by Ken Bruen
Lethal.
He asked,
“Got a watch?”
“Sure.”
“Look at it.”
I did.
He said,
“Fifty minutes is my record. I’ve bet the boyos I can get it down to forty-five minutes or all drinks on me tonight.”
He did.
The water gig was only part of it. The Para was freed from his restraints, covered in feces, urine, vomit, and shame. He fell on the floor among the remnants of his once fine teeth, scattered on the wood like bloody nuggets of careless cruelty. He begged, “Shoot me.”
We were then hustled out, fast, to a shebeen, one of the illegal drinking clubs of the Movement. Had us one hell of a night, ceili music and the rousing songs:
“ The Men Behind the Wire,”
“James Connolly,”
“The Girl from the County Down.”
None of it could erase the sound I’d heard as we reached the top step of the basement, on our way out.
A single shot.
You can’t… take… down a headstone.
– Fervent belief in the west of Ireland
December 8.
I checked the calendar, saw it was Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception’s Feast Day, and hoped to God she might lend a hand. Just in case, I doubled up on the Xanax. Two more in my all-weather Garda coat, nestling beside the Mossberg. A silver flask given to me by Laura, jacked with Jameson, and an amphetamine crushed to powder. Bring me up to speed so to pun. My heart was racing and my hands had a slight tremor. Fuck.
With the cocktail of stuff I had in my system, I’d either die, throw up, or settle.
My stomach was losing the plot, didn’t know did I want to be cranked, mellow, on fire, or what the blazes. Thank Christ. The Xanax won out over the questions that had been plaguing me:
Will Bethany tell? Will they be waiting in ambush for us? The pills whispered,
“Chill.”
I did.
Left the apartment, a freaking one-man army of pharmaceuticals and firepower. A half-arsed version of the American dream. In my mind were uncoiling the words of “Lookaway, Dixie Land.” Elvis hadn’t so much left the building as stormed out with murder aforethought. Limped across the Salmon Weir Bridge, not one salmon jumping, and that was a crying shame. Everything poisoned.
Cut by the Town Hall announcing a forthcoming Marc Roberts evening. I’d go if I was still mobile. Then into Wood Quay, turned into Eyre Square. Paused.
Might be the last time I’d see it. The Xanax said,
“Fuck it, you’ve seen it enough, drive on.”
I did.
Threw a glance at Debenham’s, soon to lay off ninety percent of the staff. Jesus. Came to the Meyrick Hotel and turned into Forster Street. About one hundred yards now from the designated killing zone.
My heartbeat had settled as I walked into the car park behind the school. I could hear the kids, the delighted shrieks of joy and childhood. As I found a place to crouch, hidden behind two cars, another school bus arrived, dispatching some of the special needs children. Most seemed to be Down syndrome. Tore and ripped at my shredded heart. I bit down, made her face go away.
My mobile shrilled, putting the heart sideways in me. Answered.
Stewart.
He was parked outside the school, where Bethany had divulged the two brothers would launch. He asked,
“You… OK, Jack?”
“Yeah, you?”
Pause, then,
“Nervous and alight with adrenaline.”
I said,
“Hush.”
Saw a white van turn into the car park, exactly as Bethany had told me. Crossed my mind to shout, like Sam Shepard in Black Hawk Down
….abort, abort, abort. I whispered,
“They’re here, bhi curamach.” (Be careful.)
He took the deepest breath I’d ever heard, replied,
“Leat fein.” (You too.)
Clicked off.
Lock and load.
The van opened, four figures spilled out, all dressed in black combat gear, and on the back of the jackets, in red… Headstone. I thought, fucking everybody advertises. A large combat bag was on the ground and they began to pull out its contents.
A fucking arsenal. Enough firepower to keep Afghanistan lethal for a year. The two brothers, Remington rifles, grenades, ran to the front of the building.
The remaining two:
Bethany, appearing strung out and spaced, held a shotgun in her thin arms. Then Bine…fuck, I recognized him. Ronan Wall, the swan killer, the psycho brat, shielded by money and upbringing, to get to this-massacre of handicapped kids.
Like fuck.
He was barking at Bethany and I felt a twinge of sorrow for her. She hadn’t told, had shown up, knowing we’d be waiting, and had that awful expression of the truly doomed, nigh pleading,
“Do it.”
Mr. Macho, having torn her a new arsehole, began to arm up. A bandolier of shells around his shoulder, a Glock in his hip holster, and the piece de resistance, the Remington Pump, in the neighborhood of my Mossberg but not as rapid. The guy loved hardware. Starring in his own movie, he racked the pump, pushing shells into the chamber like a good un. I was about to send his movie straight to video. He slammed the van door, then marched towards the back school door. I stepped out, said,
“Hi buddy.”
He turned around, stunned. His mind couldn’t quite collate the scenario. He said,
“Fucking Taylor, always fucking Taylor. The fuck is with you man, following me around?”
I said,
“I like swans.”
As they say in literary novels, a frozen tableau. The word tableau gives that careless hint of learning but not pushing it. Ronan finally got it, turned to Bethany, said,
“You cunt.”
