Ken Bruen - Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

I made the tea, the cop’s mike was eating at my nerves, I snapped, ‘Can’t you shut that bloody thing off.’

‘No can do Sir, any chance of a cuppa?’

I gave him the look, said, ‘No can do pal, know wot I mean?’

Doc took the tea but was unsure what to do. I said, ‘Drink it.’

‘OK.’

He took his reading glasses from the table before him. I thought ‘Wot, he’s going to read now ,’ and he said, ‘Can I have a glass of water?’

Before I could act, he began to feverishly polish the lens, saying ‘This was not a boating accident.’

For that moment, he was Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws and then he switched channels. This is a case for the 87 Precinct, Steve Carella and Bert Kling. Meyer Meyer was as bald as an egg – ‘let’s hear it for the deaf man’ – Steve’s wife, Teddy, was a mute. Carver City and the boys of the eighty-seven. Shit, I nearly forgot Lieutenant Byrnes. I looked up and Quinn was there, said, ‘Yer mate’s losing it, the Doc’s gone doolally.’

I said, ‘Let’s take this outside.’

Before I could get into it, he said, ‘I hate to laugh and run but, it seems you’ll need a new partner, it being a two-man job.’

‘You want to explain that Quinn?’

‘Yer repos – I mean wot else are you two into?’

I’d clenched my fists, never had I wanted to take down a guy so bad, I could taste blood in my mouth, said, ‘You like to put it in people’s faces Quinn, get right in there and fuck. Keep it up.’

He gave a huge grin, ‘Oh, I intend to. Next time you have an away day, that you take a wee excursion, I’ll be there. You’re all mine Cooper.’

‘Good, I’ll be looking forward to it… you mangy piece of shit.’

Returning to Doc, I took it as a positive sign that he was drinking the tea. He said, ‘According to Freud, a man doesn’t become a man till his father dies, so I wonder what he reverts to when his partner goes.’

‘From the evidence, a babbling idiot.’

He turned to look right into my face, added, ‘She really didn’t like you.’

Jeez, thanks a bunch Doc, I needed to hear this now. I didn’t say anything. Gave one of them wise head-nodding gestures, reeking of understanding. But, he thought I wasn’t getting it, grabbed my arm tightly, ‘No, I’m serious Davey. She didn’t care for most people, but she fuckin’ loathed you.’

I tried to interpret this as grief but, if he kept it up, he’d really be in bloody shock. ‘She said you were a cold fish, that beneath your frosty exterior was more ice.’

I thought she’d had a rough deal. Doc’s years in prison, his uncertain future, her horrendous death… and then I thought… fuck her.

The funeral was huge, villains like the full show. Cops came too though not in a mourning capacity. What a display of cars! I once read Maurice Gibb describe success. Remember him, the Bee Gees. He said he was standing at his front door looking at a street packed with motors and knew, ‘They’re all mine.’ I looked at the line of vehicles and knew, they’re all repos.

Noble came, same lousy raincoat, said, ‘She was a good ’un.’

‘You knew her?’

‘Never laid an eye on her – or a finger – but what the hell else is there to say.’

Doc looked downright elegant. Black suit, tie, and the manic-shined black Martens. His daughter, Emma, was out from the boarding school. A flash little piece of jail-bait, she asked me, ‘Did you know my Mum?’

‘She was a good ’un.’

‘I don’t think she liked you.’

Great.

The reception was Irish, booze and food. Doc was in the middle of the crowd, stories chasin’ the whisky, or is that vice-versa. Anyway, like that. He was saying, ‘So this wanker takes a look at me, sees I’m a big ’un, says I used to be scared of a couple of blokes… I says yeah… and I’m the both of ’em.’

Maybe it was the wedding he’d never had. I strolled over to read the condolences. A mountain of them, you’d swear Laura had a lock on Mother Theresa. The tributes to a woman who never was. I felt if no one had showed, Laura would have respected that. One card I had to pick up, it read:

With gravest respects,

Louis MacNeice

‘What!’

Doc touched my arm, said, ‘Can I get you a bit o’ grub, a drink?’

‘No… no thanks, you don’t have to play host… OK’

‘Jaysus, don’t bite the face off me, I’m just trying to be hospitable.’

‘What? Oh right – look Doc, I’m sorry, it’s just there’s something weird going on.’

Doc pushed a drink into my hand, asked, ‘Are we still on?’

‘You mean next week. Jeez, I dunno – under the circumstances, shouldn’t we, you know.’

‘You think I’m not bloody up to it. Don’t worry about me fella, I’ll keep my end up.’

‘No, I mean, the cops are all over us.’

‘And, if we don’t go it’s as plain as a confession.’

‘But better than actually getting caught.’

Doc swallowed a huge drink. Didn’t knock a feather outa him, gave me the no shit stare, said, ‘Dave, I have to have this money, OK…’

‘We’re not hurting.’

He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand, said, ‘Will yah listen to him! I’m up to me arse with school fees, the memorial to Laura…’

‘The what?’

‘In marble. I promised Father Cleary the new Church wing would be Laura’s wish.’

I couldn’t believe it, said, ‘I can’t believe it. Well be in the wing – on friggin’ Parkhurst.’

‘Are you with me or not Dave.’

What could I do. He was the only person ever to fight my corner.

‘OK… but.’

‘Good man, now drink up – you’d think it was your funeral.’

I went back later to get the condolence card but it was gone. A bad feeling like talking death was all over me, whisperin’ – ‘soon’.

Father Cleary was early sixties – I’m not referring to his age. He had that aura of optimism and stupidity. You just knew he hummed the Beatles. Couple that with the air of the professional beggar and you’d a near-lethal cocktail. He approached me with gusto and I thought, ‘Watch yer wallet.’

His greeting, ‘Ah, Mr Collins I do declare.’

‘It’s Cooper.’

‘Really?’

He sounded as if he’d never quite reconciled himself to liars, then, ‘Are you sure. Ho ho, listen to me, course you’re sure. I wanted to thank you for the generosity of your donation from the firm.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Too modest Mr C. You’re not of our persuasion, I take it, which makes it even more magnificent.’

‘That’s one word for it.’

‘You’re not an atheist I trust.’

‘Presbyterian.’

‘Same thing.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Just joking, some ecclesiastical humour.’

‘Is that what it is. My father was a God-fearing man.’

‘And passed over has he – the poor creature.’

‘Took off actually.’

He gave a look round, time up for me but I figured I’d hold him a bit as he gave his exit line.

‘Laura had a grand send off.’

‘I thought you guys, the R.C.’s, frowned on suicide.’

He prepared his smile, more of the e-humour: ‘Naturally we don’t encourage it but an air of leniency exists nowadays. For example, we don’t insist on ceremony or titles so much. You needn’t call me Father, you can call me Pat.’

‘Why on earth would I wanna do that?’

And he hadn’t a reply. His smile dissolved, so I gave him a playful push, a forceful one, added, ‘Hey, lighten up Padre, that’s a little repo humour. Isn’t God after all, the ultimate repo man.’

And left him to it.

No doubt he could work it into a sermon. Very little got by him save the invention of dry cleaning. He’d had the shiniest black pants I’d ever seen, from pure wear. Made of Terylene, remember that. The sheen accessorised the spit in his soul.