by Ken Bruen
In one fluid movement, Kosta lit two cigarettes, handed one over.
He had the instincts of a feral cat.
I took a drag, coughed. He said,
“Gitanes.”
Gypsies.
He was a veritable United Nations of moves, gestures, and actions And his instincts were uncanny. He said,
“Jack, your face tells me you know this man.”
When all else is up for grabs, sometimes, the truth is the only way. I said,
“I do.”
He watched the ash on his cigarette, letting it build, then,
“And, he is a friend, n’est-ce pas?”
I considered, said,
“We’re about to find out.”
I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent and omnipotent God would have designedly created parasitic wasps with the express intention of their feeding within the living bodies of caterpillars.
– Charles Darwin
Bine was dressed in full combat gear, as if heading for a riot. All he needed was a face shield to complete the picture. Blown up behind, in glorious Technicolor, was the school, the relevant positions marked in red. He was wearing a holster holding a Walther, and around his neck, beads with stones spelling out Medugorje.
Bethany watched him as he downed some speed, working up his shtick, getting ready to impress his minions. She thought, as she’d thought so many times,
“Arsehole.”
And wondered yet anew about men and guns. Like freaking kids with toys. Give them a weapon and even deadbeats like the lame brothers developed a swagger. Jesus, she wanted to puke. But she had a lust/heat gig going with Bine and still wasn’t sure where it would go. Mainly, he gave the constant rage she felt a focus. Gave her the jolt to feel alive. Too, she had to admit, when the sorry prick got ranting, he was mesmerizing. Got her to do stuff she’d never thought she’d have the grit to even attempt. And got her off on her little independent flights, like the mind-fucking with the alcoholic Taylor. Not something she felt was wise to share with the crew.
And, if they pulled it off, a first in Irish history, as Bine kept saying, she’d be famous. Maybe get on Oprah, have Angelina play her in the movie, and be on the cover of Hot Press. One thing she knew: the girls rarely did jail time, they just did a Linda Kasabian and squealed. Even in the movies.
She tuned back in to Bine, took a hit of the speed her own self, washed it down with today’s special, Jack Daniel’s. Bine was into his rap. She’d missed the starters, never no mind, it wasn’t too difficult to play catch-up. He said,
“Now this cat Stewart, the ex-dope dealer, is a whole different ball game than the lesbian and Taylor. This dude has interests in the head shops, so that tells us the guy is clued in. He did six years in the Joy and no, I don’t mean an English barmaid, I’m talking h-e-a-v-y time in Mountjoy. So the dude is cool, into some Zen bullshite, but real laid-back and real sharp. I’m thinking, like, we got to waste the dude, right when we make our move, no bringing him back to base, just close his case there and then.”
He’d been OD’ing on Pulp Fiction again.
Bethany was dizzy trying to sort out his American expressions and distorted brain sequence. Bine looked at Jimmy, said, “Your assignment is to watch this guy, twenty-four-seven. You hear what I’m saying? Like all the time, and when you get his routine down-and I mean like cold bro-you report back.”
Jimmy was down all right, and nodding, not from the assignment but from the sheer amount of coke he had inhaled. His brother, always the sharper of the two, asked,
“Who’s going to put out this dude’s lights?”
Bine smiled, his recent tongue ring still not healed, so his mouth looked like the sorry pit of disease, said,
“Eeny
Meeny
Miney
Mo.
Catch a retard by the toe…”
His finger stopped at Bethany. He gave her that look that scared her, like he knew what she’d been thinking and was way ahead in the fuck you department. He asked,
“You cool babe? You up for this?”
She shrugged, said,
“Whatever.”
Getting enough boredom in there to convince him. It seemed to. He asked,
“You gonna go up close and in the dude’s face, like with the Stanley-or you wanna waste him mega, like with the AK?”
She risked a look into his eyes and just saw the psycho megalomania, said,
“I’m thinking, the blade, yah know? Send a message to Taylor, let him know, like, it’s on the edge, like we’re burning bad.”