Shot her twice in the face. I clubbed him with the Mossberg and he went down fast-not out, but dazed. I moved to Bethany, cradled her head in my arms for a moment, tried not to look at her devastated face, muttered,
“Thank you.”
If she heard me, she gave no sign, just a soft sigh as she let go of all the troubled existence her so short life had been. I felt a torrent of rage escape as I turned back to Bine/Wall/the fuck ever. He was reaching for the Glock on his hip. I kicked it effortlessly away, pushed his legs apart, stood over him, the Mossberg pointed at his groin, reached down, pulled his top aside, and tore my Medugorje chain from his neck. He said, spitting blood and teeth from where I’d clubbed him,
“What now, Taylor? You going to shoot me?”
Gave a harsh laugh, pushed his hand towards me, commanded,
“Help me up.”
I put my mutilated hand in his face, said,
“Alas…”
Added,
“All I can give you is… the index finger.”
I looked down on the concrete he was lying on, said,
“See that slab you’re on? Kind of like a headstone, you think?”
He spat in my face, said,
“Get real, Taylor. I’m connected. Like, I got juice. So fold your pathetic tent and fuck off, I have history to write.”
I gut shot him.
Let him savor that awhile. Moved the barrel up to his right eye, the one the swans hadn’t taken all those years ago, asked,
“This your good eye?”
He was finally beginning to realize that maybe there was a court of no appeal, that no family, no money, upbringing, class, would step in to save him. He pleaded,
“I’m insane, don’t know what’s right or wrong, you have to get help for me. Right, Jack?”
I said,
“The thing with your good eye is you’ll see it coming.”
He did.
I pumped three shells in there and kicked his fucked-up body for good measure.
Then I was moving. As if the Hound of Heaven was nipping at my heels, thinking,
“We get out of this, I might even go back to mass.
”
Heard the wail of sirens, a whole shitload of them. Kept moving. I was near the end of Forster Street when Stewart pulled over, the door open, the engine still primed, he screamed,
“Move. Fast.”
I did.
Sweat teeming down my cheeks, I glanced at Stewart. He wasn’t much better. We were past the Meyrick Hotel, turning down by the Tourist Office and into Merchant’s Road. Stewart, not booting it, desperately wanting to.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I could hear the clock, not on our side. One error and we were fucked. Outside McDonagh’s, but a docker from the water, he pulled into a vacant space near the hardware store. I opened the flask, took a deep hit, offered it. He took it, coughed, near spluttered, gasped,
“The fuck is that?”
I said,
“My own concoction, I might patent it, call it Headstone.”
He wasn’t amused but did take another hit. I was fingering the Medugorje stones like an unreasonable mantra. He asked,
“What’s that?”
I said,
“A hint of grace.”
We tried to get our respective shredded nerves in gear.
I asked,
“How’d the Guards respond so quick?”
He stared straight ahead, said,
“I called them.”
Jesus wept.
I grabbed the flask back, hit it with ferocity, said,
“Fucking great, just brilliant, Christ Almighty.”
He continued,
“Actually, I called Ridge, said she’d find two wannabe Columbines handcuffed to the front door. And that two more shooters were at the rear so to bring backup. The credit and publicity will rocket her career.”
I had nothing, so he asked,
“How’d it go for you?”
Almost dreading the answer, he knew it wasn’t going to be good.
I sighed, said,
“A lovers’ quarrel. Bine/Ronan Wall, he shot her after she opened up on him with her Browning.”
He asked the most inane question, an indication of how madness, gunplay, adrenaline affect people,
“She had a Browning?”
“She does now.”
Part of him wanted the details but most of him didn’t so he went with,
“And you think the Guards are going to buy that?”
I nodded, said,
“Sure, wraps it up nice and tidy.”
The booze had calmed him. He leant back, his head on the seat, then asked,
“OK, you think if we get past this, you might really tell me how it went down?”
I considered for all of two seconds, said,
“I seriously doubt it.”
Ridge was on the front page of all the newspapers, banners proclaiming:
“Hero Ban Garda Prevents First Irish Columbine.”
The accounts narrated her overpowering the two brothers but despite her valiant efforts, she was unable to prevent the deaths of the ringleaders who apparently had, in a bizarre pact, killed each other. Sales of We Need to Talk About Kevin went through the roof. Gus Van Sant with Elephant and Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine sold out of HMV and Zhivago.
The papers speculated on the weird deaths of Bethany and Wall and concluded:…A love affair, fuelled on drugs and would-be celebrity, gone berserk when faced with the actual enormity of what they were about to undertake.
Yada fucking yada, on they went, fuel for the talking heads.
Most of the editorials called for Ridge to receive the President’s Medal of Honor. Promotion was a given.
She called me, demanded,
“We have to talk.”
“I don’t think so.”
A pause, then,
“Jack, I can’t accept credit for what I didn’t do.”
Jack!
I weighed my words, let loose,
“Stewart gave you shelter when you needed it. You open this can of worms, he might go to jail. Trust me on this, he would not be able to do time again.”
