Ken Bruen - Headstone

“I did not know he wrote poetry.”

I said,

“Take it, then you decide if he did.”

He smiled, that’s the kind of answer he liked. He pointed his glass towards the sports bag, said,

“Your merchandise is in there.”

Paused, a vague smile hovering, added,

“With ammunition, of course.”

I took out the Mossberg and for a moment I was amazed at how light it felt. He said,

“The barrel, the grip, have been sawn off, so it fits almost like a handgun.”

He chuckled, quipped,

“Taylor made.”

Delighted at his own pun, he freshened our drinks. He said,

“Give me the shells.”

I placed half a dozen on the table. They were heavier than I’d imagined. He indicated the gun and I tossed it to him; he caught it effortlessly, one hand. Looked impressive and showed a deep familiarity with the weapon. He muttered,

“Epharisto poli.”

Thank you, in Greek.

I think.

It didn’t, of course, mean he was Greek; it simply meant he knew how to say thanks in the language. He flipped the gun to his left hand, grabbed two of the cartridges and inserted them, pumped the barrel once, said,

“Rock ‘n’ roll.”

Handed it back to me, a man who treated a loaded weapon carefully, a man who knew his trade, said,

“Practice with your left, over and over again, using your right hand to prop the barrel.”

I tried, fumbled, and he moved his finger.

I.e.,

again.

I did.

Knowing there were shells in it kept me focused. We stayed at it for a time, his eyes never leaving the weapon. Finally as sweat began to roll down my face, he signaled: enough. I went to put the gun aside and he said,

“No, make it part of your hand. Until it is, you are an amateur.” Lesson over, the steel left his voice. He asked,

“Need backup?”

I thought about it, said,

“Maybe.”

Then I reached for a thick envelope I’d readied and moved to put it in his hand. He shook his head, said,

“No, but perhaps, a little further along, I might call on your assistance.”

I assured him with,

“Ask and ’tis done.”

Words that will haunt me to my grave.

We sat, sipped at our drinks in more relaxed fashion. Laura’s letter was on the table. He asked,

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

He could see it was unopened, then,

“Do you love her?”

With Kosta, everything was direct, to the point of bluntness.

I said,

“I had hoped I might.”

He pondered that, staring at the remains of the vodka in his glass, said,

“Quel dommage.”

That I knew.

French for what a pity.

I asked,

“Like a brew to go with the Goose?”

He nodded, and still cradling the Mossberg, I grabbed two ice-cold Buds from the fridge. Screw-off tops which are, in my view, damn smart. Handed one to him, and said,

“To all the girls we loved before.”

He was a major Willie Nelson fan and the duet with Julio Iglesias was a staple on his sound track, inner and outer.

He smiled, said,

“And to those who might yet find us old guys. . colorful.”

Unless beige came back into vogue, I was shit out of luck.

He took a large gulp of the brew, waited, then,

“Jack, you were a policeman but you didn’t carry a gun. Now you are not a policeman, you do. Is that how you define irony?”

I said,

“More like insurance.”

His mobile shrilled, he took it from his coat, answered, said, “Abla.”

Listened, his face expressing nothing until he spat out a staccato of some East European language. Then he snapped his phone shut, said,

“A rumor, without a leg to stand on…………will find………… another way to move around.”

I left it as cryptic as it was.

He stood, took me in a bear hug again, said,

“We have much in common, hermano.”

Thanked me for the book, the hospitality, and was gone. I drank the Bud slowly, took one of the painkillers the doctor had provided. I wasn’t hurting but felt it coming on. Then I lifted Laura’s letter, moved over to the sink, and, using my Zippo, set it alight. If I opened it, her words would be branded forever on a soul already too heavy. It burnt quickly, like my aspirations, as I held it over the sink. The slightly smoldering remains floated towards the drain like the dying dance of a disintegrating dream. Turned the tap on full, the jet of water sucking the embers of what might have been. I’d laid the gun on the countertop and avoided looking at it lest I put the barrel in my mouth.

I thought of A Moveable Feast, of all the wood that had surrounded us then and how I never touched one single piece of it for luck. Blinded by love and joy, I believed I’d little need of luck and that Paris would simply continue in Galway and that Laura would hold my hand forever. One glorious moment, as we were standing by the Eiffel Tower, I’d been looking up at the steel girders when Laura kissed the nape of my neck; a fleeting kiss, almost imperceptible, and my whole body was alight with awe that such a single gesture could have me believe I was bulletproof and that the future would be writ as it was then. A light rain had begun to fall and Laura turned her face up to it, said,

“Thank you, Lord.”

I said,

“Wait till you see the rain in Galway. It’s incessant but soft, like your eyes.”

She’d never feel the Galway rain and I’d never feel her gentle eyes light on my face.

Och ocon………………Oh misery is me.

I moved back to the sofa, the gun resting in my arm again, turned on Marc Roberts’s new album, the track “Dust” killing me slowly. My mobile rang, thank Christ.

A Dhia, ta bron orm.

(God, I am so sad.)

— Old Irish prayer

Stewart.

He launched,

“Father Malachy has regained consciousness.”

Father!

I never. . never heard him call him thus.

I said,

“Good, how is he?”

Stewart seemed momentarily lost for words; Malachy had that effect, then,

“I think the nurses might be about to blacken his eyes, too.”

I might actually help them. I asked,

“When can I go see the oul bastard?”

“Ridge has the day off on Thursday and asks if she can pick you up then, go with you?”

I laughed, not out of humor, but Ridge? Said,

“Safety in numbers. You think we need that for him?”

Without hesitation, he said,

“Actually we were both thinking of protecting him from you.”

Nice.

I needled,

“You think I’d assault a priest?”

“Why not? You’ve assaulted everyone else.”

The little sanctimonious prick. I hissed,

“Thanks Stewart, your Zen spirit has made a contented man very old.”

Silence, then,

“Jack, you OK? You sound a little. . off.”

I thought of Kosta, said,

“I’m all right, as right as a rumor.”

Clicked off.

I crashed early, meaning I managed to get to my bed, took the Mossberg with me, and, as long as I didn’t shoot meself during the night, I was doing OK.

Next morning, thank Christ, I couldn’t remember my dreams but they’d been rough. When you wake with your hair drenched in sweat and panic riding roughshod all over your torso, you weren’t dreaming you won the freaking lotto.

Got a scalding shower done, a lethal strong coffee in me and the Xanax. Spent an hour practicing the moves with the gun. I was clumsy, couldn’t get into a rhythm but stayed with it; it would come. By fuck, I’d make it. Got my all-weather coat. The right inside pocket was a shoplifter’s dream, large and unobtrusive. The Mossberg slid in like sin. I got a yellow pad, wrote down all I knew about Headstone. Took me a time, writing with your left hand for the first time is a bitch.