Ken Bruen - Purgatory

As if.

The guy had offered, as he put it,

“A spliff or something, to, you know, ease the pain?”

For Oscar, pain was bliss and she wanted to feel him. The guy worked in silence, then asked,

“Mind if I take a cig break?”

She sat up, not covering her breasts but the guy didn’t stare, rolled a Taylor-made, lit up, sighed, said,

“That’s goanna cover your whole back, you know?”

She waited. The Stieg Larsson gig was due to come around.

Yup.

He said,

“Like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo .”

So

She said,

“Who’d you prefer, Noomi Rapace or the Hollywood chick?”

Leaning on chick just to, you know, like fuck with him. He said,

“I don’t do flicks.”

Took her a moment to realize he meant movies, so she, said,

“Whatever.”

A guy came bursting in, big fellah in a biker jacket, red face, eyes popping, like meth jag or something, shouted,

“Who the fuck owns the grey BMW?”

She looked at him, said in a meek tone,

“That’d be me.”

He glared at her, snarled,

“Yah stupid cunt.”

For some time, she’d felt herself disintegrating, had read about the effect in countless books, but couldn’t believe it would take her.

It was and did.

She shot a hand out, grabbed the tattoo needle, and jammed it in the guy’s eye, said,

“Language.”

The tattoo guy stared in horror as the man roared, the needle vibrating in the socket, and it seemed like forever before he fell to the floor. Kelly put her shirt on, put some money on the table, said,

“We’ll pick this up later.”

Thinking,

“Fuck, I’m forgetting something.”

As she drove off, she remembered,

“Don’t leave witnesses.”

But mostly she felt a sadness that only part of Oscar covered her back. That made her laugh and she shouted,

“Who’s got my back, eh? Answer me that.”

The BMW stalled at a traffic light. Heard the constant whine of Reardon, if not of reason,

“Godammit, you’re flooding the engine.”

A young guy, maybe seventeen, at the light, whistled,

At her

The car

The stalling

Or a combo

Wasn’t clear.

She rolled down the window, asked,

“Want this car?”

He did a double take, went,

“You’re fookin’ jokin’.”

She got out, handed him the keys, said,

“Go for it.”

He took the keys, slid in tentatively, asked,

“What’s the catch?”

She smiled, said,

“Only one requirement.”

He’d already decided to get like double fuck time out of there but played, said,

“Yeah?”

“Be Meat Loaf.”

“Wha?”

“Like a bat out of hell.”

He did.

Tires screeching, no flooded engine now. She thought,

“What would Oscar do?”

“A cocktail.”

But of course.

The Skef was running a happy hour. She perched on the long bar, asked the sharp-looking bar guy,

“You do Long Island Tea?”

“Does Greece long for the drachma?”

That being a yes.

Showed he was not only a graduate of handsome lessons but down with, like, you know, events, as in current.

He served the drink with a flourish. She hoped to fuck he wouldn’t say,

“Voilà.”

He did.

She tasted it, said,

“Mmmm.”

She asked,

“You ever see Basic Instinct ?”

No.

The guy wasn’t the brightest, so she spelled it out.

“Wanna fuck?”

In the bathroom, tearing each other’s clothes off, he stopped, gasped,

“Your back. . it’s bleeding!”

She adopted a Brit accent, went,

“It’s bleeding Oscar.”

* * *

I’d just woken up, barely had the shower and stuff done, about to have the first kick-ass coffee, when the doorbell went.

Loud and insistent.

I muttered,

“Fuck.”

Pulled it open to Ridge, another Guard, both in pressed uniforms. I snapped,

“What?”

Needed to be on the second cup of caffeine before I could listen to whatever shite they brought. It was never good and always way too early. Ridge said,

“Let’s take this inside.”

We did.

Ridge, glancing around, not seeing anything to warm her, asked,

“Are you alone?”

I grabbed my cup, got some down, asked,

“You mean in the metaphysical sense?”

The Guard, young and obviously gung ho, eager to test his power, commanded,

“Answer the question.”

I looked at him. Ah, to be twenty-two and stupid. I asked,

“Or what?”

Ridge, flexing her sergeant’s stripe, said,

“Yesterday, your lady friend stabbed a man to death.”

I knew, I fucking knew, it could be only one person, stalled.

“Need a little more than that.”

She could play, said,

“Kelly Reardon.”

I finished the coffee, waited for the kick, said,

“I haven’t seen her.”

The young Guard looked around, like he’d like to be sure. Ridge sighed, said,

“If you do hear from her, I trust you’ll be in touch.”

I gave her my best smile, said,

“Trust, loaded word.”

She let that slide, said,

“Later.”

Headed out, the young cop lingered. I’d an idea of what was coming. He said,

“Heard you were a Guard.”

I smiled, said,

“This is where you tell me that won’t cut me any slack, and oh, yeah. . in a measured tone, you’ll tell me you don’t like me.”

He reddened, so even younger than I thought. I continued,

“You see for it to matter that you don’t like someone, you have to matter and, trust an old Guard on this, you are a long way from mattering to anyone, so hustle back to Toytown.”

And slammed the door on him.

Another enlistment in the ranks of those who loathed me.

Fun though.

The coffee was way cold. Was it too early for a Jay? Not if the cops have been, so maybe a wee dram. Sat in an armchair, tried to figure about Kelly obviously unraveling. No doubt in my mind now: she was the vigilante killer and, more than likely, Stewart’s killer, too. What was I going to do now in light of my feelings for her?

The Jay answered that.

“Kill the bitch.”

I broke into Reardon’s house.

Why?

Because I could.

Five in the afternoon and the winter darkness had already settled. The house was lit up like hope. I knew sensor alarms were to be installed on the grounds but, owing to a strike with the grounds staff, it was in limbo. And, yes, I did say, grounds staff.

No point in being sick rich if you didn’t flaunt it. Like,

Two gardeners

Security guards

Gamekeeper (I shit thee not)

And all attending a Galway United match. Thank fuck. Reardon his own self was the guest of honor at the match. I figured on somebody being home but was intending to avoid whoever it was. I mostly hoped Kelly would be there. I was carrying.

Nine mil.

I’d a scenario in my head. See her and just pump two in her fucking head, no frills. A kitchen window was fairly easily maneuvered. The alarm it should have set off was, like the rest, at the match. God bless football. I stood in the kitchen, listened. Quiet. Lights were on all over but I felt they were cosmetic. The house felt empty. Nevertheless, I let the nine slide to my right hand, headed for the stairs, stopped en route, had a glass of rye, keep it U.S. Tasted good, tasted like more. I moved on. Up the stairs, did a full search of six bedrooms, not a dickey bird.

So, okay.

I’d wait.

Back downstairs, another rye, with ice; just because I felt like fucking with my own head, sat in a large leather chair, settled in. The room had a comfortable feel, lots of books that had never been opened. I know my used books. When books are for show, be sure you’ve put ammunition in the nine, double-check.