Ken Bruen - Headstone

And went to the house previously occupied by Father Loyola. I didn’t bring port. Knew the lady would be long gone. Rang the bell, it was answered by a Barbie doll. Cross my heart, a real cutesy pie. Maybe twenty but not anything over. Jesus, at her age, I was security for a Thin Lizzy concert, right before Phil Lynott died.

She was heartaching gorgeous and as if in deference, she wore a heavy silver cross round her neck. God forgive me but all it served to do was accentuate her wondrous cleavage. Her clothes were the thin side of provocative. She asked, in a cultured voice tinged with the American twang beloved of Irish young people,

“Help you?”

Jesus, count the ways.

She clocked my hearing aid, my bruised eye, the black glove on my right hand. Nothing there to suggest any help……….. could help. I said,

“I’ve an appointment with Father Gabriel.”

She chewed on her bottom lip and I knew if she had gum, she’d probably have blown a bubble. I said,

“No need to show me the way.”

Pushed past her. I didn’t knock on the door of the study, simply barged in. Gabriel was sitting behind a splendid new oak desk, a Galway crystal tumbler of booze at his right hand. The walls were adorned with photos of him with the guys with the juice. Most of whom were now facing indictments on all sorts of fraud, embezzling, theft. I focused on the one with him and Clancy, on the golf course, golden smiles and empty eyes. He managed, “Jack, what a surprise; this is unexpected.”

I gave him my best smile. Even if my teeth had been real, the sentiment never would be. I sat in the armchair opposite him, lovely soft napa leather that whispered,

“Relax.”

He asked,

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I said,

“Give me a shot of whatever it is you’re having.”

He had his control back, said,

“This is not really a good time.”

I said,

“Make it good.”

He glanced at the phone on his desk, one of those fake fucking antique jobs that cost a fortune, then decided to ride it out, reached in a drawer, produced a bottle of Laphroaig, then a glass, poured a smallish measure, pushed it across the desk. I said,

“Ah, Johnny Depp’s favorite drink.”

Contempt flowed easily now. He said,

“I really wouldn’t know. Pop trivia is not my forte.”

I said,

“He’s a movie star, but shite, that is one good drink.”

It was.

Like the smooth lie of an insincere priest. I said,

“Though, is it not a bit unpatriotic of you not to support the home side, like a decent bottle of Jameson? God knows, the economy could use all the help it can get.”

He was tired of me already, asked in a weary tone,

“Was there something?”

I made a show of looking around, asked,

“Where’s the housekeeper?”

We both knew I didn’t mean Barbie.

He made a dry sucking sound with his teeth, not an easy feat, but then, who’d want it to be? He said,

“Not really your concern but she had divided loyalties.”

I pushed,

“Where is she now?”

Exasperation oozed from him. He took a fine nip of the fine booze, patriotism notwithstanding, said,

“I’ve absolutely no idea.”

And the thought/sentinel riding point was,

“And I could give a fuck.”

Reared in the school of not giving a fuck, I recognized a fellow pilgrim.

Time to up the ante, get him focused.

I stood up and he was about to smile, thinking I was leaving. Used my left hand to free the Mossberg, pumped a shell into the chamber. The sound was awesome; you could have heard a nun drop. Momentarily startled, he managed to rein it in, said, “Such theatrics Taylor. You’re going to shoot a priest?”

Now he laughed, at the sheer absurdity of the thought. The bollix hadn’t been out much, it seemed. The laugh galvanized me, I was across the desk like I actually had the energy, the barrel jammed into his tanned cheek. I said,

“Great movie, available on DVD, Mesrine, classic French cinema. In it, Mesrine said, There are no rules, like me. I live without rules . You get my drift I’d hazard. Here’s the gig: you find the housekeeper and give her the money you ‘recovered’ from poor old Loyola. Sound fair?”

He was shaken, it’s hard not to be when a Mossberg is jammed into your face, but fair dues, he did rally, managed,

“Or what?”

I admire spirit, truly appreciate cojones in the face of a barrel but, truth to tell, I didn’t like this slimy bastard, simple as that. I pulled the trigger an inch from his ear, blowing a hole in the wall almost the size of the Greek national deficit. Then the sound of running feet and the babe-slash-housekeeper burst in. I said, “Fuck off, and if I hear the phone, you’ll be joining this dude.”

She took off.

I felt reasonably certain, not for the phone.

Gabriel was meanwhile whining,

“My ear, my ear, I can’t hear.”

Fucking tell me about it.

I stepped back from the desk, adjusted my hearing aid, said,

“I can suggest a good ear man.”

He grabbed his glass, hands trembling, said,

“Taylor, you’ve no idea of what you’re getting into. The Brethren have a very severe code of punishment.”

I moved back to my seat, facing him, asked,

“Like, say, drowning a helpless old man. Are you actually threatening me?”

The smirk was creeping back, not only to his face but to his very tone. He said,

“You can take it as a guarantee.”

He was either very drunk or very stupid. I grabbed the bottle, asked,

“May I?”

Even added a drop to his glass, I’m not vindictive. . much. Asked,

“An actual threat from a man of the cloth, this is really something. You are serious, right?”

He lifted his glass, assured he’d regained the higher ground, back in control, the peasant in his place. I took a swig of the drink. It was smooth, smooth as false hope. I sat back, lit up a cigarette, just to see the flicker of annoyance on his movie star face, clicked the Zippo, twice, asked,

“You hear that?”

He was all done with my idiocy, began to reach for a file, said,

“I can hear fine now. .”

I held up my damaged hand, said,

“Sh….ussh.”

God forgive me, it’s a rush to do that to a priest. They’d been trying for bloody centuries to keep us quiet, so throwing it back was a blast, if not indeed blasphemy. I put the Mossberg on the oak desk, would love if he tried for it, reached in my jacket, took out a slim silver recorder. Bought it earlier in the day from the Army and Navy Shop. They even sold grenades, collector’s items. Asked,

“Ready?”

Hit the play button.

His face took a serious drop as he heard his rich, clear voice.

I let it play, then pressed stop.

Put it back in my jacket, said,

“There will be two copies of this. One goes to Garda headquarters in Dublin, unless your golfing buddy Clancy really wants a copy? And the second to my friend Kosta.”

He was speechless. Maybe he could join a Silent Disorder.

I continued,

“Kosta I don’t think you’d like much. He hates priests and for some odd reason has a real hard-on for you. He got me the Mossberg and, cross my bedraggled heart, I love him dearly but it has to be said, he’s a nutter, your out-and-out psycho. The kind of guy who’d cut your balls off and shove them in your mouth. Or so they say. I haven’t actually seen it but I think it’s probably true. And here’s the best bit. You ready? He regards me as his great friend. Go figure, huh? Anyway, sorry for rambling on like a priest on a Sunday sermon, the point is, if anything………….anything happens to me, I were you, I’d hope the Guards came before Kosta. So you see, I don’t like to be crude but I have you by the. . nuts.”