Ken Bruen - Headstone

It didn’t.

So I blundered on,

“The girl, always the girl. I have a gut feeling, we find her, we bust this maelstrom wide open.”

The pills, the booze, the food, being out of hospital, suddenly ganged up on me. I gasped,

“Jaysus, enough.”

And I couldn’t stifle a huge yawn. Stewart stood, said,

“C’mon Jack, let’s get you home, back to your apartment.”

We left a large tip for our waitress and I could be wrong but did she slip Stewart her phone number and fuck, God forgive me, worse, was I jealous?

Headstones signify a lot of profound

thoughts but a drunk on Quay Street said they meant,

You’re beyond fucked.

At Nun’s Island, as we got out of the car, Stewart said,

“Just a second.”

Opened the trunk and took out three large grocery bags. I asked,

“You’re moving in with me?”

He sighed, said,

“Felt you might need some provisions.”

It was such a decent thing to do; you’d be delighted at someone’s care.

Right?

I was wondering if there was booze in there. Fuck the other crap. He carried them up the three flights of stairs, too. Opening the door took a time, as we had to literally push it due to the stack-up of mail. The usual free offers, pizza vouchers, notification of winning millions of euros, and a letter from Laura; I could recognize her handwriting. I stared at it for a few minutes until Stewart asked,

“You going to open it?”

I told the truth, said,

“Maybe later.”

I turned the heat on full and Stewart marveled,

“The place is spotless. I’d have thought, and sorry Jack, but it would be like a. . you know, a bachelor pad.”

Translate………………….filthy.

I didn’t tell him about the professional cleaners. I reached in my jacket, got the envelope Gabriel had given me, and let the contents spill onto the coffee table. A turmoil of large-denomination notes littered the surface, swirled to the carpet, a whirlwind of blood cash. A treasure trove of treachery.

Stewart gasped, muttered,

“They paid you for being in hospital?”

I could have laughed. He asked,

“How much is it?”

I said,

“A lot.”

Stewart began unpacking the goods, asking if there was a special place for things.

I gave him the look, he figured, no . I went to the overhead cupboard, pulled down the Jameson, and said,

“I’m fresh out of herbal tea, unless you bought some.”

Fuck, he did.

And brewed it up. It smelt like vinegar gone south. He’d bought cookies, the healthy ones, the ones they manage to remove everything from, especially the taste. We imbibed our separate feasts and Stewart asked if I’d like him to cook up something?

I said I was good, the sandwich had been plenty. As the latent control freak he was, he began to pick up the money and I near shouted,

“Don’t.”

He stopped, a hundred note resting in his hand, and he asked,

“You like to see it spread out, yeah?”

“No, I like to see it on the floor, where it belongs.”

Finally, he said he’d better make a move and asked,

“You going to be OK, Jack?”

I said sure and thanked him again for the hypnosis feat, reiterated it was very impressive.

He stopped his exit, said,

“Jack, there’s all sorts of things I could help you with.”

He had an eagerness I was loath to puncture but that never stopped me, I said,

“Yeah, you mean that?”

His face lit up. He said,

“Just name it, Jack.”

“Restore my fingers.”

I saw the pain in his eyes as I shut the door. I went to the fridge, pulled out an icy bottle of Hoegaarden, that blond fine imported beer that we can never pronounce, and got the top off with my left hand. Figured I might as well get familiar with that hand, it was in for a lot of use. I drank some of the beer chased with the Jay and felt, if not better, at least energized.

Time to get ready for action. Some years ago, I’d run into a serious hard case named Kosta. His nationality was never established.

I’d done him a major service. He was the real deal, never needed to shout the odds about his nature-it showed in his eyes and his complete ease with violence. We shared the same ideas about justice and had become almost close. He was a good guy to have in your debt. I was about to call it in. Rang him. He’d told me on our last outing, a messy affair that I’d blundered our way out of, that his gratitude was infinite, saying,

“Jack, anything you ever need, you got it, my pledge to you.”

Right. Let’s see how much smoke he was blowing.

If I was American, I’d have him on speed dial. I laboriously dialed his number from my landline, using, yeah, my left hand. I kept telling myself, Kosta dealt in everything on one condition: it was under the radar, i.e.:

illegal,

discreet.

He answered on the third ring with,

“Kali mera.”

Greek today, then.

I said,

“Kosta, it’s Jack. . Jack Taylor.”

“Madonna del mio.”

That’s what I heard or something like it but it had warmth. I can recognize that in any tongue. I remembered then, he was one of those rarities I’d helped-he actually liked me. He said, “My friend, I am so happy to hear you. They tell me bad things have been done to you.”

I said,

“Why I’m calling you, buddy.”

I remember introducing him to the collected works of Tarantino and he was fond of quoting from the movies. Worked for me and, I guess, Tarantino. Never missing a beat, he said,

“Give me their names Jack, I’ll go biblical on their ass.”

I said,

“Thank you, I need a Mossberg Pump.”

Not exactly something you can ring up Tesco and order, least not yet.

No hesitation, he said,

“Give me your address, I’ll swing by round seven.”

My kind of guy.

And seven, on the dot, my bell rang. I’d managed to grab close to five hours sleep, popped some Xanax, and was, if not aware, at least alert. I opened the door. He was a small man with a heavily weathered face. Now my own face, I’ve lines you could plant spuds in, but Kosta made me look young.

Kind of.

His head was shaven, he had an aquiline nose, or so he said, and large brown eyes that went to black in a second. He wore his perennial black leather coat and a bespoke suit. Like an out-of-work KGB agent. That was not an impression he discouraged. As I knew from our previous form, he spoke Russian, fluently. He grabbed me in a bear hug and was one of the few who I could not only tolerate it from, but feel they meant it. A large sports bag swung loosely in his left hand, with the logo

……………………………….Ti Krema.

I’d asked before.

It was Greek for

“What a pity.”

I hadn’t asked further. Who in his right frigging mind would? I welcomed him to my home and, before I could offer hospitality, he unzipped the bag, produced a bottle of Grey Goose, handed it to me, and said,

“Nice place Jack.”

I asked,

“On the rocks or neat?”

Silly question.

I poured two large, no ice, and said,

“Sit and let’s catch up.”

We clinked glasses and I got there first, toasted,

“Sláinte amach.”

He loved that. Responded with,

“To better days, my dear friend.”

Glanced at my mutilated hand, commanded,

“Drink.”

I did, we did. Ferociously.

He sat back on my freshly cleaned sofa, looked round, said,

“Very clean, very neat; this I like.”

A few moments later, the Goose bit, and that warm glow lined my stomach. He stood, glass in hand, and began to move around, paid full attention to the bookcases, selected the Poems of Hemingway, said,