Ken Bruen - Headstone

No frills, she begged,

“Can I stay with you for a few days?”

If he was fazed, he didn’t sound it. Then, nothing ever seemed to get to him. He said,

“A Garda in my house, fantastic.”

One of the reasons she loved him, he never, never asked,

“Why?”

You find a friend like that, you’re freaking gold.

That a convicted drug dealer and a Garda were tight was a conundrum neither analyzed. Jack had brought them together but even he never expected they would form a separate peace. They did share one quality, an indefinable regard for the train wreck he was. Both, in their separate ways, felt they might yet save him. When Ridge had begun her martial arts program, Stewart had encouraged her, offering Zen wisdom to beat the wall of pain. Jack, of course, true to form, on hearing of her enterprise, muttered,

“I’ll rely on my hurley.”

When Ridge arrived at Stewart’s house, he already had a room prepared. His home was on the edge of Cooke’s Corner. But a postmortem away from the fish shop where a body had been found in the freezer, and had been there for many years. Of course, the local wits had a field day, the very least of which was, “…………………Ah, he was always a cold fish.”

Mafia jokes too, of course, not so much sleeping with the fishes as being on ice with them.

Stewart was dressed in a silk kimono, black with gold dragons. It should have looked ridiculous, like Hefner on ludes. But his smooth, lithe movements, his air of total calm, carried it off. He hugged her and she nearly broke down. How long since anyone had done that and truly meant it. She could feel the easy strength of his body. He released her, said,

“Tea’s on the pot, toast ready to pop, and my special omelet is just the right tone of crisp and delicious.”

He ordered her to sit, served them both breakfast, commanding,

“Eat first, talk after.”

She asked,

“Is that Zen?”

He smiled, said,

“No, that’s hunger.”

The omelet was heaven, laced with a hint of a spice. She gasped,

“God, this is good.”

He said,

“And not a magic mushroom in the mix.”

Finished, they sat back, sipped the Darjeeling tea, and he told her about the new player, Mason, the official PI. She said she would run a background check, adding ruefully,

“If I’m still allowed to use the computer at work.”

Stewart wasn’t big on self-pity and asked about the attack on her.

He considered, moved into a lotus position on the chair, said, “First Malachy, then a handicapped man murdered, and now you. And one of your attackers referring to your sexual orientation.”

She asked,

“You think they’re connected?”

He wasn’t sure, said,

“Sometimes, you need Jack’s crazy view on things. He sees weird patterns that a normal person would miss.”

Ridge nearly smiled. Whatever else, Jack would never be condemned as normal. She asked,

“Where is he? Do you think he’s gone on one of those biblical benders?”

Stewart never replied instantly, took all the factors into account, then,

“A ferocious lash, no. He’s drinking, sure, but not in his usual blitzkrieg blaze. Laura, the American woman, is due soon and I sincerely believe he has feelings for her. I’m almost afraid to voice it but I think he’s close to happy.”

Ridge tried to envisage such a concept, said,

“Jack and happy in the same sentence?”

Stewart didn’t reply to this, moved like a cat from the chair, offering more tea, and Ridge confided,

“One of my greatest fears is going to his apartment and finding he’s choked on his own vomit.”

Stewart stopped in mid-stride. He’d imagined that very scenario more times than he’d ever admit.

Torture should be inflicted as though completely disinterested.

No more than a procedure to be carried through to its brutal conclusion.

— Ex-freedom fighter [sic]

I cringe when I think how easy they took me. Am I ashamed.

You betcha.

Mortified, in fact. Worse, it made me vulnerable, the worst sensation in the world when all you’ve got to protect yerself is…………yerself. Thing is, I’d been busy, oh fuck, like a banshee on a mission. Flush on my result from Loyola’s housekeeper, I’d nicked the photo of the cottage and muttered inanities about later visits. She seemed bewildered. Not my problem, least not then. I headed for Monroe’s at the end of Dominick Street. Huge place with the great asset of quiet corners. I ordered a Jay, Guinness black. Settled in to savor my triumph. I pulled the photo from the frame and bingo, all me ships coming in, the address was on the back.

Just outside Oughterard. I knew beyond a shadow of a tinker’s doubt he’d be there. The loving way the housekeeper had glanced at it, he was there. I drained the Jay in one burst of elation.

Told meself,

“You’ve still got the moves son.”

A hefty draft of the black and I was flying.

…………………………..in the face of God?

As the old people say.

I was as close to delighted as I’d been since Galway won three All Irelands in a row.

Glory days.

I was having me some now.

Muttered,

“I found him, Jesus wept, I did it, cracked the case. This meant a serious bonus from the lizard Gabriel and Laura was due real soon. I could afford to have the apartment professionally cleaned.” My mobile shrilled, I signaled to the barman for the same again, answered,

“Yeah?”

“Jack, it’s Stewart.”

“How’s it going buddy?”

Stopped him, then,

“You sound very. . chipper.”

Chipper?

People actually used this outside British sitcoms?

I said,

“Laura’s arriving in jig time and. . I cracked a major case.”

His voice quickened,

“You found who mugged Malachy?”

Malachy, Christ, I’d forgotten all about him. I said,

“No, but a case with a nice lump of change.”

Silence.

I figured he wasn’t counting my blessings. Then he said,

“Malachy too poor to count?”

Sarcasm leaking all over the words.

I was fucked if I’d let him puncture my balloon. Said, with total ice,

“Don’t lecture me pal.”

And God forgive me,

added,

“You weren’t so damn righteous when you came to me whining about your dead sister.”

I regretted it instantly, knew how horrendous it was. I can’t excuse it, was a low cheap wounding shot. Blame my state of euphoria.

He sounded as maimed as I’d anticipated, said,

“I called to tell you that I’d been checking on Ronan Wall’s sister.”

Another case that had dropped way down on my priorities. As I fumbled for a way to erase or stem the pain, he said,

“Ronan Wall is an only child.”

But Bethany, the Goth girl I’d met?

I said,

“What?”

“He doesn’t have a sister.”

Clicked off.

I worked on my second pint, considered calling him back to say. . what?

Instead, I used my mobile to get Directory Enquiries, got them to connect me to the best pub in Oughterard. It rang a bit, then a gruff voice answered.

I said,

“Liam, it’s Jack Taylor.”

Another ex-Guard, took early retirement, bought a pub/restaurant, we have some history, most of it fairly good. He needed a moment, then,

“By the holy, Jack Taylor. I was beginning to think you were a rumor running round as a fact.”

You don’t have to be Irish to decipher that, though it helps to remove logic from such conversations. I asked,

“How’s biz?”

He sighed, said,

“Sweet Jesus, bollixed. The usual crop of Christmas parties, and they bring in major cash, would usually be booking now but they’re scarcer than a politician with the truth.”