.”
Tevis.
Who then bum-marched the guy outside, all in the space of a few seconds.
Came back in, said,
“He decided to call it a day.”
I was impressed, said,
“Fancy footwork.”
He signaled to the bar guy for a round, said,
“Ballroom dancing, always a help.”
I asked,
“Are you following me?”
His pint was in his hand and he held up the glass to the light. The Guinness appeared to shine, if such a thing were possible. I had found that many things were possible with drink, if only briefly. He said,
“Such dark beauty.”
He drained half in an impressive gulp, said,
“But nothing lasts and, yes, I was indeed following you.”
“Why?”
He motioned to a table and we moved there. He settled himself, then,
“The man they call Silence goes by the name of Allen. He asked me to tell you he is about to do you a major favor.”
I was in no mood for mind-fucking, leaned close, snarled,
“I don’t want any fucking favors.”
He made a gesture of resignation by holding up both palms, said,
“Slow down, my friend. Don’t bite the messenger.”
I stood up, said,
“I’m not your friend and don’t let me see you on my case again.”
He laughed, said,
“The Greek gift.”
I asked,
“What?”
“It refers to a chess sacrifice that is frequently deadly, i.e., the Wooden Horse at Troy. What they thought was a gift was a fatal attack.”
I shook my head, said,
“Nobody talks sense anymore.”
I moved to the door, fed up with them all. The bar guy called,
“Hey, Jack, who is on the green pound note?”
To appreciate silence
you kind of
Need
First
to shut the fuck up.
14
I went to see the nun, Sister Maeve. It was she who introduced me to Marion and set me on the course of what seemed to be happiness.