by Ken Bruen
I said,
“I won’t need much. A chair by the window really is all.”
She laughed, said,
“I think I can get you a chair.”
Then gave me that look, an Irishwoman one, of What’s up with you?”
She said,
“You strike me as a man who has simple needs.”
I could have said,
Apart from
Supply of Xanax
Coke
Booze
Cigs.
But I went with,
“I’ll take real good care of your home.”
I asked,
“I presume you told the Guards?”
She gave a fleeting smile, said,
“They said they had more to be doing than worrying about dogs.”
I nodded, not surprised, said,
“I’ll see what I can do.”
And, oh, fuck, she hugged me.
As I made my way back to my apartment I met Jimmy Norman, the DJ / pilot, chef extraordinaire, chatted to him about drones, which he used in his media business. Then, as I headed off, he gave me an odd look. I asked,
“What?”
He said, cautiously,
“You smell.”
Very hesitant pause.
“Patchouli?”
I said,
“Old hippies never die.”
He said,
“No, they usually write books about it.”
*
Michael Allen was sitting outside the cottage he’d been allowed to use by Pierre Renaud. If he were capable of missing anyone, he might have missed the Frenchman. It was with a certain reluctance he’d taken Renaud off the board.
Renaud, more and more, had been plagued by conscience and that wasn’t an option. Allen realized now that his
2
4
J
Had failed.
But he admired his noble enterprise. He was, in truth, a little tired. He considered the choice he’d given to the two Ts:
Taylor and Tevis.
Not that he thought for a moment they’d go for that, no way, no balls.
Tevis would run and had indeed already done so. Maybe when Allen felt more energized he’d locate him, but Taylor was a whole different animal. The dude was a drunk, no mistake, but he had something, a spark, and it might be interesting to see how that could be ignited.
He went back inside, looked at his own self in the mirror, saw mostly a blank canvas. An idea was uncurling in his fevered mind, a plan that would be not only fun but a rather beautiful mind-fuck.
Moved to a large wooden table in the center of the room, unsheathed a large knife strapped under the surface, held the blade up to the light, and for a moment was mesmerized by the way it caught the light, then suddenly he struck it firmly into the very center of the table, liked the smooth motion of the action.
Repeated the motion six times and felt his mind formulate a scheme, then stopped, held himself motionless, then said in a light tone,
“A charm offensive.”
Liked the sound of that.
Stood, then dropped to effortlessly do a hundred push-ups, never breaking a sweat.
He moved to the mirror, stared, still but a vague figure, commanded,
“Drop, gimme me a hundred sit-ups.”
Did those with a total lack of expression, counted them off in a dead tone, bounced up, back to the mirror, shouted,
“Charm offensive.”
The plank.
An excruciating exercise much favored by celebrities. He held that grueling stance for a full five minutes, stopped, took a second to orient himself, then stood again.
A local man, renowned to such an extent for making poteen that even the Guards bought their hooch from him. This morning, he had been sampling his latest batch and may have overindulged. He was now staggering close to Michael Allen’s cottage and thought he heard shouting.
Heard,
“Harm offensive”?
Could that be right?
Staggered on.
Allen now moved to the mirror, saw a handsome guy begin to take shape, and allowed himself a small smile, said,
“Charmed, indeed.”
The local stopped, listened, then said,
“Oh, it’s harm is offensive.”
Considered, then said,
“Gets my vote.”
Defending Against Scholar’s Mate
If you are being attacked by the four move
checkmate, you need to know how to stop it.
You don’t want to become a victim of this cunning
strategy. It’s really very simple to prevent as long as
you pay close attention to your opponent’s moves.
(Beginning Chess)
28
How to prepare for a stakeout. In movies they have
Doughnuts
Thermos of coffee (black)
Empty plastic bottle for pee
Fedora.
The above of course depends on the era, not to mention the ego.
Beat-up inconspicuous vehicle.
Having a house at your disposal alleviates the need for most of the above.
I had a rucksack with
Xanax
Flask of coffee / Jameson
Music
Johnny Duhan
Marc Roberts
Tom Russell/Gretchen Peters
Don Stiffe.
Good to go or, rather, sit.
I dressed in black, of course, and added a hurley as the weapon of choice.
The house was tidy, comfortable. I chose a hard back chair, placed it a bit back from the front window; an armchair would incline dozing and I wanted to be at least semialert.
I thought about who might want to poison dogs, muttered,
“Some sick bollix.”
Surmised an older guy, pissed at the world, too cowardly to confront people, so took it out on dogs.
I looked forward to meeting him.
