by Ken Bruen
Had told Harley in no uncertain terms,
“Fuck off.”
He wished Raoul had caught that on camera.
But best of all, the freaking money hook, Taylor, was now a bona fide hero.
You believe that luck?
Saved a snatched young boy.
Gold.
Pure guaranteed white gold.
Save
Taylor was unavailable.
As
Harley yet again laid out his frustration to Raoul, he noticed Raoul was not listening but watching as a man headed determinedly toward them. He was dressed in black jeans, black sweatshirt, and moved with a sure ease. His blond hair was cut in the buzz style, giving his face a granite look. He reached their table, said to Raoul,
“Get lost.”
Raoul, accustomed to angry creditors, went without a word. The man took his stool, faced Harley, stared directly at him. Harley, uncomfortable, tried some East Brooklyn hard, said,
“Help you, fella?”
The man smiled, said,
“I’m Michael Allen.”
Harlow shrugged, the vodka giving him some artificial spunk, said,
“So what?”
His phone beeped and he reached for it.
Allen’s hand snapped out, gripped Harley’s wrist. Allen said,
“Not now.”
Harley, shaken, tried,
“You know who you’re fucking with, buddy?”
Allen leaned real close, near whispered,
“You are what we used to call back home
A huckster
Flimflam man
Grifter.
But that’s okay. Your Micky Mouse operation could use a major jolt.”
Harley sensed opportunity, so went,
“Tell me more.”
The bar guy, who was already lured by Harley’s claim to celebrity, had watched the proceedings and now moved quickly. Strode over, put a hand on Allen’s shoulder, addressed Harley,
“Everything under control here, Mr. Harlow?”
Letting a nice shade of hard dribble over his tone.
Without a movement, Allen said,
“You have twenty seconds to remove your hand and ten to scuttle back to the bar and get me a sparkling water.”
You work in bars, especially on a hopping street like Quay, you know when to exercise caution. This was such a moment. He withdrew his hand and moved back to the bar. He poured a long glass of water from the tap, added Fairy washing-up liquid to get the bubbles and hopefully poison the bollix.
Walked back, plonked the glass down in front of Allen, winked at Harley.
Allen said,
“Taste it.”
The bar guy was thrown, muttered,
“I don’t do sparkling water.”
Allen said,
“Neither do I, but you will drink that.”
There it was.
Plain as day.
Implied violence. The bar guy stepped back. Allen turned, looked at him, said,
“Hey, just pulling your chain.”
The sound of a cold humor was even more sinister than the outright threat.
As the chastened bar guy retreated, Allen threw,
“Soon as I find out where you live, I’ll drop by, we’ll have us a sparkling old time.”
Then turned to Harley, asked,
“Where was I?”
Harley wanted to cry, just straight out bawl. He said,
“You were mentioning an opportunity?”
Allen smiled, asked,
“An exclusive, a hook to get the U.S. in on the project, an interview with the sicko who snatched the boy.”
Harley saw the lure of that but,
“Will the Guards permit an interview?”
Allen continued the weird smile, said,
“The Guards don’t currently have him.”
Harley worked the angles, didn’t see it, asked,
“Is he out on bail?”
Allen waited a beat, then,
“Peter Boyne is presently staying with me.”
Harley echoed,
“Peter?”
“Indeed, Peter Boyne, and, if I say so, very keen to, how do you say, spill the beans.”
Part 3
The Summer of the Black Swan
24
A good summer in Galway is as rare as integrity. That July
The arts festival
The Galway races
And the black swan.
She appeared in the Claddagh Basin, and speculation was she’d come from South Africa. Not so much credence given there. She drew massive crowds and seemed content to accept food from the onlookers. Even walked on the shore to the delight and apprehension of children.
The other swans ignored her, not big on prima donnas. I watched her glide along the water and a tinker woman said,
“Nil rud maith ag teacht” (Nothing good is coming).
I thought,
So what else is new?
Asked her,
“Why’s that?”
She looked at me, stated,
“Ta tusa an mac Taylor” (You’re the Taylor boy).
I nodded, she said,
“A black swan is black luck.”
I stared at her, asked,
“Really?”
More than a hint of disbelief lining my tone.
She took my hand. Spat in the palm, said,
“Anois ta tu bheannacht” (Now you are blessed).
I knew that gig, reached for my wallet, but she was gone. I looked ’round for her but she’d glided away as silent as the swan. I looked at my palm but it was dry. I said,
“I need a drink.”
*
Pierre Renaud, the father of the murdered twins, was found hanging from a tree in his fine garden.
No note.
The belief was he’d been overcome by grief. I was in Garavan’s on my first pint when Tevis arrived. Dressed in a good suit, linen lightweight, with a very sporty straw boater.