Even with drugs, sometimes she found it difficult to trot out the half-arsed Americanisms and ghetto gangsta shite. But he bought it, said,
“I’m liking it, lady. I’m real up on this.”
Bine downed his tumbler of Jack, gulped as it hit, turned to the blowup of the school, and then, reaching for a samurai sword-which was still legal to buy in Ireland-pointed out the entrance, said,
“I’m thinking, the bros go in here.”
Paused, did a little flick with the sword, nearly dropped it, which they’d have to pretend not to have seen, recovered, said,
“Here, the back, me and the babe, we’ll do our mojo from here, start killing the retards as they head for the exit.”
He let that hover. Jimmy asked,
“You got a head count in mind?”
Bine graced him with a bow, said,
“I’m thinking twenty-four would be, like, adequate.”
Fever Kill
– Tom Piccirilli
We got to Nimmo’s ten minutes before the appointed time and in silence. Both of us thinking on Caz, but for wholly different reasons. Kosta, no doubt, wondering how much of a stand-up guy I was going to be. And me, thinking, how much of a friend do you have to be for me not to kill you?
Jesus, ghosts must do again what once they had thought was over and done.
A BMW, shining new, was already there, blocking the end of the pier. Kosta said,
“Ah. How predictable. He so likes his expensive toys.”
His eyes aglow with such venom that I could have lit a cig from them, he ordered,
“Reach in the bag for the satchel. The money is in that-the money he thinks is his.”
I gave it to him and he asked, without looking at me,
“Ready?”
“As rain.”
We got out, waited by the Volvo. The BMW bathed us in its lights. Two figures emerged, began to stroll towards us. Caz was nervous, I could see it in the slope of his shoulders. And he didn’t even know yet that I was part of the gig.
Edward.
Edward was glorious. Beautifully coiffed blond hair, permanent tan, aviator shades, and, of course, of fucking course, an Armani suit.
Jesus, didn’t anyone dress down anymore?
He was striking in the way that certain sharks are. You could admire their sleekness but you didn’t ever want to get close. He said,
“Who is this? I told you Kosta, I told you to come alone.”
Now I could see Caz’s nervous eyes and the twist in his body language. He was trying to say,
“No problem.”
Kosta said,
“My driver, like you have.”
Edward was enjoying the rush, the sense of calling the shots, asked,
“Has he got a name?”
Kosta was totally relaxed, said,
“Employee.”
Edward enjoyed that a lot. Asked,
“You got my money?”
I kept hoping the macho posing, the cock of the walk-or pier-bullshit would be all we’d have to deal with. These guys were having themselves a fine old time, strutting and mind fucking. Kosta threw the satchel at his feet. Edward, without looking at Caz, said,
“Count it.”
As Caz knelt, and began to do that, Kosta asked,
“How do I know this is the last time?”
Edward laughed, said,
“You don’t know shit, I’ll l
et you know when I’m done.”
Kosta looked at me and I slid the Mossberg out, racked the slide. Edward laughed harder, asked,
“Is that to scare me…whoo-eh, I’m so afraid. Fuck your employee, fuck you.”
I shot him in the face, range of about five yards.
The proximity nearly took his head off -clean off. Caz, on his knees, looked up as pieces of brain and gore splattered over the money and his face was a study of pure bewilderment. He began to rise when Kosta shot him between the eyes, a great shot if you weren’t a friend of the one on the receiving end.
He moved fast, stood over Caz, put in the coup de grace. He glanced at me, the Mossberg still in position, and with his boot shoved Edward into the water. Then he turned, plucked the sodden notes from my dead friend’s hand, pushed them in the satchel, said,
“You drive the Volvo, I’ll follow in their car.”
A moment.
The gun in my hand, my mutilated hand, still hot from the firing, and I thought,
“Yah think?”
