by Ken Bruen
I had to rein in my urge to blast him out of it.
I said,
“You don’t even know why I’m calling. It might be to ask how you doing?”
He sniggered, went,
“Yeah, like that would ever happen. I’m like the cop Dennis in The Rockford Files, used only for info.”
I was surprised he was familiar with James Garner but then guys of a certain age...
I asked,
“How are you, Owen, how are the family? The children must be big now.”
Deep sigh, then,
“My wife left me and we never had a family.”
Ah.
Before I could work any more insincerity, he said,
“It’s about that kid, right?”
“How’d you know I’d be asking?”
Bitter laugh.
“You’re riding his mother.”
I was nearly shocked at the casual crudity, but I asked,
“Any developments?”
He went quiet, said, after hesitation,
“It’s four days now.”
I tried,
“But you are looking?”
“The boy is dead, Jack.”
Pause.
“Or worse.”
Fuck.
I asked,
“Any leads?”
He sighed, said,
“All the usual suspects and some new names the public provided. There are even more crazies out there than you’d imagine.”
I heard him draw a deep breath. He asked,
“What’s up with you, boyo? You’re four days late to the party. What’s that about? Didn’t you give a fuck until now?”
Bollocks.
I tried,
“Um, I was attempting my own inquiries.”
Hoped to God that would fly.
It didn’t.
He laughed without a trace of humor, near spat,
“Jesus wept. You were on the piss. I fucking don’t believe it. Seriously? That’s a new low even for you, Taylor.”
Hung up.
I muttered,
“All in all, I think it went okay.”
The doorbell chimed.
Marion.
Looking like the wreck of many Hesperuses.
She didn’t quite fall into my arms but did wobble in near faint.
I led her into the flat, got her a solid drink.
She took the drink, tears rolled down her cheeks, made a very soft plink against the rim of the glass. What could I say?
The utterly lame,
“It’s going to be all right.”
Yeah, that would fly.
I said,
“It’s going to be all right.”
She gulped the drink, a moment, and then color returned to her cheeks.
When mega-comfort was necessary, the very devil poisoned my soul. I asked,
“How is Sean?”
She was stunned, if more stunning were even possible. She near whimpered,
“Who?”
“Your husband, you know, the guy you forgot to mention.”
Fuck.
It looks bad.
It was. She got to her feet, swayed.
The doorbell rang.
She said very quietly,
“Maybe it’s news of Joffrey.”
It wasn’t.
Kiki.
The women stared at each other, not in friendly fashion.
Marion asked,
“Who’s she?”
She said,
“I’m his wife.”
How valour clothed in courtesies
Brings down the haughtiest house.
(The Angel in the House,
Coventry Patmore, 1823–96)
20
I found myself in Freeney’s, a quiet pub on Quay Street. The tourists stroll right on by, probably misled by the fishing tackle in the window. You get your pro barmen here.
Not quite surly but definitely not big greeters. You get a nod, that’s it, but the service is excellent and the pint is pure quality. The sort of pint that is so fine it seems a sin to disturb the perfect creamy head.
It stocks Midleton whiskey, a brand but a prayer away from Jameson. The selling point, the clincher for me, is nobody can find you there.
Almost.
I was midway through the black, with just a hint of the whiskey, when Tevis sat in the chair opposite me.
He asked,
“Are you a death metal headbanger?”
I looked at him with suppressed fury, snarled,
“Do I look like I am?”
He smiled, shook his head, then,
“You’re a piece of work, Monsieur Taylor. Two women, count ’em, one a wife and the other... fiancée? Or significant other? What puzzles me is the nature of your game—apologies to the Rolling Stones—how you manage to piss them all off. Is it love ’em and dump ’em?”
I said,
“How you know so freaking much about my life is not only creepy but becoming seriously threatening.”
The barman brought him a tall glass of sparkling water.
Unheard of.
To receive table service here... I was fucked if I’d ask him how. He said, holding the glass up to the light,
“Vodka and sparkling water, a surprisingly refreshing if, alas, somewhat gay beverage.”
I said, very slowly,
“You need to think carefully how much it is you want to annoy me.”
He leaned over, gave me a playful punch to my shoulder. I asked myself,
“Is he stone fucking mad?”
He said,
“You’re thinking, am I mad? But let me ask you this. How much would you like to be the guy who saves the boy?”
I stared at him in complete astonishment.
He said,
“Impressive, huh? How much would your intended be grateful if you brought back that snotty little fuck of hers?”
All I had was,
“How?”
He stood up, said,
“It’s a biggie but you mull it over for, like, two minutes.”
He went to the bar, got drinks and an armful of Tayto. Came back, mega-smile in place, dumped the lot on the table, muttered,
“Who’s the daddy?”