I said,
“Very Gatsby.”
He ordered a small vodka, slimline tonic, said,
“Another sad bastard.”
“Fitzgerald?”
He took a tentative sip. Then,
“No, I meant Renaud. You might say he had a bad heir day.”
I’d heard about the death, said,
“Guilt?”
He gave a nasty chuckle, said,
“More a case of qualms.”
Looked at him, got the nasty smile. He said,
“Ol’ Pierre decided he couldn’t live with what he’d done, so he was going to confess.”
“Did he?”
Tevis finished his drink, contemplated another, said,
“Well, Allen felt there was another option.”
I wasn’t sure where this was going but didn’t like the sense of it, asked,
“You mean he hung him?”
He recoiled in mock horror, said,
“What a nasty chain of thought you have.”
Then he changed tack, asked,
“How is that Sophie’s choice gig going for you?”
I had a fair idea of what he meant but feigned ignorance, asked,
“What are you on about?”
“Your wives? Or wife and concubine? Who’d you choose, the one with the kid? Oh, no, they both have those.”
He gave an evil chuckle, said,
“One of those kids is, how do you say, shop-soiled.”
I hit him fast and dirty, so fast he didn’t actually fall down but it rocked his head like a seizure. No one in the pub seemed to have noticed. I leaned in, steadied him, and whispered,
“You have a real shitty mouth.”
It took him a few moments to orient himself, then,
“Cheap shot, Jack. I thought you were better than that.”
I got to smile, said,
“You thought wrong.”
He glanced around the pub, said,
“Gee, not a
ny of those fuckers realize I was just assaulted.”
I said,
“Oh, they realize. They just don’t give a fuck.”
*
Harley and Raoul were waiting for Michael Allen outside Jurys hotel, at the bottom of Quay Street. Raoul was wary of the whole gig, said,
“What if this guy just offs us both?”
Harley, determined to be upbeat, said,
“Long as you get it on film.”
Raoul went,
“Huh?”
Harley pointed to the swans, said,
“Instead of moaning, you could be over there getting some footage of the black swan.”
Raoul, vaguely interested, asked,
“As a noir metaphor?”
Harley snapped,
“How many times have I explained to you the difference between an indie and a cult director?”
Raoul asked,
“Does either of those guys ever pay the camera crew?”
A white van rolled up, stopped. Allen leaned out, said,
“All aboard the magic bus.”
Harley muttered,
“White van. What a cliché.”
They piled in. Allen burned rubber.
As Harley and Raoul tried to find a seat in the rear of the van, Allen shouted,
“Mind what you touch, that’s a crime scene.”
As they sped up Grattan Road, the van braked suddenly, a group of hippie / monk-clothed people snaked across the road. Harley asked,
“Who the fuck are they?”
Allen sneered,
“The apostles of apocalypse.”
Harley nudged Raoul to begin filming. Allen added,
“Euro trash, their trust funds crashed, so now they chant doom and end of days.”
As Allen revved up, he said,
“Soon as I get some free time, I’m going to give them a taste of Armageddon.”
Harley noticed there was no humor in that statement. The van continued out beyond Spiddal, turned into a small lane, pulled up outside a bungalow.
Allen jumped out, displaying the controlled force of his fitness. Harley followed him into the house. In the front room, bare save for two hard back chairs, a fat man in only his underpants was tied to one chair, sweating heavily. A fading bruise under one eye was the only sign of violence.
He stared at Harley.
Allen said,
“Meet Peter Boyne, child molester and failed kidnapper.”
Boyne said nothing.
Allen indicated the other chair, said,
“You sit there, ask anything you want, and your camera guy can set up as he likes.”
They did so. Raoul whispered to Harlow,
“This is like seriously fucked up.”
Allen said,
“I’ll be outside milking the cows.”
To the baffled looks of all three, he added,
“Come on guys, cows? Really?”
But he did leave.
Harley got himself in interview mood, channeling what he thought of as his Cronkite tone. Boyne stared at him with dull curiosity.
Harley asked,
“State your name, please.”
“Peter Boyne.”
“Occupation?”
Raoul whispered,
“Kiddie hawk.”
Boyne said,
“Lollipop man.”
Harley nearly guffawed. It was like the title of a Stephen King short story. He went,
“What?”
“I help the children cross the road safely.”
He said this without a trace of irony. Harley was delighted, and he pushed.
“And do you abduct them after they are safely across?”
Boyne looked offended, near shouted,
“I don’t abduct children.”
There was a silence as all digested this. Allen appeared behind Boyne, said to Harley,
“Don’t adjust your set. This is a temporary glitch.”
He walloped Boyne twice across the head, said,
“Play nice or you don’t walk out of here.”
