by Ken Bruen
The road to hell is paved with well-intentioned nuns.
Our friendship was odd, to say the least. She had asked for help on a Church mini crisis and, though I did sweet fuck-all, it got resolved and put me in good, if false, light.
You take the kudos when they fall.
She seemed to genuinely have great fondness for me. If anyone could help me salvage my love affair it was Maeve.
I purchased all her treats:
Black Forest gâteau,
Strawberry cheesecake,
And
Herterich handmade sausages.
She lived in a small house on Saint Francis Street, but a rosary from the Abbey Church.
Before, when I called on her, she would seem delighted.
This time?
Not so much.
She said,
“Oh, it’s you.”
Mmm.
I asked because I had to.
“May I come in?”
Grudgingly,
“Um, okay.”
I handed over the gifts as she didn’t ask me to sit.
Usually, she’d be all over those treats like delight in action but now left coldly on the table.
I asked,
“Is everything all right?”
I’m a PI, sensitive to these nuances.
Mainly I’m an asshole.
She was avoiding my eyes. I placed myself right in front of her face, put my hand on her shoulder, asked,
“What is it, Sister?”
Not using her Christian name seemed to snap her out of it, she gulped.
“Jack, I’m so sorry.”
I was all concern, soothed.
“It’s okay, really. Is it about Joffrey? I won’t bring him to a pub again, okay?”
She did something she never had done. She got a bottle of whiskey, a brand not seen since the flood, Robin Redbreast, poured two healthy dollops into glasses with a blue sheen and the logo
OUR LADY OF GUADALUPE.
I doubt she knew this was the Madonna of the cartels. I didn’t share, raised my glass, said,
“Dia leat”( God be with you).
She made a face as she sipped her drink, said,
“Oh, my Lord.”
Not so much a prayer as a shock.
I could see her steel herself for whatever she had to tell, her knuckles white. She said,
“Marion is going back to Sean.”
Sean? Who the fuck was Sean?
My blank face prompted her to add,
“Her husband.”
Aw, fuck.
She asked,
“You didn’t know?”
Like hello, take a wild freaking guess.
We had an unspoken agreement to leave the past alone, to take it from when we met. Like did I think Joffrey was an immaculate conception?
I said,
“I didn’t know.”
She went to touch my arm but I shook her off, said,
“I have to go.”
Then I spotted a new item on her bureau. A gleaming white chess set. I asked,
“You play chess?”
She nearly smiled, said,
“Your friend brought it.”
I was nearly afraid to ask but did, echoed,
“My friend?”
“Yes, Mr. Allen, a lovely man but I’m not sure I entirely knew what he meant.”
“How do you mean?”
He said,
“Tell Jack he’s touchable.”
*
I had a Montblanc pen that I’d nicked from a lawyer. I bought a Moleskine diary from Mary in Hollands. She was, as always, just lovely in every way, said,
“’Tis great to see you, Jack.”
I refused to allow that to lift my mood. Went to Richardson’s pub at the very top of Eyre Square. It had been there for as long as I could remember but few people I knew were likely to be there. I got a boilermaker, a table at the rear, set out my fucked life.
Like this:
Marion was very likely a done deal.
The Fisher King, this Silence guy, who kept intruding in my life.
Tevis, what was the bloody gig with this dude?
Pierre Renaud, who’d had his sons murdered.
And what...
What the hell was I to do with this mess?
If I visualized a chessboard, it was thus basically a four-move gig.
A guy came over to my table, despite the whole vibe of fuck off I was emanating. Well dressed, tanned, expensive haircut, about my age but oh, oh so much better preserved.
He had a shot glass of something strong, sat, asked,
“Remember me, Jack?”
“No.”
He nodded as if expecting nothing more, said,
“Jimmy Dolan. I sat beside you at school.”
I gave him the look that is but a twitch away from a glare, asked,
“And?”
Flustered him as intended. He tried,
“Just, you know, I thought I’d say hello.”
Looking like he now knew it was a very bad notion so I eased a bit, asked,
“How have you been, Jimmy Dolan?”
In Irish terms, you use a person’s full name thus, it is as close to a slap in the mouth as it gets.
A slight smile, then,
“I’m in tires.”
Did that require an answer that bore any relation to civility?
I nodded sagely as if I’d read Booker-nominated titles. He said,
“It’s not like I woke up one morning and thought, Whoa, I just gotta get into tires.”
I felt a question was probably required about here, so,
“There’s money in tires, is there?”
He stared for a moment, wondering if there was mockery. Then,
“Let me say, I’ve a nice home, place in the country, Barbados twice yearly.”
Here, he shot his cuff to reveal a shiny Rolex, the new very slim one that, really, you’d be mortified to own let alone wear.
Continued:
“Two boys in the very best schools.”
I wanted to shout,
“I know a guy with two boys in the river.”
Instead, I went,
“The Irish new success story.”