Raised his glass, clinked mine, said,
“Here’s the heroes.”
My turn to lean. I did, put my index finger bang in the middle of his forehead, said very quietly,
“Who has the boy?”
He pulled back, a fleeting dance of fear across his face, said,
“A pedophile, and Two for Justice has the location.”
I was outraged, wanted to spit with anger, asked,
“That fucking lunatic, the ex-soldier or who the fuck ever he calls himself, the Quietness?”
He put up his hand, to shush me.
“The Silence. It’s important to get the terms right, especially if you want his um... assistance.”
I tried to dial it down, asked,
“This... guy... knows where the child is, even after four days and is, what, negotiating with me?”
Tevis tut-tutted. I mean he actually made the sound, said,
“You need to tone it down, fella, else I walk and kiss the boy good-bye.”
Later, I’d kill the fuck, asked,
“What does he want?”
He gave a conciliatory smile, said,
“Better. Now to give yourself some breath to chill, hop on up there, get me another one of these refreshing drinks.”
Was he serious?
I asked,
“You want me to ask for that punkish drink?”
He nodded, then,
“Time is a-running, lad.”
The barman responded with a huge smile, said,
“Gay rights, eh?”
I brought the drink back, sat, waited.
Tevis rummaged among the bags of crisps on the table, selected Shamrock with cheese and onion, pulled the bag open, put a fistful in his mou
th, then, between noisy chews, managed,
“Call them there crisps chips in America.”
I said,
“I’ll do whatever it takes to save the boy.”
He finished the chips & crisps, said,
“That’s the spirit. Two for J is very loyal to its, um, clients, and their protection is vital to the ongoing, so it is felt that even though you are a mess, an alkie mess...”
He paused,
Winked,
Said,
“Not my words or indeed even sentiments,
But
You do tend to somehow get results and so your word is needed that no investigation into their affairs will happen.”
I said,
“I give my word.”
“Bravo. Here is what will happen. The boy will be delivered to your apartment, you will ring the mommy, be the hero.”
“How do I explain the rescue?”
“Lie. Lie big.”
He got up, smiled. I said,
“Your name, I figured it... from Walter Tevis, who wrote perhaps the best novel on chess, The Queen’s Gambit.”
He wasn’t fazed, said,
“You need to learn forks, pins, and skewers.”
And he was gone.
Forks, pins, and skewers are some of the sneakiest tricks
you can use against your opponent. These tactics will
lead to defeating your enemy.
(Beginning Chess)
21
I was sitting in my apartment, not drinking, waiting on the call about the boy.
I’d popped a Xanax but a dread had settled in my stomach, not helped by the cigarette I’d smoked.
Ring.
Put me through the roof. I answered, heard Tevis.
“The lad will be delivered to your front door in minutes. Do not wait outside the door. You will then bring him to the hospital, call his mommy, and, for the Guards, you will say you got a call from a source to go to Eighteen, Water Alley, off Devon Park. You found the door open and the child unconscious on an air mattress. The occupant had fled. You immediately rushed him to the A and E. Got it?”
Silence.
Then, irritated,
“Got it?”
“I’m only partially deaf. Is the boy okay?”
A nasty chuckle, then,
“Okay? He’s fucked is what he is.”
Click.
Five long minutes, I counted every damn second, then my doorbell rang. Opened to find the boy unconscious on a sleeping bag, dressed in a white tracksuit, bruising on his face. I called a cab, then his mother, who was hysterical. I said,
“I found Joffrey, am rushing him to the hospital.”
Deep intakes of breath, then she asked,
“Is he alive?”
“Yes, a bit banged up but he’ll be fine.”
Yeah, right.
I clicked off, picked up the boy, blood congealed on the bottom of the boy’s pants. I daren’t think on that, got him to the cab, managed to ignore the driver’s barrage of questions.
The hospital was pandemonium. A hysterical grateful Marion, suspicious Guards, worried doctors. Within a short time the press arrived and the Guards had to extract me from a babble of reporters.
Whisked to Mill Street, the Guards’ headquarters. Shoved, pushed into the office of the new superintendent.
A woman.
In her late forties, with blond hair tied in one of those severe buns that screams: I am not a sexual being. Her face had the requisite hard edges that cautioned,
“Do not even think about fucking with me.”
She said,
“I am Mary Wilson.”
A thug / sergeant was right behind me, breathing curry chips on my neck. I said,
“I didn’t even know you left the Supremes.”
Bang.
From the thug.
It hurt.
I said,
“If this moron hits me again, I will come across the desk and he’ll have to beat me senseless to subdue me. Then how will the press like that the boy’s rescuer had the shit kicked out of him?”
An eye signal to the ape, who moved to my side.