A lot.
That first evening was quiet beyond belief, not a single suspicious character.
I was humming to myself and thought,
Humming is next to madness.
Not to mention extremely annoying. I took out the hurley, flexed it, took a few practice swings, thought about how Galway had reached the All-Ireland and were meeting Wexford in the final. What I most knew about that city was it produced the fine writer Eoin Colfer.
I played some mental chess, said,
Forks, pins, and skewers are some of the sneakiest tricks you can use against your opponent. These tactics can lead to winning one, maybe more, enemy pieces.
I slept most of the next day, chess pieces in the shape of dogs running riot in my head, my daughter standing at the edge of the chessboard saying,
“You will never hold my hand.”
Woke in a shower of sweat, muttered,
“Sweet Lord.”
The second night, a young couple strolled arm in arm along the street. I thought,
Young love.
They turned at the top of the street and then came back.
Hello?
I watched more closely. The girl was definitely peering into gardens and I knew it wasn’t an interest in flowers. I just knew. A car came into the street and it spooked them. They walked quickly away.
I realized I was gripping the hurley with intent.
Third night, I was bouncing with suppressed energy, waiting.
Midnight came, and I was about to put on my headphones, sink a few Jays, and call it a night when the couple appeared.
Lock and load.
The guy was on the opposite side of the street, the girl on mine, and they were throwing items into every second garden. When the girl reached my garden I was out, fast and shouting.
Scared the living shite out of her. She actually jumped. I grabbed her roughly by the arm, the guy on the other side stared at me, then ran like fuck.
I said,
“How noble
.”
The girl, recovering, tried to claw at my face but I elbowed her in the gut, winding her, said,
“Now, now.”
Picked up the slab of meat she’d tossed and dragged her into the house, pushed her onto the sofa, shut the door. Took her a moment, then she screamed. I picked up the hurley, gave her a wallop on the legs, said,
“Next shot is your face.”
Shut her up.
She was maybe sixteen, pretty in a spoiled fashion, dressed in an expensive tracksuit. I thought,
It’s always the rich kids.
I asked, holding the meat up,
“Why are you poisoning the dogs?”
She was rallying, said,
“We’re giving them treats.”
I smiled, said,
“Really?”
She was now gaining in confidence. I figured I’d let her run on that for a bit, asked,
“If I cook up this bad boy, you’ll have no problem taking a bite?”
She gave a crooked evil smile, said,
“I’m vegan.”
I moved to her, reached into her jacket, got her phone. She tried to grab it, shrieked,
“That’s private, that is.”
Scrolled her photos, contacts, then put the phone in her face, a photo showing, said,
“This will be the noble lad himself.”
She said,
“He’ll kick your ass.”
I laughed, asked,
“From a distance?”
I checked the phone some more, said,
“David Lee, well, he’s left you to take the rap.”
She was still thinking she had some room, asked,
“What rap?”
I lit a cig, said,
“A young child put some of your treats in her mouth and is in the hospital so, at a guess, attempted murder.”
She gasped.
“My mum will kill me.”
I said,
“Tell me about the poison.”
She suddenly caved, began to cry, sniffed,
“Rat poison. David said it would be a bit of, you know, drama.”
I was tired of her, said,
“You can go.”
“Really?”
I waved her away, said,
“Tell Dave the Guards will be in touch.”
She was about to leave when she looked at me, said,
“I know you.”
I shook my head, said,
“I very much doubt that.”
She was certain, insisted,
“You were in the papers, saved some guy, and you’re some kind of...”
Searched for a description, then,
“Hero.”
She weighed that in her nasty little mind, then demanded,
“Give me my phone or I’ll say you raped me.”
Ah, fuck.
I moved right into her space, said,
“If you Google me, you’ll see, among other items, I killed a girl, about your age, and guess what?”
She took a step back and I moved in tandem.
She tried, shakily,
“What?”
“They never could prove it.”
She grabbed her coat, ran for the door. I shouted,
“Watch out for the dog.”
*
In every city there are people who will hurt anyone you wish.
For money.
Galway now being a city that had our designated hitters.
Led by a man named Tracy, who was of mixed Brit / Irish heritage, his only allegiance being to cash. I knew him from past misadventures. Best of all, he loved dogs.
I met him in Crowes bar. He was sitting at the rear, nursing a pint of Smithwick’s. He looked like an accountant, one whose books listed damage and mayhem. Dressed in a lightweight gray suit, he affected an air of bland innocence. He greeted,
“Jack, my man.”
Good start.
I said,
“You look well, Trace.”
