Ken Bruen - Purgatory

“She’s American.”

And he maneuvered the door, got the box in, said,

“Course she is, Jack. She’s with you.”

Go figure!

Kelly bought The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde . It was in beautiful condition, leather binding, gilt-edged pages.

The price?

Vinny said,

“Five euros.”

Kelly went,

“You’re kidding. It’s worth ten times that.”

He gave that Vinny smile, the one that says,

“You love books, we love you.”

I found a copy of John Lahr’s New Yorker profiles. We’d just gotten outside, her mobile shrilled and sounded like,

Home of the Brave .

I could hear a raised voice. She grimaced, then passed the phone to me, said,

“Your master’s voice.”

Reardon, snarling,

“I expected a report this morning.”

I said,

“Here’s a report. Fuck you.”

Clicked off. Then asked her,

“Oh, sorry, were you finished?”

She sighed,

“You certainly are.”

Then she offered the Wilde book, said,

“For you.”

“No thanks. Such learning would only foul the genetic pool.”

She asked,

“You know what happens to people who refuse gifts?”

“No.”

Her departing smile,

“Ah. . the not knowing. . that’s the beauty of it. Dinner this evening, my treat.”

I watched her walk away, that assured strut, a woman who owned her space and, if you wanted to invade, you’d better bring your very best game.

Later, I watched the semifinal, Italy versus Germany, Balotelli, like a gift from the God of Football, until my doorbell went.

Reardon.

A riled Reardon, with a hulking guy behind him. He said,

“That’s Leo, my protection.”

I said,

“Leo gets to protect the space outside my flat.”

Leo growled and Reardon didn’t like it much better but agreed, came in, glanced at the screen, said,

“Fucking wops need niggers to win a game.”

I said,

“Yo, shithead, you want to do redneck crap, do it outside, with your gorilla.”

He laughed, said.

“Leo doesn’t like you.”

I went to the fridge, cracked open a couple of cold ones, handed him one, said,

“Leo’s likes are way down on my current concern list.”

Reardon was dressed in the Galway hurling jersey, combat shorts, and I think they call his footwear espadrilles? They looked comfortable and, best, worn. He flopped down on my second-best chair, said,

“So, Taylor, spill.”

Meaning, the goods on Skylar.

I clinked his bottle, said,

“Sláinte.”

Never meant it less. If you could lightly wish

“Roast in hell”

It would have been closer.

I asked,

“So what have you got on Stewart?”

Reardon was scanning the apartment, missing nothing, said,

“Enough to send his supercilious ass to the slammer.”

I sipped from the beer, continued,

“So, the deal is, I drop the dime on your employee, you let Stewart slide?”

Reardon looked at me, said,

“Jesus H. How many times you want me to say it? Yes .”

I was working my way up to divulging Skylar’s name when he muttered,

“Fucking Skylar. I thought that kid would have more savvy. If it was Stan, I’d get it. He’s just a doper geek.”

What?

I said,

“Skylar! You know. How the fuck do you know?”

He flipped the empty bottle high. It hovered dangerously for a moment, then expertly landed in the wastebasket, with a heavy thud. He said,

“Gotcha.”

Smiled, then,

“Oh, Kelly told me.”

Jesus, these fucking people. I near shouted,

“Why would she tell you?”

He laughed, got to his feet in one fluid click, said,

“We used to be married.”

She’d told me she’d never been married.

Relishing my stunned dumb expression, he said,

“Lesson one, pal, wherever you think you’ve been, us rich guys, we’ve already had that and-guess what? — discarded it.”

Len Waters was from a very good home; best background, in fact. Family lived in Taylor’s Hill, father a surgeon, mother a hypocrite, best schools, almost university, trust fund, reasonably good looking, twenty years of age, and a psychopath.

He was a run-of-the-mill nut job, possessing none of the attributed charm these fucks could exercise. His kick was to barge in on old women, beat them to a pulp-and do any other vile act his cesspool mind could conjure. Maybe owing to chance, he hadn’t yet murdered anyone, at least anyone that somebody missed.

Now in custody, he was facing three charges. Westbury was his lawyer and in jig time had the skel out on bail. Stewart had followed all this diligently, convinced that Waters was the perfect victim for C33 and, if Westbury was one and the same, Stewart would be there to witness. After Waters had been released amid a flurry of indignation, near riot, and press reportage, Stewart arranged an appointment with Westbury, claiming it was urgent and managing to get Westbury to meet him in a pub. This is not so difficult if you agree that pub hours, too, are on their clock.

They get drinks, get paid, who’s hurting?

Westbury arrived in McSwiggan’s, dressed in victory and Armani, his face flushed from trumping the legal system again. Stewart had grabbed a table at the back, offered,

“Champagne?”

Westbury was tempted, then,

“No, maybe a little early for celebration, so large gin and tonic.”

No ice. A serious drinker.

Stewart had a large glass of lime and water, could pass for the real thing. He touched Westbury’s glass, said,

“Congrats. You’re good.”

Westbury, who’d obviously had a few at the office, slight beads of perspiration on his brow, scoffed,

“Good? I’m the freaking best, sonny.”

Okay.

Ego checked.

Stewart said,

“I wanted to check on my own status, but also buy you a drink to show my appreciation of you taking an interest when you are. .”

Paused

“So brilliantly busy.”

Almost overdid it.

Westbury paused, reassessed Stewart, then, mollified, said,

“There is a simple secret to even the darkest allegation.”

Stewart was fascinated by Westbury’s bulletproof confidence, wondered if it had to do with the fact, if he was indeed the C33 vigilante, that the outcome of any case was irrelevant, as he administered the final justice and got paid, too. Win-win.

He echoed,

“Secret?”

Westbury was waving to various high-profile types who passed, basking in his current success, said,

“Money.”

Stewart couldn’t be bothered arguing the toss. He thought this might be true to a degree but wouldn’t want to be in the dock hoping cash was the key. Westbury said,

“I made some discreet inquiries of the Guards and, currently, you are not a person of interest.”

Stewart acknowledged his debt, said,

“I’d still like to retain you lest something arise in the future.”

Westbury’s mobile shrilled, he answered, made some mmm noises, then stood, said,

“Duty calls.”

They shook hands. Westbury said,

“Stay in touch.”

And turned as he was leaving, added,

“Stay in funds.”

Kelly climbed out of my bed, looked back, said,

“What you lack in heat you make up for in desperation.”

Add that to a fragmented ego, see how it plays. I propped myself up on one elbow, like Matthew McConaughey seems to do in every movie, but I did skip the squeezing of my eyes. She was doing that thing women think is cute:

. . wearing the guy’s shirt

. . and drives guys mental