But Kosta was up and moving and I’d have to shoot him in the back.
He said,
“Jack, I’m truly sorry for your friend.”
I said,
“Not my friend anymore.”
Lowered the Mossberg and got in the Volvo, reversed, turned towards the city, looked in my mirror to see Kosta boot my friend into the dark water. Said,
“Codladh samh leat mo chara.”
….Sleep safe my friend.
Yeah.
I felt as fucking hollow as the words.
We got to Kosta’s home, parked the cars, and, standing outside, he touched my shoulder, said,
“Let’s get inside, get some serious drink in us.”
I shrugged him off, said,
“Oh, I intend to get some serious drinking done but not with you, not now.”
I began to walk down the driveway, knowing the thugs were at the gates in every sense, and my back exposed to Kosta.
If he’d shot me, I felt he would have truly done me a service.
He didn’t.
I made my slow way into town, got into a crowded Sheridan’s on the docks, ordered a large Jay, took it outside so I could smoke and get wasted. As I was doing this a guy approached, started,
“Jack.”
Without looking, I said,
“Fuck off.”
And looked across the Claddagh basin to the pier. The double Jameson didn’t erase what lay beneath the water. I don’t think they’ve invented that drink yet, the one that wipes the slate clean of utter treachery.
Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win.
– Irish saying
The next week passed in a daze, Stewart and I trying to get a solid line on Headstone, both now feeling that time was of the utmost. That the major event these lunatics were planning was edging closer. Friday morning, I was up early, not booze early, but eight o’clock.
Like that.
Feeling numb, feeling dead. You kill an innocent friend, you get to hoping the fires of hell will be roasting. Dwell on it, and they already are. I had my coffee, black, bitter, strong, no sugar. No sweetness, Jesus, God forbid. Showered, shaved, Xanaxed to the goddamn hilt, switched on the radio.
Galway Bay FM.
Jimmy Norman’s breakfast show. Helped me chill. He plays the best music-music that makes you yearn. And he keeps it light, keeps it moving. He was saying that Keith (Finnegan) on the top of the hour had some special guests but…
He had the Saw Doctors on the line from Australia.
Their manager, Ollie Jennings, is just about one of the nicest people I ever met.
And seeing as I don’t do nice, that is something unique. The Saw Doctors, from Tuam, just down the road a piece, were the perfect blend of traditional Irish, rock ’n’ roll, and their own spin on live gigs was to be seen to be believed. They’d been around almost as long as I’d been slogging my befuddled gig in Galway. But they’d gone global. A new drummer, new album, and they sounded as down-to-earth as if they’d just released their first single. Not a notion in their repertoire. In America, they’d said they were fans of Jodie Foster, she got in touch and, as the lads said,
“Went for a burger with them.”
I just loved that.
And, they said,
“She was quiet.”
There is something awesome in that apparently simple meeting.
When a legend blends with the iconic, and the result is humility, fuck, you want to shout,
“Bono, hope you’re taking notes.”
Jimmy asked if they’d do a song, live, right then and there, and they did. Just sang.
My foot was tapping along, just in the groove with the best of Irish, when the phone rang.
You get a call out of the proverbial blue that knocks the bejaysus out of you. I’d had a dream, on Thursday night, that I still hadn’t been able to shake. Laura was back in my life. I swear, I could feel her hand in my mine.
For reasons not at all.
We were feeding the swans at the Claddagh, and she leant back into my shoulder and I was so deliriously happy.
And woke.
Tears on my face, coursing down my cheek.
Hard arse that.
Had muttered, in a vain attempt to shake it away,
“’Tis the holy all of it.”
The awful loss had paralyzed me. I’d sat on the side of my empty bed, woebegone. In fucking bits, then shouted,
“Get a fucking grip.”
Had
Kind of.
I’d made my own self busy, and then pulled on a sweatshirt that bore the logo:
NUIG, Ropes.
