Ken Bruen - Purgatory

“The comic spirit is a necessity of life, as a purge to all human vanity.”

— Oscar Wilde

Stewart had gotten an appointment with Westbury. Dressed to legal impress: the Armani suit, muted tie, Italian shoes. It sure impressed the receptionist, who asked,

“And where have you been, ducks?”

That she was close to seventy seemed not to have dented her spirit. The office managed to combine the old school aura of dusty desks without the desks and a bright bay window that gave a miraculous view of Lough Corrib.

As Stewart waited, she asked,

“Like a whiskey and soda while you’re waiting?”

He half-thought she might be serious and was sure she’d done two of said number her own self. The magazines on the table continued the dual theme. There were

Galway Now

Loaded

Horse amp; Hound.

All species covered there. Stewart was working on his story, if indeed story he decided he’d go with. Maybe just flush with,

“Why have four of your clients been targeted by a lunatic vigilante?”

And get turfed out on his arse. The old dear was still staring at him, asked,

“Know how long I’ve been working here?”

Like he gave a shit?

Said,

“No.”

“Have a guess, go on, go on.”

Sounding like Pauline McLynn in Father Ted. He demurred with,

“Really, I have no idea.”

His tone suggesting he had zero to zilch interest. She sniffed, said,

“You’re gorgeous but, God, you’re boring.”

A beat,

“You lovely people, you don’t have to work at personality, just sit and be admired, you ungrateful. . pricks.”

Stewart had done as much research on Westbury as he could and, after Google, Wikipedia, both U.K. and Irish entries, had amassed a picture of a blend of Brit Atticus Finch and the total headbanger of a counsel in Breaking Bad. The receptionist, whose name he saw was Ms. Davis, said,

“You can go in now. Roy is expecting you.”

Roy!

Roy’s office was a Hollywood lawyer’s space as envisaged by Kenneth Anger. Chaos fueled by adrenaline. Westbury was a barrel of a man, in his fifties, all the years compressed into a tight ball of ferocious energy. Wearing a striped shirt, loud tie, and-get this-braces, like Gekko had never gone to prison. Bald, brute head, and a face that was not lived in but downright occupied. By very bad events.

He emerged from behind a desk laden with documents, hand extended, greeted,

“Mr. Sandler”

“It’s Stewart.”

Westbury’s grip was one of those duels but Stewart from years of martial arts could hand-fuck all day. Westbury said,

“Ms. Davis said you were Sandler.”

Feeling like Jack, he said,

“She was wrong.”

Let it hang there, their play. Westbury cleared a mess of files off a chair, said,

“Grab a pew, lad. Anything to drink?”

Stewart said,

“I’m not a lad and Mrs. Davis already gave me a whiskey and soda.”

Got him.

Then he laughed, said,

“Touché, a sense of humor never goes astray. What can I do for you?”

Stewart debated for all of a minute, then,

“I beat a man half to death, might need representation if the Guards trace the beating.”

Be a perpetrator, like the dead four, and if Westbury was taking out his own clients, in some perverted guise of bent justice, then bring it on. Westbury, displaying why he got the big bucks, countered instantly with

“Alleged. Allegedly beat.”

Stewart nodded, liked it a lot.

Westbury handed over a sheet of paper, said,

“Fill out the personal stuff, keep it vague, paper trails have a tendency to bite you in the arse.”

He then quoted his fees and truly shocked Stewart.

Stewart had been reasonably successful in various enterprises, made some serious wedge along the way, but this, this was a revelation. Westbury smiled, said,

“Hey kid, you wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t afford it and, let’s face it, sounds like you can’t afford not to be here.”

Laughed at his own line, added,

“Lighten up, sonny, this is legal humor.”

Stewart fixed him with his eyes, said,

“Let’s get on the same page. I’m not

Lad

Sonny

Kid

Any of those condescending terms. You charge like serious freaking weight, then I get some serious respect.”

Westbury considered, his legal eyes betraying little save assessment, then,

“Okay, you’re a player. Tell me, where did you do your jail time?”

Got Stewart, hard. He managed,

“You Googled me?”

Westbury shrugged that off, said,

“Nope. Your whole vocabulary, attitude, the don’t diss me, homes rap, screams of the Joy, and I’m not talking the Rapture, I mean Mountjoy, where, alas, some of my less successful cases rest.”

Stewart wrote out a check, asked,

“What now?”

Westbury stretched, one of those all-encompassing stretches that brook neither finesse nor restraint, said,

“I get on to my guy in the Guards, see if you’re a person of interest .”

Stewart stood, shook his hand, said,

“Um, thank you, I think.”

Was at the door when he heard,

“Yo, Stewie.”

Stewart, a covert fan of Family Guy, didn’t turn, simply raised his index finger, heard a hearty laugh.

The table was a riot of pints, shots, bowls of nuts, and the ubiquitous iPhones, iPads. Skylar, Stan, and me own self were in the Quays, two of the Saw Doctors giving an impromptu gig of

Reels

Jigs, and, of course,

Downtown, in that slanted Tuam fashion. Skylar was ecstatic, gushed,

“Those dudes were like on Letterman and Jodie Foster bought them a burger.”

If the two events were related, I was past caring. I was having me a time, having been convinced my spy/industrial espionage gig was as low as I can sometimes go. But, hey, go figure. I was rolling, getting with the flow, enjoying me own self. The planet of geekdom was surprisingly interesting. Maybe as Stan and I had bonded over

Breaking Bad , Season 4

Detour through the British The Thick of It

And

Back stateside,

Veep .

Doing that drink-fueled dance of quoting our favorite lines to each other. Stan was ahead on Veep with,

“I’ve met some people, real people, and a lot of them are fucking idiots.”

Selina Meyer, the fictional VP.

He thought I’d concede there but I had Malcolm Tucker, Gothic spin from The Thickof It, with

“Please could you take this note, ram it up his hairy inbox, and pin it to his fucking prostate?”

And saw Skylar’s face drop. I offered,

“You want to talk, um, Desperate Housewives, The Real Housewives of Orange County ?”

My smile defused the insult and she said,

“What’s a black ’n’ tan?”

I presumed she meant the drink, else I’d be there a week foulmouthing the band of thugs and scum sent to terrorize the Irish. I took the chance and ordered the drink. I was about to go for it when Stan said,

“Man, I’d kill for a Saw Doctors T-shirt.”

Sometimes, rare to rarest in truth, you get the stars in line and I spotted Ollie Jennings, their manager, one of life’s real gentlemen, in nature and personality. Called him, said to Stan,

“Ask their manager.”

Headed for the bar.

Got the drinks, headed back to see Stan joining Ollie and the Saw Doctors. Skylar said,

“Oh, Lordy, he’ll be unbearable now.”