He stood up, went and got a round of drinks, came back, handed me a glass, asked,
“Jameson, right?”
His was a double, mine the lone shot, gulped his, swallowed with a grimace like in the movies, said,
“You’d think I’d be happy.”
I actually thought almost nothing save so what?
I said,
“I should think so.”
He scoffed, near spat,
“Like fuck.”
I said,
“Fried liver.”
He went,
“What?”
“It’s a chess tactic, like the four-move checkmate, and it is a lethal one. The name comes from dead as fried liver.”
He said,
“I don’t play fucking chess.”
I stood up, finished my drink, said,
“And you wonder why you’re not happy.”
*
May 22, in Manchester at a concert for youngsters and teenagers, a suicide bomber killed twenty-two and seriously injured fifty-nine others.
There was a stunned horrific silence
’Round the world.
The next evening, Man United were playing against Ajax for the only trophy they had never won.
The heavens cut Manicheans some slack and they won by two goals.
The globe was now oh, so much smaller and so very, very dangerous.
On the street, a guy tried to sell me the newest craze, fidget gadgets. Designed to allow children to fidget.
How times had changed and oh, so utterly. When we were children, in that country no longer recognizable, we were warned on peril of our lives,
“Don’t fidget.”
A four-day heat wave hit the city and, of course, confused us. The
guys in battered shorts, very white scrawny legs, thick socks, and, phew-oh, sandals.
A and E would be swamped with sunburn cases and heatstroke. Ice-cream vans would make a small country’s killing.
After twenty-five years, Guns N’ Roses returned to Slane and it was even suggested that Axl Rose and Slash were talking to each other after decades of a feud. Murmurs of rehab and AA, sober living plus vegan tendencies slightly dented the old outlaw image.
Eighty-five thousand people were attending the concert with four hundred Guards on duty.
A guy asked me,
“Would you know offhand which page of the Bible tells you how to turn water into wine?”
At the height of the heat wave, a young man put his eight-month-old baby in the car, then went to work. Forgot the baby was there and went to his job.
Returned to the car after five hours to find the baby dead.
The Guards did not arrest him.
Donald Trump wept at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.
Across town, the pedophile Peter Boyne was putting the final touches to his plan to snatch Joffrey. He was in a state of high excitement. Laid out his materials:
Plastic ties
Chloroform
A long knife with serrated blade, not that he wanted to have to use this,
Wanted the goods in fine form.
He had memorized the school times and there was a window early morning as the boy went to meet the school bus.
He would wear black pants, black ski mask, and black sweatshirt. The last was tight, his bulk barely fitting it.
He hadn’t washed the van—white, of course.
They are always white (see Patrick Hoffman’s The White Van).
Dirt obscured the license plates. Not to mention the fact he was a lazy git who could barely wash himself.
Lately he had been in chat rooms dedicated to man / boy love. These were in the dark net where such items as
Weapons
Drugs
Passports
Were available.
Going deep a few weeks back, chugging Southern Comfort and emboldened, he’d gone to the electric website where killing kids was the gig.
It filled him with awe.
Part 2
The Duke of Brunswick Defense
15
Then along came Harley.
Phew-oh.
Where to start with that?
The beginning, I guess.
I was outside Garavan’s, the town hopping. Sunshine and buskers. If Galway had weather all year round there’d be no room for the locals. I was watching a small film unit, with a guy before the camera. He was tall, rangy, lanky, with a breadth of long blond hair, thinking,
He is the spit of the guy who was in the Nordic noir Easy Money, then went on to play the
Junkie
Punk
Recovering addict
In the American version of The Killing,
Which led to a breakout role in House of Cards.
What the hell was his name?
He spotted me, his face lit up, and he did that throat slash gesture that means kill the film.
He strode toward me, his fingers laced to make that frame scene beloved of media people. Ordered,
Nay, commanded,
“Don’t move.”
Then to the camera guy,
“Raoul, get Jack framed against the bookshop. It is fucking downright iconic.”
I was thinking,
Hello, Jack?
He put out his hand, gushed,
“Harley Harlow’s the name and documentaries are my game,
and a privilege to meet Jack Taylor.”
Said in Brit voice interspersed with American twang.
Then aside to Raoul,
“You are getting this, Raoul?”
I said, very quietly,
“Don’t film me.”
He threw up his hands in delight, near shrieked,
“Oh, God, so butch. I love it. You’re even more... primeval than I dared to hope for. I could come right now.”
WTF?
I asked,
“Who in hell are you?”
He did what might be described as the Valley girl coy simper (a horror all its own), asked,
“You’re thinking I look like the guy in The Killing, am I right? Oh, I wish, Jose.”
The name came to me.
Joel Kinnaman.
I put a finger to his mouth, said,
“Shut... the... fuck... up. Now, who are you?”
He pulled back in mock outrage, then smiled.
“We are Hard Productions, award-winning documentary makers, noted entry at Sundance with Crystal Murder in 2003.”
