Ken Bruen - Headstone

I didn’t sympathize. That would be as much help to him as an audit. I said,

“A lady friend and I were hoping to have dinner there this Saturday.”

Jesus, it felt odd to say that, strange and wondrous. To be, in fact, no longer singular. He laughed, astonished, said,

“There must be a rib broke in the devil. Jack Taylor finally hooked.”

Now for the lure, I said,

“I was hoping to introduce her to Loyola” (deliberately omitting the Father; get that hands-on friendship gig going).

He paused.

Few are as loyal as an ex-Guard and especially when they are protecting a disgraced priest. Our history was riddled with such precedents. Carefully, he asked,

“You know him?”

Time to kick for the sympathy/guilt trip, said,

“When my poor mother passed, may she rest in peace, he was a tower of strength, arranged everything. I don’t know how I’d have got through without him.”

Dumb fuck bought it.

Nothing like

priests,

dead mothers,

and guilt

to shake the bastards.

He flustered,

“Jack, I meant to get to the funeral, to send a mass card, to. .” Enough of this shite. I cut him off at the knees, said, adding a wee sting,

“She always loved you, Liam.”

Then before he could regroup from that shovelful of polite recrimination, I asked,

“Is he still partial to the old drop of Paddy?”

Anxious to move on, he rushed,

“Oh, Lord yes. Only yesterday, I made him a hot one.”

Gotcha.

I said,

“Liam, put one of your oldest vintages aside, cost no problem, and don’t tell him we’re coming. We really want to see the look on his face.”

“Honest to God, Jack, my lips are sealed.”

“See you Saturday mate.”

Rang off.

Man, I was hitting them out of the freaking ballpark. Sank my second Jay in pure delight. It burned, like the Resurrection. I needed nicotine for the best call of all. Settled my tab with the barman and added a twenty for his trouble. He had to know, asked,

“Jack, you’re all lit up, you win the lotto or what?”

I gave him my best smile, said,

“Only the ecclesiastical version.”

More’s the Irish curse, I actually believed it. The next day, I’d arranged the cleaning service. They’d be done by evening. I made strong coffee, and it kicked in about the same time as the Xanax. Now for the fun part. I rang Gabriel; he answered on the second ring. I said,

“It’s Jack Taylor.”

He replied with a terse,

“Well?”

Boy, I’d be so glad to be free of this shithead. I decided to skip the frills, just lunge in, said,

“I found Loyola.”

He couldn’t hide his astonishment, went,

“Already?”

Trying, if not much, to rein in my smugness, said,

“What you paid for.”

The guy was really up now, said,

“That is capital. You’ve done splendidly and more than earned your bonus.”

I gave him the details and location of the cottage. A tiny voice niggling in my head, intoning,

“Thirty pieces of silver.”

I put the phone down and the Xanax dissipated my feeling of unease. I focused on Laura; two days and she’d be here. I was excited, as close to happy as it gets. I said aloud,

“Ton of cash imminent, Laura arriving, it’s almost too good to be true.”

I should have paid more attention to my own utterance. The cleaning crew arrived, I gave them the spare set of keys and they assured me I’d be able to return by five at the latest. I asked if they preferred cash or cheque and we all smiled at the absurdity of this. Cash it was. To kill the early part of the day, I went to see Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker . Last movie of hers I’d seen had Lance Henriksen in the ultimate Vampire/Rock ’n’ Roller.

The cinema was nigh empty, no screaming kids, no groups of eejits with buckets of popcorn. You come out of the cinema alone, there is usually a terrible sense of loss, but hey, I had Laura due, no more ticket for one. I went to Faller’s, bought a gold Claddagh pendant for her. Checked my watch. I was doing good, time for a jar, or three.

Went to the Roisin Dubh. Had intended to be out of there in time to get back and tip the cleaners. But I got involved in a session, someone started singing “The Cliffs of Doneen” and a guy joined in on the spoons, another with a bodhran, and we were off and reeling. It was way past six when I staggered out. I decided to take a shortcut along the canal. Stopped about a hundred yards up to light a cig, muttering about the amount of litter dumped in the water. Thought I heard footsteps and then received an almighty blow to the base of my skull. Saw the cigarette float down into the water, like a tiny light of hope. Blackness took me as my legs buckled.

I came to with a start and a ferocious fright. I couldn’t see. Jesus, was I blind? Took some deep breaths, which set off an already thundering headache. Then I realized I was blindfolded. And. . tied down.

The fuck was this?

The DTs in a whole new guise?

My wrists and ankles were manacled and, by moving my body a bit, I knew I was spread-eagled. Not good. A voice, distorted with one of those robot gadgets, said,

“Jack, you’re back.”

Behind the metallic sound, you’d have sworn there was concern.

He was standing at my head but, once I began to orient a bit, I sensed there were others to my sides. He said,

“To satisfy your curiosity, you’re laid out on a headstone.”

A pause.

Added,

“Better than under it.”

Laughter from the others. Jesus, a psycho with a sense of humor.

He continued,

“You had a call from an American lady. I hope you don’t think we exceeded our brief but my female colleague answered, said, and I think I quote her correctly,

“……………………..Jack is rather deep in me as we speak so fuck off home and harass Iraq.”

Oh, Jesus.

I managed to say nothing, mostly as I had nothing I could possibly think of that didn’t involve threats, heavy obscenities, and, when you’re tied down, it’s not really the best course of action. I could distinctly hear him drinking something and I’d have sold a lot for a drop of whatever it was. He said,

“The cunt took the very next flight out. It’s none of my business, Jack, but just how devoted to you can she have been when she baulked at the first hurdle?”

I managed to find some semblance of a voice, cracked, hoarse, asked,

“Could I have some water?”

He gave an artificial “Whoops,” said,

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Jack, where are my manners? Of course you can. We’re not animals. Sparkling or still?”

Despite the robotic device, something in his terminology triggered a memory. I’d heard this prick before. I’d deal with that later, if there was a later. I said,

“Long as it’s wet.”

He laughed, said,

“Ah, that spirit Jack, why we love you.”

My mouth was wrenched open, a bottle put to my lips and glorious cold water poured. I coughed, spluttered but got it down.

No Jameson tasted as sweet. The voice said,

“Now to business, I think we share a dislike of chitchat.”

A hectoring tone now behind the device, said,

“As a lover of America, I think you’ll appreciate our somewhat altered version of the following.”

He took my silence as assent. Intoned,

“……………………………….Give us your wretched,

your poor,

your infirm,

your dregs,

your outcasts.”

Stopped, said,

“You get my drift?”

I managed,

“How fucking complicated is it?”

He gave a bitter laugh, said,

“That’s my boy, bitter and vicious. We’ve added our own little kicker. Would you like to hear it?”