by Ken Bruen
“And for you Mr. Tayor?”
“Pint and a Jay chaser, oh, and you call me Jack.”
His face ran a gamut of emotions, none of them exuding warmth.
He said,
“Righty-ho, see you anon.”
The fuck was this guy? Who on heaven’s earth spoke like that?
And he was gone.
Trailing coldness in his wake.
Whatever else I know, I knew bacon and cabbage wouldn’t be his.. . forte?
And I seriously doubted he watched True Blood.
I stopped outside the hospital, saw Gabe already disappearing into the River Inn, and reached into my jacket for my cigs. Yeah, yeah, I know,
“Smoking again.”
Rationing them, OK?
I cranked up my Zippo; it had the logo,
“Fifth of…”
And gulped down a lungful of Blue Superkings.
I moved over to the dismal smokers’ shed. It should have a sign proclaiming:
“Give me your huddled masses.”
A motley crew of: frazzled nurses, patients, I kid you not, trailing IVs, stunned relatives, and
Dr. Ravin.
I know my kin. For once I did the decent thing. I pretended not to see him. A man, my age, with a jaundiced pallor, on crutches, said,
“Hiya Jack.”
I did the Irish gambit, when you haven’t one flogging notion of who they are, said,
“Jesus! Haven’t seen you in ages.”
He moved closer to me. He had the scent of death on him, I know it from familiarity. He said,
“I’m Gerry Malloy.”
I didn’t ask,
“So how are you?”
He was on crutches, looked desperate.
He was fucked.
I lied,
“Great to see you Gerry.”
He looked furtively around, then confided,
“I’m hoping to get a big claim out of this.”
I ground my cig under my boot, said,
“My fingers crossed for you.”
He licked his bottom lip, a gesture like the onset of dementia, said gleefully,
“If they cut off my right leg, I’m set for life.”
OK.
Before I could hazard,
“Good luck with that,” he asked,
“Jack, could you spot me a twenty? You can see I’ll be rolling in it so no worries about payback.”
An arm and a leg as they say.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
I gave him the note and as I limped away, he shouted,
“Big hug to your blessed mother.”
I waved… yeah.
She was dead five years but I had a feeling he might be able to deliver the hug in person sooner than he reckoned.
A lapsed Catholic is simply one who is hedging his bets.
– Ken Bruen, from
“Reading at Random,” in Collected Essays, 2001-2005
I arrived at the pub, a long fifteen minutes after Gabriel. He’d found the corner table, and a lone ray of sunshine was beaming through. Did it illuminate him?
No.
Seemed to emphasize the aura of darkness around him-or maybe I just needed a frigging pint.
He was finishing their famous handmade soup, dabbing at the corners of his mouth like a petulant nun. A lone pint of Guinness, forlorn in its solitariness, opposite him, like a sin he’d refused to absolve. I indicated the chair across from him and he waved me to it. The waitress, a rarity-she was Irish-approached, greeted,
“Hiya Jack.”
He gave me the look, like, how often are you in here?
I gave her my best smile and meant it. She turned to Gabe, asked,
“Father, have you decided on your main course?”
He had.
Demanded, not asked,
“The Dover sole, lightly grilled. Are the vegetables fresh?”
“Yes, Father, we had a fresh delivery just this morning.”
He never looked at her. This guy was accustomed to hired help. He said,
“I’ll have the brussels sprouts, a side salad of coleslaw, red onions, and, of course, in olive oil dressing.”
She risked a glance at me, her eyes saying,
“Bollix.”
She asked,
“Usual Jack?”
“That would be great and thanks.”
He looked up, queried,
“You eat here regularly?”
“Drink, I drink here… regularly.”
Like this was news to him. He reached down, fetched a beautiful brown leather briefcase with a symbol on it:
T. B. E.
I thought I knew it but couldn’t bring it to mind then.
I would later, ruefully… as I learnt it meant The Brethren, Eternally.
I said,
“You didn’t have that in the hospital.”
He was mildly impressed, said,
“A keen observer, that’s good, very good. My driver brought it over.”
He had a driver? I asked,
“DUI, that it?”
The briefcase was snapped open-and I mean, snapped. Then he rested his tanned hands on it and, fuck, were his nails… manicured?
His tone was now that of a stern parent to an unruly child. He said,
“I know all about your smart mouth, your-how shall I put it- cynical repartee, but it’s wasted on me so let’s drop the smart-alec pose, shall we?”
I threw him with the monosyllable
“Fine.”
His chastisements obviously carried huge freight in his usual circles. He asked,
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isn’t Jesus about love, spreading the joy, or are you more the school of,
Man is born of woman and is full of misery?”
He leant back, folded those perfect hands in his lap, said,
“You remember your Catechism.”
“No, I remember me funerals.”
His food came. He snapped at the girl,
“Glass of sparkling water, very thin wedge of lemon.”
Waved her away. I said,
“Bon appetit.”