My oldest 501s and my winter crocs, the ones that whispered,
“We love you, love your feet.”
You are getting love from shoes, you are so seriously deranged, it’s pathetic.
And I’d been relishing Jimmy’s show, with the Saw Doctors, hated having to answer the damn phone. Said,
“Yeah.”
In that icy tone.
“Mr. Taylor, it’s Sister Maeve.”
I had given her my number, never… never expecting to hear from her. But nuns, they give nothing away, in every sense. I said,
“Ah, good morning, Sister.”
Lame, right?
She replied,
“Mr. Taylor, you are a very unusual man, a mix of tremendous sadness and such violent acts.”
I’d need a little more to go on than my character analysis, said,
“I’ll need a little more to go on.”
I swear to God, she seemed to be suppressing utter joy, said,
“Father Gabriel and his… housekeeper have taken off and with all of the Brethren’s funds.”
Gabe did a runner? I knew I’d got his attention but that he legged it, phew-oh. I was literally lost for words, tried,
“Really?”
Now she let it loose, said,
“Oh, Mr. Taylor, it means the Brethren are a spent force. Their terrible shadow has been lifted.”
I said,
“That’s great.”
Meant it. She replied with,
“Mr. Taylor, I’ve become familiar with your methods and I don’t much approve, but this… I knew you were involved and you turned it around, did our Church a true service. God bless you, Jack.”
And rang off.
I was still trying to digest this when my mobile shrilled.
Stewart.
“Jack, starting today, I’m going to be at my head shop every day at three. I’ve let my routine out along the grapevine so people know where they can find me. If you’re right and they’re trying to make a move on me, well, here is a routine they’ll find.”
I said,
“Give it three, four days, they’ll bite.”
“What makes you so sure?”
I thought about all we’d discussed, tried to figure it out, said,
“They are working towards a ver
y definite timetable and everything needs to be in place for the mad bastards.”
He gave that some thought, then,
“Why are you so certain they’ll target me?”
Easy answer if not exactly true,
“You got a headstone in the mail, as did Ridge and I, we have both been… shall we say… contacted.”
He sounded just that little bit wary-not a trait he displayed much-asked,
“You’ll have my back, right?”
“Count on it, buddy.”
He lingered, reluctant to ring off, said,
“Three to four days, you think.”
“Absolutely.”
For the first time in my chaos-ridden life, I’d called it right on the money.
***
I was staring out at the lone Galway Hooker, at easy anchor in the bay, like a Galway snapshot of a particular era. No, not a working girl, the beautiful boat built in Galway. It gave me a vague comfort that is inexplicable. I’d taken a moment to go down to the docks and just stare at it, knowing this might well be the last visual peace I’d have. Then turned to the city and the business of bait.
As we waited for Stewart to establish his routine, I went to the city center each day, never knowing how some chance encounter might yield information. I nearly looked for Caz, had to switch channels, focus on the job at hand. Had an encounter all right, just not one of any normalcy.
I was limping along Shop Street, trying to avoid all the buskers; you give to one, you’d better give to all. A man stopped me. I vaguely remembered him from way back, when I had a career and he had notions. Not either of us, not no more. Life had walloped the slate clean. Dave. I don’t know how I dragged up his name but he’d been a player in the property game. Rode it till the bust and went belly-up himself. I always kind of liked him as, beneath his past posing, I’d detected a deep hurt from childhood. The industrial schools that only Seamus Smyth has ever really captured on paper. Concentration camps for young boys, militarized by the church. Dave tended to talk in sound bites, lest you ever nail him down. He launched,
“Jack, the cunt bank refused my plea for an extension of my mortgage.”
You’d infer from this that I saw him regularly, was intimate with his life. Such are the Irish, tell you all or fuck all. I hadn’t laid an eye on him for over ten years. He’d weathered that decade bad, if appearances were any indication. Shabby clothes, furtive eyes, a face of broken veins, and that purple complexion of the desperate drinker.