Ken Bruen - Purgatory

Drink or two in and she was weeping on my shoulder, her love for Stan, but how he seemed to have no interest. His sole focus, with music, was work, and then she said,

“He’d murder someone for the chance I have.”

Jesus.

Just dropped it in my lap and, worse, tomorrow, she wouldn’t even remember. I could have done the decent thing, steered the conversation in another direction. I liked her, a lot. She could have been the daughter I’d never have. She had a sweetness, almost an innocence, that held resonances of Serena but I couldn’t go there. Drained my Jay, shook the memory of that little girl’s death. Skylar, concerned, asked,

“Mr. Taylor, you okay? You seemed like you saw a ghost.”

“Fucking Black ’n’ Tans.”

I hesitated, then,

“So, you have a shot at something big?”

She did.

Spilled it all, between drinks, a crying jag, a hint of pride, and an awful shitload of indiscretion. Sometime later, Stan came back, big dopey grin, as happy as it Guinness gets, asked,

“How you guys doing?”

I gave him my best smile, the one that has as much ice as sparkle, said,

“We’re having us one of them memorable chats.”

Skylar blubbered, threw an arm around me, sobbed,

“I’ll never forget this night, Mr. Taylor.”

I said,

“I can guarantee that, hon.”

Next morning, my hangover had been curtailed by the gallon of water I drank the night before. In a bizarre way, the cold manipulation of the girl had prevented me from getting wasted. Jesus, I’d downed enough booze to fell the Irish rugby team, but one of those evenings, the more I put away, the clearer my mind became.

A line of poetry unreeling in my head,

. . your first betrayal was the coldest one.

I had a mug of black coffee, sat in my armchair, looking out at nothing save the nasty act I danced along. Reardon had been clear about what he’d do.

“Destroy the fucker.”

Being one of the mildest terms he’d employed about the kid who was selling him out. And true, the deal Skylar had been offered by Rogue Tech was a showstopper. She’d indeed be set for life, and all she had to do was score a sizable hit on Reardon’s research. It would, she’d said,

“Put Reardon back at least eighteen months. In the tech world, that’s like a death blow.”

I had no doubt of my own capabilities. I’d done worse, with little aforethought.

I phoned Kelly, asked,

“How are you on moral dilemmas?”

She laughed, said,

“Shaky. You need help?”

Did I?

I said,

“Be nice to buy you a late morning breakfast.”

She said,

“We call it brunch.”

“Yeah, well, here we call it a cheap lunch.”

A new hotel had opened off Eyre Square just as the boom died; the hotel died soon after. Kelly asked if I’d meet her in the lobby there. I said,

“That hotel has been sold.”

She laughed, said,

“Yeah, to Reardon, like most of the town, sooner than later.”

I’d some time before our meeting so caught up on the football. Bad to saddest worst. Irish style. Out, after three games. All the hopes, aspirations, the Trapattoni worship, ashes now.

1. Croatia beat us three-one.

2. Spain beat us four-nil.

3. Italy beat us two-nil.

Jesus.

And the rugby, somehow, we’d pull consolation out of the European fiasco with them but, against the Kiwis, we had an all-time record-breaking defeat.

Sixty. . nil .

Dazed, I’d watched England against Italy go to a penalty shoot-out and, argh, the Brits lost. My sympathies had been with Hart, the English goalie. To have to watch the ferocious Balotelli bear down on goal was to see Armageddon in a blue shirt.

But, hey, you take comfort where any crumb is available. Right?

The European bridge championships were being held with considerably less fanfare and we were in the quarterfinals.

That mattered, didn’t it?

Preparations for the Volvo Ocean Race were in full pace, the race terminating in Galway in a few short weeks. As I waited in the hotel lobby for Kelly, I read through the city preparations to receive the yachts. Meant a sizable payday to the city. No wonder Clancy and the city hotshots refused to entertain the concept of C33, a vigilante running loose, with world media lurking. No, had to keep that bogey under wraps.

Heard,

“Yo, sailor.”

Kelly, dressed in tight white jeans, tight black T-shirt, her face radiant. I felt the stir, if not of echoes, then yearning. She leaned over to do that ridiculous air kiss, then suddenly veered to a kiss, her tongue deep in my mouth, then withdrew, said,

“Suck that.”

Jesus.

A waitress appeared, looking all of sixteen and suddenly making Kelly seem. . extreme? Kelly snapped,

“Lolita, get us a pot of coffee before the yachts arrive.”

I said, recovering some tarnished dignity,

“You have the essentials of leadership down.”

She gave me a mischievous grin, asked,

“What would they be, mon amour?”

“Rudeness and hostility.”

She laughed as the coffee came, said to the girl,

“Put it on Reardon’s tab.”

The girl was confused, waited,

I said,

“He owns the hotel.”

She lit up, went,

“Oh, Mr. Reardon.”

Kelly sat back, said,

“Take a hike.”

I asked,

“Are you working on being a bitch, or is it, you know, natural?”

Gave me a long look, asked,

“Long as the bitch is in your corner, what do you care?”

I told her about my dilemma, Skylar being headhunted and her selling out Reardon. She gave me an odd look, asked,

“What’s the dilemma?”

Truth to tell, I wanted to look like I was at least having a struggle with this, that somewhere in me was a streak of decency. I said,

“Well, she’s a nice kid. Seems like she confided in me and to just sell her seems cold .”

She laughed out loud. Said,

“How the fuck do you know what’s she like? She didn’t confide in you, she got wasted, shot her mouth off.”

Jesus, was I sorry I’d asked, said,

“Betrayal is not only a shitty thing to do, it’s. . it’s. . un-Irish.”

She loved that, tapped my head, said,

“Fess up, buddy, you want to look noble while being a cunt.”

The sun had come out, maybe in anticipation of the Volvo Ocean Race. Kelly said,

“Walk with me.”

We headed down toward the Corn Market. Kelly said,

“I love this city. It’s so walker-friendly.”

I sniffed,

“Tell it to Lonely Planet .”

She stopped, said,

“You have the weirdest thought processes. I mean, whammo, you’re off on some side trip, like a Seth MacFarlane with Irish sensibility.”

Fuck, Family Guy I wasn’t. I said,

“ Lonely Planet stuck it to the city, big-time.”

She gave that enigmatic smile, signifying little, said,

“Those dudes handed you your ass, right.”

In a word, yes.

We were outside Charlie Byrne’s, a display of noir crime novels in the window, including

El Niño

Absolute Zero

The Twelve

The Cold Cold Ground

Vinny was just heading in, laden with books, shouted,

“Yo, Jack, a hand, eh?”

Kelly glanced at my mutilated fingers, nodded, and I went to help Vinny. He looked at Kelly, raised his left eyebrow. I said,