She asked,
“How did you find the boy?”
“Through the very grace of God.”
I managed to move fast to my side to avoid the intended heavy blow to my ribs.
Wilson said,
“Your story reeks. If I find you are connected in any way you are in deep shit. Now get out.”
As they pushed me to the door, I managed,
“Was Diana Ross really a diva?”
The press surrounded me, a gallon of questions until I managed to get into a cab, told the driver,
“McSwiggans.”
As I got out, reached for my wallet, the driver said,
“No charge. You’re a hero.”
Fuck.
Silence
is
the
last
dance
of
the
Disenchanted.
22
Michael Ian Allen.
They called him the Silence.
Meaning, he was usually the last thing you ever heard.
He was the only child of an Irish mother, American father, grew up in Watertown, Boston.
Quiet
Studious
Religious.
A Catholicism verging on fundamentalism instilled in him a fierce passion. He seemed destined for the priesthood but that other organization the Marines claimed him first.
He was a fine soldier, if not outstanding.
Until
Two patrols in Fallujah.
Both patrols were wiped out. He was the sole survivor—if just still breathing counted as life.
His initials had been almost a foreboding.
Some essential part of him had been MIA.
Chess and a warped sense of assisting those who were unable to help themselves lodged in what had been his soul. On leave, he had
2
4
J
Tattooed on his arm.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his mission was until by chance he read an article about a man who tormented his family, received a slap on the wrist from the court.
“Pawns.”
He thought.
Victims who had no recourse to justice.
He’d be their advocate. His sense of definition varied from going after a man who beat his son in a supermarket to a bully who taunted a fat girl on the street. A crash of sounds roared in his head, the explosion of the Humvee.
With that first doomed patrol to the shrieks of the second as a mortar fired on them. Such times he physically shook his head to plead for ease.
A brief visit to the West of Ireland, land of his mother’s people, led to a chance encounter with Pierre Renaud, who had come across Allen curled in a terrorized ball on the shores of Lough Corrib. Renaud had sat with him and gently soothed him down to a quiet green platform and whispered to him,
“Le silence est magnifique.”
A rare confluence of events:
Kindness
The soft words in a soft French
Compassion
Created
A jellying of benevolent quiet in the mind of Michael Allen.
Renaud had gone further... provided a small cottage in the wild of Connemara.
Many weekends the duo spent fishing, hunting, and just finding a solace in each other’s company. One late Sunday evening, the men, tired from a day of hiking along the mountain trails, sat outdoors, sipping pure poteen, a turf fire fresh from the very bog they had traversed, when Allen said,
“You seem troubled, my friend.”
Renaud, prodding the fire into a blaze, said,
“My sons plan to kill me.”
He explained years of rebellion, bad behavior, insufferable attitudes, resulting in the twins’ becoming obsessed with the Menendez brothers. Renaud thought they were just
adding another layer of abuse to irk their father.
They had the books, documentaries on the trial and eventual jailing of the two young killers. Mocking their father with comments like
“The difference is we won’t get caught.”
Their mother, a drunk, refused to see or heed anything that was less than one hundred percent proof. He had managed to find a way to live that had him work every hour he could until...
Until.
He was searching the garage for old tax returns when he came across two brand-new shotguns.
Allen had listened with no interruptions.
When Renaud finally wound down, he was weeping softly. Allen asked,
“What do you want to do?”
A sudden wave of anger crossed Renaud’s face. He spat,
“I want them to go away.”
So it was.
All islanders, no matter what their ethnicity,
live with a certain kind of longing.
(John Straley)
23
Harley, the documentary maker, was frustrated.
He was sitting in the Quays, on his second vodka, staring at Raoul, his camera guy. Raoul was, in fact, the whole crew.
The filming had been going well. He’d hired Jimmy Norman Media to get some very fine aerial shots of Galway at night. Norman Media used drones to huge effect.
Harley had been impressed but hid it from Jimmy lest he wanted payment then. Harley had perfected the fine art of never
Ever
Paying anybody.
He’d told Jimmy,
“Soon as the American money hits, you’re first to be paid.”
Jimmy had smiled, used to Galway shenanigans, said,
“No problem. I’ll hold on to the footage until then.”
Fuck,
Thought Harley.
There was American interest. A film about a broken-down PI in the West of Ireland, what was not to love? Harley had engaged the Galway singer-songwriter to compose a score for the doc. Marc Roberts had been easygoing and didn’t demand cash up front.
Don Stiffe, another in-demand singer, had expressed interest but Don hailed from Bohermore, so he wasn’t writing anything until he had a contract.
Locals had been great, happy to talk about Taylor, and Harley had got a ton of stuff on exploits, mostly false.
The Guards?
Not so much.