Ken Bruen - Headstone

I stood up, drained my glass, put the gun back in my jacket, said, “Keep it in your pants, padre.”

The housekeeper was standing by the door, her face ablaze with anger and fury. She glared at me. I said,

“Alanna, I’m not the enemy. Your boss in there, he had the previous occupant of this house put in the river.”

She spat in my face.

I let the spittle dribble down my cheek, no attempt to stop it, stared at her. She began to move back. I pulled off the glove, put my stumped fingers right in her face, lied,

“Your precious employer, the saintly Gabriel in there, he did that to me because he suspected I knew some things. I have one question for you.”

She was transfixed by the ugly remains of my hand, muttered,

“What?”

I pulled the glove back, asked,

“What does he think you know?”

Don’t play what’s there, play what’s

not there.

— Miles Davis

The call from Kosta was unexpected. He began,

“Jack, you extended me the hospitality of your home. I’d like to repay the courtesy.”

It occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about him, and yet we had a deep, almost ferocious, bond. I said,

“Of course.”

He gave me the address, in Taylor’s Hill, our own upper-class part of the city, home to doctors and other professionals. He asked if I could be there by five and I said, sure. Then he added,

“I need your help, my friend.”

“You have it.”

A pause, then,

“Thank you. Please bring the Mossberg.”

Jesus.

Was I being invited to dinner or murder?

Taylor’s Hill still retains those glorious houses, set well back from the road, with large carefully tended gardens. Kosta’s was midway, huge hedges almost shielding it but you could glimpse the majesty of the building. Built when money was used lavishly on homes. I opened a heavy wrought iron gate, and, instantly, two heavies were on me. Front and back. I said,

“Whoa, easy guys, I’m Taylor, and expected.”

The one facing me, all hard mean muscle, gave me a cold calculating look, then spoke into a lapel microphone, waited. Everybody wanted to be an FBI clone. He motioned,

“Pass.”

Not big on chat those guys. I moved up to the house, three stories of Connemara granite and kept scrupulously clean. I rang the bell and wondered if a maid would answer the door. Did people have them anymore? Apart from the clergy, of course. Kosta answered. He was dressed in a navy blue tracksuit, not unlike Ridge’s, trainers, a white towel round his neck. He greeted, “Welcome to my home, Jack Taylor.”

Waved me in. A long hallway was lined with paintings. I know shite about art but I do know about cash and here was serious dough in frames. The only painting I had was of Tad’s Steak-house in New York. He led me to a book-lined study. Not the books-for-show variety; you could see they’d been well used. Comfortable armchairs in front of a roaring log fire. Few things as reassuring as that. When I looked closer, I could see it was turf. A man who knew the country. He indicated I sit after I shucked off my coat. Left it close by. He offered a drink and I said,

“Whatever you’re having yourself.”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Great.”

He didn’t ask about on the rocks. Serious drinkers don’t do ice. I settled in the chair, putting the Mossberg on the carpet. Maybe he wanted it back. Got my drink, and he sat, reflected for a moment as he gazed into the fire, the flames throwing what seemed like a halo on his bald skull. Like Michael Chiklis in The Shield .

The Mossberg rested-a lethal snake-near his feet. He said,

“To good friends.”

“Amen.”

He liked that answer. Took a large wallop of his drink, savored, then swallowed, said,

“Genever.”

Dutch?

I’ve found nodding sagely stands you in good stead when you don’t have a fucking clue.

I nodded sagely.

He let out a deep…..Ah.

I knew we were now at the main event. He said,

“Jack, like you, I live my life to the minimum.”

He was kidding, right?

Bodyguards, a huge house. . not really Zen. He continued, “I have few friends, and you I regard as one. My history is violent but we don’t need to dwell on that. I have one daughter, her name is Irini. . means peace.”

Stopped.

Fuck, I hoped we weren’t in sharing mode. No way was I reliving Serena-May and the tragedy.

Pain ran across his eyes, took hold as he said,

“She is. . otherworldly. Very beautiful, with a true purity of spirit. I have always, siempre, always protected her.”

I believed him.

He said, slowly,

“But I was detained for nearly two years. She met a man named Edward Barton.”

He spat into the fire, continued,

“A Londoner, he smelled money, married her, and by the time I was. . undetained, they had a daughter. This precious girl is five years of age now.”

Something had entered the room. Apart from the dark evening full set and the foul weather, it was a pervading sense of impending doom. Blame the genever, I guess. He suddenly was on his feet, grabbed a bottle, refuelled us. Then put the bottle back, sat again, all his body language reeking of rage and spittle. The line of his jaw was a study in controlled ferocity. He said,

“I despise this Edward. A lowlife, a rodent, rank in every way. I put such shit under my heel every week but Irini pleaded with me to be. .”

He paused again as he searched for a word that wouldn’t blow a hole through his face, said,

“Lenient. This man has spent all the money I had put aside for her. OK. I can deal with that. Money is not the issue, but then she comes to me, tells me this. . man, is. . abusing their daughter.” He let out a torrent of bile and obscenities that were nearly impressive in their range-if you weren’t sitting a few feet from the source, realizing he was close to losing it. And a loaded weapon at his feet, serious booze in his hand and system. You get the picture. He looked into the fire as a large piece of turf fell, and I’d swear I saw tears. A woman crying is always a man’s undoing. But to see a man cry, fuck, especially a man like him, it was a knife in the soul that would forever leave its imprint. I stayed with the sage gig, i.e., I said fuck all. He reined it in, took a deep breath, said,

“I am meeting this Edward soon, this evening. He needs more money. As he is not so stupid to be unaware of my reputation, he insisted on a public place. Nimmo’s Pier? You know this?”

Oh, shite, did I ever. Bad, bad history there.

He checked his watch, a slim Philippe Patek. I know of what I can never afford. He said,

“I’m to meet him in one hour.”

I knew where this was going so I volunteered for my own lynching, despite the fact he had thugs in the garden and God knows where else. I said,

“Would you like me to come along?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

His gratitude was embarrassing. We both knew why I was here.

He said,

“My regular employees, you met two on your arrival-they are as loyal as money.”

I nodded, said with a sinking heart,

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

We stood and he didn’t thank me. If gratitude was a condition of our friendship, I wouldn’t be there. He took me out to a large garage with a line of cars, selected a beat-up Volvo. Cops use them for one reason: below the radar. Before he put the car in gear, he flipped the glove department, expertly caught the Glock that tumbled out. He checked to be sure it was primed, said, “Jack, my terrible dilemma is this: I can’t harm the man. He knows that, my promise to my daughter, so he feels……………. invincible.”

We sat there as he waited for my answer, which could be nothing other than,