by Ken Bruen
“Steve?”
I struggled to keep my voice in check, asked, “Was there an inquest, did it say it was drowning?”
He sounded gutted, went, “The coroner called it ‘death by misadventure.’ “
What a fucking term, when they don’t know if it’s foul play or suicide, they apply that meaningless description. Like, what? Siobhan’s great adventure went astray? I said,
“Thanks, Mike, sorry to put you through this.”
Concern in his tone, he asked,
“You going to be okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He hesitated, then risked, “It’s just, you have an American accent.”
I could have laughed, finally got under the skin, said, “Talk to you soon.”
Hung up.
They buried Stapleton in the local cemetery, nobody had come forth to claim him. I went to visit, stood over the freshly turned clay, spat on it, said,
“You cheated me.”
I’d wanted the showdown, an old style settling of a blood feud. I’d sworn that the next meeting with him, I’d be ready and one of us was going to die.
I wondered who prayed for Siobhan, it was far too late for my pleas.
Rang Bob, told him my business in Arizona was done, he asked,
“Did you use, the item from Vegas?”
“No, never came to that.”
“Good, you still want to work for me?”
“Sure.”
I heard him rustle some papers, then, “We have a client in New York, he thinks someone is going to kill him”
“Is he right?”
“Well, why you don’t fly up there, ensure it doesn’t happen.”
“Now?”
“Unless you have a reason to stay where you are?”
I thought about it, said,
“No, I’ve no reason to stay.”
I made a call to Mike at the music shop, asked him a large favour, said I’d send the necessary money to cover the request, he said it wouldn’t be easy, they didn’t allow burials outside the city limits, I sealed the discussion by up-ping the amount.
I had a terrible phone call to make, would have put it off if I could have thought of any way out, but it had to be done.
To ring Kaitlin.
I sat on my bed in the motel, arranging the script and it wouldn’t write. My hands were covered in sweat. I’d a fifth of bourbon on the table, poured a double, knocked it back. Didn’t ease the dread. Dialled the number and she answered almost immediately, I said,
“Kaitlin, it’s Steve.”
And oh god, she sounded full of life. Energy and warmth pouring from the phone, saying where the hell were we and why hadn’t Siobhan called her, I stopped her, said,
“I’ve some bad news.”
“Bad, how bad, are you all right?”
Fuck.
I said,
“It’s Siobhan.”
And could hear the instant concern in her tone, she near roared,
“Is she sick, I’ll come, you tell her I’ll —”
“She’s dead, Kaitlin.”
A pause, the longest I’ve ever endured, and then the disbelief . . .
“Dead, how can she be dead, not Siobhan, Sweet Jesus, tell me it’s not true.”
I could hear the sobbing, the rising hysteria in her, said, “I wish it weren’t true, Kaitlin, I’m so sorry.”
Could hear the repeated flick of a lighter and she wailed,
“Why can’t I light this bloody cigarette?”
I suggested she get a drink, and on the spur she asked, “You having one?”
Like we were in a bar, buying rounds, like it was normal, caught unawares, I said,
“I’ve a large bourbon in my hand.”
She screamed,
“A drink, like that’s going to help, tell me what happened!”
I tried to choose my words, said,
“They said that —”
And she roared,
“They . . . who the fuck is they, isn’t she with you . . . God almighty, wasn’t, wasn’t she with you?”
“No, it happened in Ireland.”
Her breathing sounded raw, ragged, and she said,
“Just tell me.”
“They . . . I mean . . . am . . . she drowned, an accident, I’m sure.”
Enraged her, she went,
“You’re not even sure of what happened, what’s wrong with you?”
Good question. I said,
“I’m sure she’s dead.”
“You promised to mind her, you promised me, you gave me your fucking word, didn’t you, didn’t you promise?”
Her weeping was horrendous, I said,
“Yes, I promised, I’m so sorry.”
She let loose a torrent of abuse, recrimination, interspersed with sighs of such pain that I felt as if she were physically assaulting me, that would have been preferable to what I was hearing. I was holding the phone so tightly that it cut into my palm. In my torment I said,
“If there’s anything I can do?”
Christ, talk about the wrong selection of words . . .
Ice in her tone now, she mimicked,
“Do? Maybe you could give me your word, but there is one thing you can do.”
I grasped at it like a slim prayer, said,
“Anything.”
“You can roast in hell.”
Banged the phone down.
My whole body was shaking and I thought, “Oh yes, that I can do, I’m already most of the way there.”
An odd encounter after I checked out of the Lazy 8. I was waiting for a cab to take me to the airport. A pickup stopped, the engine still running, a guy hopped out, swinging the door carelessly, if I hadn’t stepped back, it would have hit me. I said,
“Jaysus, take it easy, you nearly whacked me.”
He stared at me, a curious expression flitted over his face, he scratched a scar shaped like a sheet of lightning on his cheek.
He stared at the Band-Aids clustered on my cheek, then he shook his head, said,
“My mistake, partner.”
He walked towards the rear of the motel, his boots clacking against the concrete, the heels in need of repair.
He reminded me of someone, I was in the cab when I got it, Christopher Walken . . . then I forgot about him.
Dade was on his second beer when he realised what was niggling at him. The dude, outside the Lazy 8, his accent, was there a trace of Irish in it? He shrugged it off, thinking,
“Two Irishmen at the Lazy 8, naw, couldn’t be.”
But it wouldn’t go away, so he stalked the motel again, got himself another bellboy, laid out the bucks and discovered yes, the second guy had an Irish passport though he spoke like a New Yorker. Got the dude’s name, Stephen Blake, mail to be forwarded to the Milford Plaza, New York. And yes, he had had a package of CDs sent from New York. An old song by Tammy, “Please Come to Boston,” began to unreel in his head.
He changed Boston to New York, began to hum that.
My second day back in New York, darkness had such a hold on me, I thought I’d never see the light again. I’d made contact with the businessman who felt his life was in danger, was due to meet him later in the day. Agitated, broken, I was walking, found myself on the bridge over the Hudson, the thought of suicide was strong, join Siobhan. Almost automatically, I reached to my neck, unclasped the chain and fingered the gold Miraculous Medal, as if somehow it would connect me to the spirit of Siobhan.
Then I raised it in my fist, hurled it high, it glittered for one brief, fiery moment, then dropped into the water.
It was such a tiny thing, I didn’t really expect it to make a splash, but I waited, then turned and began to stride away, the sound of my new Arizona boots cracking on the asphalt . . . the whisper on the Manhattan wind . . . dead man walking.
On a small hillside, a half hour’s drive from Galway City, overlooking the bay, there is a granite headstone, it overlooks the spot where Tommy’s body stands s
entinel against the cold Atlantic. Takes a lot of juice to have a burial there, for juice, translate as money, lot of it.
The headstone is new and catches the light as the sun dips from the west. Lights up the few lines inscribed there:
“Mind her well.”
If you were of a dark frame of mind, you’d almost think it’s irony.
It’s certainly a knife in the heart.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Ken Bruen
ISBN: 978-1-4976-6546-0
This edition published in 2014 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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KEN BRUEN
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