I nearly smiled, albeit with bitterness writ large, echoed,
“Hard? Seriously, like a hard-core porno gig?”
He reached in his safari jacket (yes, the movie version) and took out an e-cig, vaped furiously, then grinned.
“Double entendre right there, Jack-o. It stands for Hit... and... Run... Documentaries. And that is our style: guerrilla tactics, in out, fast furious, like Clint makes his movies, no second takes.”
Since Marion’s call, I was back full-on smoking, reached for my pack of Major—yeah, those coffin nails—then a heavy silver Zippo from my days with Emerald, clunked that babe, lit up, ah...
He stared at the Zippo, drooled.
“So Waylon Jennings, you are going to love the title of this doc.”
I decided to humor the lunatic, asked,
“Hit me.”
He laughed, said to Raoul,
“I love this dude.”
Then to me,
“Gay Indian Nation.”
He couldn’t be serious if he was what I think he was intending. Our new prime minister, a doctor, was
Gay
Indian.
I said,
“Good Lord, you can’t say that.”
He seemed puzzled, asked,
“Is your prime minister Indian?”
“Well, of Indian parents.”
“And is he not of the light-of-foot persuasion?”
God, what a term. I said,
“Yes... but...”
He near roared.
“But me no buts. Aren’t you Irish supposed to be fearless in your speech, as in Bob Geldof, Sean O’Casey?”
Why was I even trying to debate with this ejit? I asked,
“What is the doc about?”
Like I could give a tupenny fuck but anything to be shot of him.
He grabbed my shoulders with both hands, a very risky move. Said,
“You, you, Jack Taylor, are my subject, my quarry, my bête noire.”
Sweet Jesus.
I said with absolute sincerity,
“You’re shitting me.”
He was on fire, started,
“But it’s so perfect, the new broken Ireland, with a broken PI. I mean, you couldn’t make this shit up, man.”
I tried,
“Like that is going to fly, a PI in Galway?”
He mock-intoned,
“Oh, ye of little faith, am I not the dude who made a doc on an anorexic girl way down in the bayou, got tones of sepia and Daniel Woodrell in there, and it got nominated for the Golden Bear in Berlin?”
I kind of wanted to know, not hugely, but in there, asked,
“What did you call that?”
He paused, threw a look at Raoul who was lighting a cig, then said,
“Pangs in the Bayou.”
“Why?”
He seemed genuinely puzzled, said,
“Like hunger pangs, you know, anorexia?”
“I know what it is.”
He slapped me on the shoulder, said,
“Lemma buy you a brew, Pilgrim.”
Added,
“My treat. Your money’s no good when you’re in the company of the Harley.”
Jesus, he actually said that.
I turned, went into Garavan’s. He followed, as did the
bold Raoul. Seamas, I hadn’t seen in donkeys, was tending bar, greeted,
“I thought you were dead.”
“No, I was in England.”
He sighed, answered,
“Same thing.”
Harley motioned to Raoul, Keep frigging filming.
He nigh leaped to the bar, ordered.
“Two boilermakers, my good fellow.”
Seamas was never, ever anyone’s good fella. Maybe shades of Behan’s The Quare Fellow. But good? No way.
Harley added, in a snotty tone,
“You do know what a boilermaker is?”
Fuck.
I grabbed his arm, snarled,
“Rule number one: never antagonize the bar guy.”
For one fleeting moment, something crossed Harley’s face that showed there was something darker beneath the hail-fella-well-met bullshit, and, you know, that softened my view of him, not a lot, but in there.
The pints came and Seamas, God bless his Galway soul, deciding to play along, put the Jay in shooters, the shot glasses. Harley said,
“Let’s do this thing.”
As if we were heading into battle, which, in some ways, we were. He took the creamy top off the pint, then dropped the shot glass in.
It’s all a movie.
Was I going to do similar? I knocked the shot back solo. Harley seemed crestfallen. I asked,
“How exactly is this doc going to go down?”
He had half his drink gone, and it seemed to agree with him as he smiled, said,
“It’s already going down, partner.”
I rubbed my fingers together, said,
“Cash.”
Took some of my pint for effect, then,
“Partner.”
He said,
“Let’s not mess this up with finance.”
I took out a ten, tip for Seamas, looked directly at Harley, said,
“Good luck with that.”
Fucked off outa there.
There is a silence in a cemetery the very moments
before the coffin is lowered into the ground, an
all-pervading stillness, a hush that whispers on the
barren wind, the very essence of tranquillity.
(Kiki Taylor, Jack’s ex-wife)
16
The bland song “The Sounds of Silence”
Had been reinterpreted by a band named, appropriately enough,
Disturbed.
Channeling Metallica, it is a brutal, beautiful, nigh-biblical threat.
In the new version, a black-and-white video accompanies this; it could be a scene from a John Sayles movie.
Almost on its heels I heard