I hoped it choked him. He didn’t answer, set about his food like a rabid dog, ate with a ferocious determination. This was his food and by Christ he was going to have every last bite. I drank, thanked the girl when she brought my Jameson, and waited for whatever this prick had in mind.
Finished, he cleaned the corners of his mouth, delicately, with the napkin, took a sip of water, said,
“To business.”
“I can hardly contain myself.”
Briefcase flicked open again. He took a fat envelope, passed it over to me, said,
“A retainer.”
I didn’t touch it. He stared straight into my eyes. I knew he didn’t much care for what he saw there. He said,
“The church, as you are well aware, has been under intense scrutiny; the errors of the few have cast a shadow on the many.”
I nearly laughed out loud.
Fucking errors!
Echoed,
“You mean the child molesters, the Magdalen Girls, our local bishop who refuses to resign despite the whole country howling for his head?”
He winced.
An actual physical tic appeared under his left eye, began a rat-tat-tat like the drumbeat of the fallen.
He reined it in, said,
“Recovery must come from within. To that end, a group was formed within the church to deal with misconduct before it becomes public.”
I said,
“A splinter group, like the Provos breaking from the official IRA?”
His efforts to control his temper were admirable. He almost sneered,
“I don’t believe we have been accused of bearing arms?”
I said,
“Yet.”
And before he could muster, I added,
“Least with the IRA, we could see the weapons.”
He asked, in a patient, icy tone,
/>
“Might I continue?”
“Go for it, Gabe.”
“Our reform group are known as the Brethren, and, despite your cynicism, Mr. Taylor, we have managed to avoid further unsavory revelations.”
He said avoid. I heard, cover up. I let him drone on.
“Alas, our chief fund-raiser and most active member, Father Loyola Dunne, seems to have disappeared.”
I sat back, let the moment linger, then,
“Let me guess: him and your slush fund?”
He was silent, seething. I pushed, “How much?”
He had to drag it from deep down, gritted, “Three quarters of a million.”
I gave an appreciative whistle, said,
“And you can’t go the official route. You want him found, discreetly, No, let me rephrase that: you want the cash back?”
His eyes burning on me, he said, “In a nutshell, yes.”
I said,
“Tried Vegas?”
His patience with me was well gone. He shook his head, flicked the briefcase again, slid over a photograph, said, “This is Loyola; his details are on the back.”
A man in his late fifties, with a kind face, laughter lines on the eyes, high forehead, but deep bags under his eyes, heavy jowled.
I asked,
“A drinker?”
Tight smile, then,
“None of us is without our frailties.”
“Want to share some of yours, Gabe, help us… bond?”
He shut down. The meeting was over. He handed me a tiny white card, three phone numbers, said,
“You report only to me, and need I stress that speed is of the essence?”
I nearly gave the Nazi salute but it would have been too obvious.
I flicked his card on the table, said,
“You’re forgetting the important bit.”
Finally, with a look of surprise, he indicated the fat envelope, said,
“I think you’ll find the fee more than generous and a speedy resolution will result in a very handsome bonus.”
I said,
“You don’t listen too good, do you Gabe? So, I’ll say it slow, you might be able to hear it then. I haven’t said I’ll take the job.”
His lips literally peeled back to reveal those marvelous teeth.
He said,
“Mr. Taylor, you are a Catholic, lapsed, perhaps, but still part of our flock. You have helped the Church in the past, albeit reluctantly, I understand, but surely you want to see the Church restored to its former glory?”
Back to its bullying days, its arrogance, its total disregard of the people. I had an overwhelming desire to wallop him, a powerful right hand to his tanned face, wipe out one or two of those perfect teeth.
I said,
“I’ll take the case. One, because I think you’re lying through your teeth. Two, it’s a blast to be actually receiving money from the Church. But know this, Gabe, I don’t report and I’m not, no way, part of your flock, lapsed or otherwise.”
It was impossible to gauge how he took it. He stood, said,
“I have covered our dinner bill.”
I asked,
“When was Loyola last seen?”
He was already leaving, said,
“He gave the eleven o’clock mass in his parish ten days ago and then disappeared.”
He strode off, master of all he surveyed. A vague rumor of piety in his wake. He hadn’t wished me
“God bless.”
In lieu, I counted the cash, a blessing in its commercial self.
Later I picked up some books from Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop.
Vinny in full metal said,
“They’re preparing a flood fund for the families devastated from the rains.”
I said,
“Why don’t they just use their usual slush fund?”
I bought a shitload of books, including:
Jason Starr,
Craig McDonald,
Tom Piccirilli,
R.J. Ellory,
Megan Abbott.
Vinny said,
“Nice selection.”
I also picked up Carol O’Connell, I don’t care what anyone says,
Mallory was a definite influence on Stieg Larsson.
In Find Me, there’s a passage that scalds my soul.
“….he asked her
‘Why don’t you want to have kids?’
Mallory said
‘Because I don’t know what they’re for.’”