You had to know him very well to use the derivative of his name.
He smiled at that, signaled to Ollie Crowe, who brought a pint of Guinness and a Jay chaser. Tracy said,
“Took the liberty.”
We did the Sláinte bit, then I slid a fat envelope across the table. He raised an eyebrow. Asked,
“Personal or simply business?”
I said, simply,
“Guy who hurts dogs.”
The smile was gone. He said,
“So personal, then.”
I told him the saga and said I had been unable to track down David Lee. He was quiet for a while, then,
“This Lee, he poisons dogs?”
I nodded.
“Any reason why?”
I said,
“I’m guessing he’s one of those who like to hurt animals.”
Trace gave a tight smile, said,
“I’ll enjoy a chat with him.”
He stared at his relatively untouched pint, said,
“I drink maybe six of those, I get to the place, you know what I mean?”
I sure did.
He continued,
“Give me two shots, I’m there in like three minutes, so why delay?”
I said,
“I cover that with a pint and a shot.”
He liked that, said,
“You always had a way about you, Jack. Not fully nuts but circling.”
I said,
“I have something else but in the major league.”
He looked at me, said,
“The Michael Allen psycho.”
I was surprised, asked,
“You know him?”
He was quiet a bit, then,
“My trade is certainly no stranger to violence but this guy, phew. He’s a whole other gig.”
Meaning he couldn’t help. I asked,
“Any advice?”
No hesitation,
“Shoot the fucker.”
To
fully
appreciate
silence
you
have
to endure
a ferocious amount of noise.
(Michael Allen)
29
Galway won the All-Ireland hurling final!
The city went wild, three days of party central.
That the Irish team failed to beat Serbia in the World Cup qualifiers almost—almost—went unnoticed in our jubilation. Flush with joy and Jay, I made a last-ditch effort to salvage my relationship with Marion. I mean, if Galway took the Cup after thirty years, then surely I could win back my lady.
Met her, went
Like this.
She was dressed to dazzle, but not me, alas. We met in Jurys hotel, neutral ground, in the lounge there, surrounded by tourists asking reception why the wi-fi was on the blink. I was dressed soberly, in white shirt, funeral jacket, pressed pants, polished shoes, and massive hope.
For now.
She launched,
“I’m reconciled with my husband.”
What do you say?
“Congratulations”?
Or go with your gut, go,
“Fuck it.”
I lied.
“I’m happy for you.”
Yeah.
She near snarled,
“No, you’re not.”
Okay.
I asked,
“How is Jeff, um, Joffrey?”
She actually sneered.
“You can’t even remember my child’s name.”
Stir of echoes.
For some bizarre reason, Marion’s tone of voice recalled my late mother at her most bitter. She had accused:
“You want to put me in a home.”
“No,”
I’d shot back.
“I want to put you in an urn.”
Marion looked at my dark clothes, not seeing any aspect that appealed.
She said,
“Try and introduce some color into your appearance. You
look like something died.”
Yeah, something died sure enough. Was dying and wilting right in front of her.
I said,
“Right, then, have a lovely life.”
I was already walking away when she said,
“I’m happy for your wife.”
WTF?
I turned, asked,
“What?”
“We ran into each other the other night. She introduced me to her new man.”
I said,
“But she left Galway.”
She gave what might have been a very nasty smile, said,
“Afraid not. She seemed so lit up and you know what she said was really great?”
Heavens, I couldn’t wait to hear, asked,
“Yeah?”
She said,
“He is so good with the little girl, as if she were his.”
The hits kept on coming.
I said,
“So good of you to share.”
I went to the bar, ordered a large Jay, the guy there asked,
“Ice?”
I said,
“I’ve had enough ice in the last ten minutes to last a decade.”
He placed my drink carefully before me, said,
“There’s been an explosion on the London Underground.”
I muttered to myself,
“The grief is endless.”
He asked,
“You hear about the student in Oxford?”
No.
I shook my head, so he said,
“A homeless man asked him for some change?”
I waited.
“He took out a twenty-pound note, set fire to it, said, Now it’s changed.”
I looked over at the Claddagh Basin, wondered how long it would take to walk over there and just fucking jump.
I drained the glass, set some money on the counter, said,
“Take it easy.”
He said,
“I’m taking the plane to Australia.”
I was standing outside Eason’s, huge stack of Hillary Clinton’s
What Happened
On display.
Really, she had to ask?
A girl came up to me, got right in my face. I said,
“Back it off.”
The dog poisoner said,
“David has got a broken arm, his face smashed, and said to give you a message.”
I said,
“Make it brief.”