Boyne tried to turn to look at him, whined,
“You’ll never let me go.”
Allen moved to the front of Boyne, hunkered down, leaned on Boyne’s knees, said,
“Trust, Pete buddy, we got to have trust, else I take out your left eye. How would that be?”
Boyne nodded. Allen stood, did those neck stretches so beloved of deskbound yuppies, said,
“We’re good to go.”
Harley, shaken, began again.
“Um, when did you discover your, um, taste for, um, younger people?”
Allen moved, slapped Harley on the head, shouted,
“Seriously? This is your hard-core style? Ask him why he fucks kids!”
Harley pulled himself together, asked,
“How many children have you molested?”
Boyne just stared at him.
Raoul said,
“God sakes, this is not good.”
Allen said,
“We need some snap, some pizazz.”
He reached to his back, pulled out a Glock, racked the slide, moved to Boyne, asked,
“Snuff movie, anyone?”
If you have experienced utter silence
where the only sound is the steady beat
of your heart
it is nigh impossible to
readjust to mayhem.
(Sister Maeve)
25
Harley was busy. Very.
In anticipation of the coming success, he’d checked into the top floor of the Meyrick, said to the manager,
“Expect the world press to descend on this hotel in the next few days. You, my friend, are going to be very busy.”
Ordered champagne and began phoning top TV outlets in the States, hinting at the explosive material he had. Looked around, shouted,
“Raoul, the fuck are you? Bring me a drink.”
No Raoul.
Harley hung up on a West Coast hotshot, a nagging feeling starting in his gut. He saw Raoul’s knapsack, rummaged through it. No film.
No film!
But there was a note.
“Dear shithead,
You like to lecture at length about your art.
The art of cinema.
Here’s real art for you.
The guy with the film is the artist,
The guy holding the bag is
Fucked.”
Harley’s scream could be heard all the way down to the lobby.
*
The Galway races.
A week of utter madness, the pubs open until two in the morning, like the city went on the piss. Serious drinkers lay low; this was the time of messers. Apprentice drinkers who got loud and obnoxious.
I was in what civilized folk term a quandary.
Marion and / or Kiki.
I had met with Marion who, alas, wasn’t all that grateful for my apparent rescue of her son. I asked,
“How is the little lad doing?”
She said,
“Like you care.”
Jesus.
I wasn’t seeing a whole rosy future here. I tried,
“I was glad to be able to help get him back.”
Low shot, I know, but, hey, we weren’t playing fair here. She said,
“I feel if we had never met you, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Fucking outrageous, right?
I said,
“That is not only untrue but it’s downright offensive.”
She went with the other weapon.
“Were you ever going to mention your wife and...”
Pause.
“Child?”
Time to fold.
Did I go dirty and mention her husband?
I asked,
“And your husband?”
Kiki.
I met her for a drink in Garavan’s. I ordered a pint and she said,
“How typical of you, Jack. You know I’m in the program a
nd yet you meet me in a pub.”
Aw, fuck.
I had no energy after Marion. I asked,
“How is my daughter?”
She looked at me with a far distance from affection, asked,
“You even remember her name?”
I could have mustered some defense but, instead, I drained my pint, said,
“Have a great life.”
Got the fuck out of there.
I walked along the canal, wondering if it was deep enough to drown myself. A guy was fishing and I stopped to watch. He was intent on the task, then said,
“Jack Taylor.”
I asked,
“I know you?”
He felt a tug on the line and reeled in a large eel, took the hook out then released it, said,
“Stocks are low.”
Then,
“You helped my old man out some years ago.”
Well, finally some brightness.
He asked,
“You a betting man?”
I said,
“I’m not against it.”
He said,
“There’s a horse running at Galway today, the two forty-five, everything about him
Trainer
Jockey
Owner
Is local.
He’s running against some very fancy horses. Like you, a lone voice against the big boys. His name is Pateen. He’s all heart and endurance.”
“Thank you.”
I went to turn away and he added,
“Put a decent wager. Act like you believe.”
I was on my way when he said,
“You know they say, You learn more from a loss than a win?”
“I’ve heard that.”
He gave a very small smile, said,
“That’s horseshit.”
I put an indecent amount on the horse. He was 20–1.
He won.
*
I was heading down Forster Street with my substantial winnings when a small shop caught my interest. Near to the Puckeen pub, it had a variety of Galway souvenirs displayed. At the very back of the items I saw a black swan.
An omen, I thought.
Of what, I had no idea.
Bound to be a metaphor, at least.
I went in and the owner was a quick study in hostility. Without saying a word, he conveyed the notion I was a shoplifter. I said,
“The black swan, I’d like to buy it.”
He stared at me, said,
“We don’t have any white ones.”
What?
I said,