Slam dunk.
I hoped.
Then,
“Jack, I need you to tell me the truth on something.”
“Fire away.”
Tentative,
“Did you have anything to do with the deaths of the girl and Ronan Wall?”
I could see Al Pacino in Godfather Two as Diane Keaton asked him something similar, said,
“You get to ask me this just one time, right?”
“OK.”
“No.”
Did she believe me?
Did she fuck.
I could feel the cluster fuck of questions she had but she let them slide, said,
“So, I’m indebted to Stewart, then.”
“More than you know.”
“Jack…Bhi curamach…be careful.”
“Leat fein….you too.”
***
I had two calls to make. Rang Directory Enquiries and got the number of the new private investigator in town, Mr. Mason.
Rang and he answered with,
“Ultimate Investigations.”
I said,
“I’ve heard you are a great PI.”
Let him bask.
He did.
Then,
“Well, thank you, we do our best or, as our slogan says, our Ultimate.”
Jesus.
I said,
“I’ve some hot information for you.”
“Your name please?”
“David Goodis.”
He was all biz now, barked,
“So David, let’s hear it.”
I gave him Kosta’s address, said he was about to move a major mountain of coke at seven o’clock that evening but to be careful, he carries a Glock always and is extremely dangerous. “He was involved in the killing of that Ronan Wall.”
Rang off before he could quiz me.
Then called Kosta, opened with,
“It’s Jack.”
He didn’t sound surprised. If anything, he was almost friendly, said,
“Thanks for returning my car.”
I launched,
“You helped me in so many ways so, to clean the slate, I wanted to warn you that a guy posing as a PI is going to arrive at your home at seven. He’s been hired by the Romanians to avenge Caz’s death. I don’t know how they manage to get their information but they do. Maybe, the daily threat of deportation has them on constant alert.”
He digested this, then,
“Thanks Jack, maybe after this… matter, we can be friends again?”
I let that dance, said,
“We’ll always be close.”
He laughed, said,
“A bottle of Stoli is waiting in the ice bucket, my friend.”
On ice.
I said,
“Works for me, hermano.”
He finished with,
“Del corazon, mi amigo.”
Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win.
– Irish saying
Kosta phoned the following evening, just after the Angelus bell had tolled. Outside, a fierce storm was blowing, one of those sudden blasts of terror that come without warning. The windows in the apartment shook from the power of it. He said,
“Yesterday evening was as you had forewarned me, thank you.” I already knew how it went down. Had called the Guards’ hotline and told them a crazy man was going to try and trespass on Kosta’s property. They were waiting for him and he was now in custody, trying to Brit his way out of a gun charge and various other violations.
“You are all right?”
He laughed, said,
“I am but my visitor-let’s say he won’t be making house calls for a time. The police were not exactly gentle in their handling of him.”
As if it just occurred to me, I said,
“Come pick me up, we’ll celebrate.”
Now the trace of caution entered his voice, he said,
“Jack, i
t’s blowing up a hurricane now.”
I laughed, went with,
“It’s Galway. If you let the weather dictate your life, you’d never go out.”
His intuition battled with his machismo and he conceded, said,
“OK, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
I was waiting outside, being blown to freaking bits by the wind. He opened the door of an Audi, urged me in. He had certainly dressed for the elements: a long Barbour coat, navy wool cap pulled over his ears. Now for the tricky part. I suggested we go to Blackrock, the area of beach passing on from the Salthill promenade. Before he could protest, I added,
“It’s the best view and, trust me, buddy, no more awesome sight than the Atlantic at full roar. You up for that?”
Poking his pride.
He put the car in gear and we were speeding out of there. His face was stone. As we came off the Grattan Road, I saw the off – license I was heavily dependent on still being there, said,
“Kosta, stop a moment. Let’s get some fortification for the wind.” He pulled over, began to get out, asked,
“Jameson?”
“Perfect and oh…”
Like I’d just thought of it,
“A pack of Gitanes.”
I didn’t want them but I desperately wanted to buy time and prayed the assistant would have to go looking for such a brand, or at least explain why they didn’t have it. I only needed minutes.
Four minutes and he was back, tossed a pack of Marlboro, said,
“No Gitanes.”
The bottle of Jameson felt heavy as he handed it over. He glared at the sea, said,
“It’s getting worse.”
He had no idea.
I said,
“Something you’ll never forget.”
That clinched it.
He parked near the tower, the silhouette of the diving boards barely visible in the driving rain. I said,
“See, under the tower, a shed. We can get protection there. When we were kids, we used to huddle under there, watch the sea roar.” If kids had done it, how could he baulk? He sighed, reached in the glove department, took out the Glock, said,
“Force of habit.”
We made our way down along the side, the wind tugging like the worst kind of religion. Once inside the shed, we caught our breath, I unscrewed the Jay, handed the bottle over, said,
“This will warm you.”
He took a deep draw, handed it back, and I toasted,
“Long life.”
I used the Zippo to fire us up and he put the Glock on his knee, the charade at an end. He took but one long fervent draw on the cigarette and flicked it into the storm, asked,