My apartment in Nun’s Island was sublet to me by a guy who decided to take a gap year in his late forties. Some gap. Reeked more of midlife crisis but better, I guess, than a red sports car. He showed no inclination to return and I wasn’t encouraging him. Nun’s Island is a small neighborhood, nestling close to the cathedral.
And, yes, there are nuns.
The Poor Clares.
An enclosed community. To simply enter their grounds was to find a rare tranquility. To tread lightly on holy ground. They were currently running a campaign to pay for the restoration of the convent. Titled:
“Buy a Brick.”
You bought a brick by buying a ticket which then went forward to a lotto. Being newly flush with cash, I went to them, offered the Mother Superior fifty euros. She protested it was too much. She noticed me staring at her neck. Nuns, like cops, see everything. I thought, if you’re staring at a nun’s neck, you need a brick.
Hard, to the side of your head.
I was entranced by a necklace she wore. It appeared to be tiny beautiful stones, threaded through a silver chain. Each stone had a letter. She noticed, was delighted, said,
“It reads, Medugorje.”
I asked,
“You’ve been?”
She shook her head at such an idea, said,
“No, my sister went, and, you know, she said, ‘The sun danced in the sky.’”
Like all nuns, she had that flawless skin. Why the cosmetic companies aren’t researching them is a mystery. Her eyes were clear blue, lit with a lovely hint of devilment. She asked,
“What do you think of that?”
I had no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
She pulled out a batch of cards, asked,
“Your name, please, for the draw?”
“It’s Jack but honest to God, no need to put me on the tickets.”
She seemed surprised so I tried,
“I’ve never been lucky.”
I was about to leave when she took the piece from round her neck and slipped it over my head, I began,
“I can’t…”
She said,
“Better be blessed than lucky.”
That moved me so.
Go figure.
My last encounter with a nun had resulted in murder. Outside, the sky was darkening and the deadly ice they were predicting seemed to hang, waiting. A guy was selling DVDs outside, I guess he figured even nuns watched movies.
Newly blessed, I bought:
Orphan,
Traitor,
Passengers,
District 9, and I swear to God
Sam Raimi's
Drag Me to Hell.
There is some mega-metaphysical irony in all the above but I’m fucked if I can join the dots. As I headed off, the guy said,
“Cool chain dude; Medugorje rocks.”
Bono must have played there.
A new off-license had opened, the budget had been announced and. .. the price of booze was lowered.
In a country devastated by alcohol, they were encouraging us to drink. It was state of the art premises and even offered loyalty cards! And brews you’d never see ordinarily so I stocked up on my favorite hard-to-get brands:
Shiner Bock,
Blue Moon,
Asahi,
Sam Adams.
I’m an alkie, I’m hurting, I’ll drink anything, even aftershave, and have done so.
Though I suggest you avoid Old Spice.
But as Derek Raymond sa
id, in The Crust on Its Uppers, I can be a beer buff.
What this flashy new place showed, though, deep in recession, we were not only drinking as mad as ever, but with some discernible taste. I got back to my apartment, anticipating a blast of Blue Moon and twenty minutes of Johnny Duhan’s new album. I had a wad of cash in my jacket, new DVDs, the literal blessing of a good nun, and a new case. Laura would soon be coming from London.
How good can it get?
I don’t do happy.
But I was real close then.
Wouldn’t I just love to be the poster boy for Prozac, have a kickarse smile perpetually in place, plaster my face on those Prozac bottles, with the logo,
“We Rest Our Case.”
But my past was too littered with the wasted and the wounded. Ever hear Marc Roberts sing “Dust in the Storm”? Listen and weep.
I’m not a total eejit, I’ll grab the moments of peace, fleeting though they be, when they deign to appear. That’s how I was feeling. Opened the door of the apartment, a ton of junk.
I’d won ten million in the Nigerian Lottery, got a voucher for a free pizza from Papa Joe’s, an appeal for orphans, till I came to a small tightly wrapped parcel.
In black paper.
Uh-oh.
Neatly printed in red Gothic lettering on the front was
“Jack Taylor.”
Not good. A gut feeling, I fingered the Medugorje chain round my neck. My apartment opens up to a large room, which has the books, TV, laptop, and leads to a small kitchen. Marble-top counter from Connemara constitutes the dining area. I placed the package there and pulled back from it. Opened the fridge, pulled out a Shiner, drained half that in jig time. No shite but those Texans make good beer. I approached the package as if it were incendiary. My history of such mail was all bad.
Took a deep breath and tore it open.
Out, onto the marble top, fell a perfect miniature sculpture.
A headstone the size of a Bic lighter.
I stared at it, muttering,
“The fuck is this?”
It was exquisitely carved, polished to a high sheen.
Any other circumstances, I’d have admired the sheer artistry.
In a state of alert, I reached for the dictionary, looked up the definition, got
“A stone at the head of a grave.”
All my instincts screaming,
“Throw it out… now!”
Halloween was already gone, so I felt this was less trick or treat as more trick and threat.
No coincidence that the clocks were due to go back to winter time and when that happened, it was a long time to the light.
If the package was meant to unnerve me it did.