Ken Bruen - Headstone

“From the look of you, I’d say you’ve had your fair share of that devil.”

Any mention of the devil tended to quiet me: too many bad memories of an individual who might/might not have been the Antichrist in person.

Any further discussion was deferred when she said,

“You have a visitor.”

Caz, a Romanian who managed to avoid the periodic roundup of nonnationals for deportation. Ten years he’d been in Galway and had learned, as Louis MacNeice wrote,

“…………………all the sly cunning of our race.”

And I figure he was no slouch to begin with. He’d even acquired a passable Galway accent and was more native than a Claddagh ring. I never knew if we were friends. He was too elusive but we’d known each other a long time and had an arrangement: I’d give, he’d take.

But he was one of the most reliable sources of gossip in a city that thrived on stories. Add to that, he worked with the Garda as an interpreter for the Romanian community, so he had the ear of the powers that be, sort of. True, he was as trustworthy as the eels that swam in the canal, but I liked him.

Mostly.

He was dressed in a Boss leather jacket. I know that item as my surrogate son had once given me one. Both were gone.

A white sweatshirt with the logo

“Don’t Sweat It.”

He said,

“I’m sorry about what happened to you Jack.”

“Thanks.”

He reached in the fine jacket, said,

“I brought you something.”

Now I sat up, this was a first, said,

“If it’s fucking grapes, I’ll strangle you with the fingers I’ve left.”

He produced a half bottle of Jay, checked the door, handed it to me, and to my left hand. I said,

“Take the seal off.”

He did.

I drank deep and gratefully, handed the bottle to him. He still had the moves, didn’t wipe the neck; that’s class. He took a fairly decent wallop himself, grimaced, said,

“Sláinte.”

We waited a few minutes to let the Jay do its biz, warm the stomach, promise false hope, and then he asked,

“How bad is it?”

“Two fingers.”

He nodded. He’d literally escaped from a country that was awash in every atrocity known, so “two fingers” wasn’t as stunning to him as it was to your average citizen. We had another drink like two settled friends, the bottle going back and forth. I gave him a brief outline of the Headstone outfit and he pledged to ask around. The Jay and an earlier shot of morphine were taking their toll and he stood, said,

“It pains me to see you hurt, my friend.”

I think he actually meant it.

I hoped I said thanks.

I do remember he squeezed my shoulder and said,

“For now, rest. Later, we’ll extract the vengeance of the Romanian.”

And I did-rest that is.

Till I came to, a single night-light burning near my bed. I’d dreamt, of my dad and Laura.

The kind of awful dream that’s so real you can taste it. Everything is OK till you wake and. . it ain’t.

My dad was holding my hand, looking at my fingers, soothing, saying,

“They’ll heal son, don’t worry.”

And Laura, she was in the distance, her hand held out, saying softly,

“But Jack, you have no fingers I can hold.”

Yeah, like that.

Jesus wept and then some. I think, I don’t know, but there were tears on my face. Loss is sometimes so palpable. You can almost touch it.

Almost.

The single night-light threw an eerie glow across the room. I struggled to sit up, still half caught in the wish desire of the dream, phantom pain in my destroyed hand, and my heart did a jig as I saw a dark figure rise from the chair in the corner. Maybe the light-bringer was back to claim his own. He stood, moved into the dim radiance, and I thought,

“Yeah, the devil all right.”

Being afraid is natural.

Being afraid to do something about it

is an insult to life.

— C

Father Gabriel.

Looking immaculate as usual. If the pope can wear Gucci slippers, then no reason why Gabe shouldn’t have his clerical suit made by Armani; it had that cut. His white collar seemed to gleam in the half-light, matching his perfect teeth and discreet tan. He moved like an athlete. He leaned over me, asked,

“How are you, Jack?”

Like he gave a good fuck.

I said,

“Been better.”

He made the sign of the cross over me. I wish I could say it was a comfort but, from him, it was like a curse. He smelled of some great aftershave. Man, this guy was a player.

But at what?

He said,

“The Brethren have been praying for you.”

What? That I’d croak?

I nodded, trying to appear appreciative. He reached in his elegant jacket, produced a fat envelope, left it on the bed, said,

“Your bonus, and I think you’ll find it more than generous.”

I asked,

“You found Loyola then?”

He gave a radiant smile, gave more illumination than the measly night-light, said,

“Your information was spot on. A job well done. Your church will remember the great service you performed on its behalf.”

I pushed,

“So, what happens to Loyola now?”

The smile was still in place but it had eased. He said,

“Back in the flock. All is well in God’s world.”

Fucking guy didn’t get out much it seemed.

He added,

“Now Jack, don’t concern yourself anymore with that. You must focus on recovery and bask in the task you did so admirably for Mother Church.”

He was so slick, so polished, you could almost believe him. I kept at it, though,

“The money that Loyola nicked, got it back, I guess?”

He touched my shoulder, said,

“Jack, you fret too much. Be assured, all is restored.”

His touch was like brushing against a cobra, the venom just waiting to be released, and his eyes had hardened. I asked,

“You ever read Tim McLaurin?”

The tolerant smile. He said,

“Oh, Jack, if only we all had the time to read as much as you, but no, I haven’t.”

I figured accounts sheets were more his forte. I said,

“Esse Quam Videm.”

He finally took his hand off my shoulder, leaned back, said,

“Latin? I should really know the meaning but one’s memory is not what it was.”

This fuck remembered how much he got on his First Holy Communion and who gave what. I smiled, said,

“Don’t fret! It means, to be, rather than to be seen.”

He considered that, then,

“Meaning?”

“My doctor, Dr. Boxer, told me that and my meaning is, do I get to see Loyola? Let’s call it a vested interest?”

I nodded at the fat envelope, continued,

“Be nice to actually meet the dude who got me such a fine payday.”

He looked at his watch-yeah, you guessed it: not a freaking Timex, a fine slim gold job-said,

“I must run Jack, I’ll try and visit soon.”

And he was gone.

He made no sound as he slipped from the room. A clerical stealth bomber and, no doubt, this guy was incendiary. I glanced uneasily at the envelope. I should be delighted. Few things give me the blast like counting money, especially if it belongs to me. But the term tainted was rooted in my head. Something was off center and I knew in my heart that, whatever else, I hadn’t, as he said, performed a great service for Mother Church. Betrayal touched my tongue like blood in my mouth.

My favorite nurse came in to settle me, said,

“Isn’t that a lovely aftershave? What is it?”

“Treachery.”

She looked at me, said,

“The names they give these new fragrances these days. Men are getting better aromas than women.”

Like I’d know.

She had gotten me a sleeper and I said,

“You’re an angel.”

“Ah, go away with that. You wouldn’t know an angel if it flapped its wings in your face.”