Ken Bruen - Headstone

“I haven’t promised.”

He smiled, put the car in first, said,

“Acrivos.” (Greek for exactly.)

We got there early, and to fill the time, I told him about Father Gabriel and the drowning of Loyola. He produced a silver flask, drank from it, handed it to me, and I didn’t wipe the top, took a swig. He said,

“Stoli.”

Strong is what I thought, thank God.

From where we were parked, we could see across the bay, the lights of Quay Street, beckoning to come party. He moved to get his back comfortable, said,

“One more thing, Jack. He has a driver, a new one, some Romanian trash named Caz.”

Oh, shite.

Christ on a bike, no. My decade-long, sometimes friend. He’d done the thing that counts in my narrow book: he’d come to see me in hospital-brought booze, too. In those ten years he’d been around a lot of, let’s say, under-the-gun stuff I did. He worked with the Guards as a translator for the Romanian refugees, and he could not only have scored major brownie points with Clancy by selling me out but got paid as well and secured his always precarious position as a nonnational. Superintendent Clancy was, yes, that keen to see me go down.

And, simply, deep down, I just liked him. Doesn’t need any more analysis.

In one fluid movement, Kosta lit two cigarettes, handed one over.

He had the instincts of a feral cat.

I took a drag, coughed. He said,

“Gitanes.”

Gypsies.

He was a veritable United Nations of moves, gestures, and actions And his instincts were uncanny. He said,

“Jack, your face tells me you know this man.”

When all else is up for grabs, sometimes, the truth is the only way. I said,

“I do.”

He watched the ash on his cigarette, letting it build, then,

“And, he is a friend, n’est-ce pas?”

I considered, said,

“We’re about to find out.”

I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent

and omnipotent God would have designedly created parasitic

wasps with the express intention of their feeding within the

living bodies of caterpillars.

— Charles Darwin

Bine was dressed in full combat gear, as if heading for a riot. All he needed was a face shield to complete the picture. Blown up behind, in glorious Technicolor, was the school, the relevant positions marked in red. He was wearing a holster holding a Walther, and around his neck, beads with stones spelling out Medugorje.

Bethany watched him as he downed some speed, working up his shtick, getting ready to impress his minions. She thought, as she’d thought so many times,

“Arsehole.”

And wondered yet anew about men and guns. Like freaking kids with toys. Give them a weapon and even deadbeats like the lame brothers developed a swagger. Jesus, she wanted to puke. But she had a lust/heat gig going with Bine and still wasn’t sure where it would go. Mainly, he gave the constant rage she felt a focus. Gave her the jolt to feel alive. Too, she had to admit, when the sorry prick got ranting, he was mesmerizing. Got her to do stuff she’d never thought she’d have the grit to even attempt. And got her off on her little independent flights, like the mind-fucking with the alcoholic Taylor. Not something she felt was wise to share with the crew.

And, if they pulled it off, a first in Irish history, as Bine kept saying, she’d be famous. Maybe get on Oprah, have Angelina play her in the movie, and be on the cover of Hot Press . One thing she knew: the girls rarely did jail time, they just did a Linda Kasabian and squealed. Even in the movies.

She tuned back in to Bine, took a hit of the speed her own self, washed it down with today’s special, Jack Daniel’s. Bine was into his rap. She’d missed the starters, never no mind, it wasn’t too difficult to play catch-up. He said,

“Now this cat Stewart, the ex-dope dealer, is a whole different ball game than the lesbian and Taylor. This dude has interests in the head shops, so that tells us the guy is clued in. He did six years in the Joy and no, I don’t mean an English barmaid, I’m talking h-e-a-v-y time in Mountjoy. So the dude is cool, into some Zen bullshite, but real laid-back and real sharp. I’m thinking, like, we got to waste the dude, right when we make our move, no bringing him back to base, just close his case there and then.”

He’d been OD’ing on Pulp Fiction again.

Bethany was dizzy trying to sort out his American expressions and distorted brain sequence. Bine looked at Jimmy, said, “Your assignment is to watch this guy, twenty-four-seven. You hear what I’m saying? Like all the time, and when you get his routine down-and I mean like cold bro-you report back.”

Jimmy was down all right, and nodding, not from the assignment but from the sheer amount of coke he had inhaled. His brother, always the sharper of the two, asked,

“Who’s going to put out this dude’s lights?”

Bine smiled, his recent tongue ring still not healed, so his mouth looked like the sorry pit of disease, said,

“Eeny

Meeny

Miney

Mo.

Catch a retard by the toe. .”

His finger stopped at Bethany. He gave her that look that scared her, like he knew what she’d been thinking and was way ahead in the fuck you department. He asked,

“You cool babe? You up for this?”

She shrugged, said,

“Whatever.”

Getting enough boredom in there to convince him. It seemed to. He asked,

“You gonna go up close and in the dude’s face, like with the Stanley-or you wanna waste him mega, like with the AK?”

She risked a look into his eyes and just saw the psycho megalomania, said,

“I’m thinking, the blade, yah know? Send a message to Taylor, let him know, like, it’s on the edge, like we’re burning bad.”

Even with drugs, sometimes she found it difficult to trot out the half-arsed Americanisms and ghetto gangsta shite. But he bought it, said,

“I’m liking it, lady. I’m real up on this.”

Bine downed his tumbler of Jack, gulped as it hit, turned to the blowup of the school, and then, reaching for a samurai sword-which was still legal to buy in Ireland-pointed out the entrance, said,

“I’m thinking, the bros go in here.”

Paused, did a little flick with the sword, nearly dropped it, which they’d have to pretend not to have seen, recovered, said,

“Here, the back, me and the babe, we’ll do our mojo from here, start killing the retards as they head for the exit.”

He let that hover. Jimmy asked,

“You got a head count in mind?”

Bine graced him with a bow, said,

“I’m thinking twenty-four would be, like, adequate.”

Fever Kill

— Tom Piccirilli

We got to Nimmo’s ten minutes before the appointed time and in silence. Both of us thinking on Caz, but for wholly different reasons. Kosta, no doubt, wondering how much of a stand-up guy I was going to be. And me, thinking, how much of a friend do you have to be for me not to kill you?

Jesus, ghosts must do again what once they had thought was over and done.

A BMW, shining new, was already there, blocking the end of the pier. Kosta said,

“Ah. How predictable. He so likes his expensive toys.”

His eyes aglow with such venom that I could have lit a cig from them, he ordered,

“Reach in the bag for the satchel. The money is in that-the money he thinks is his.”

I gave it to him and he asked, without looking at me,

“Ready?”

“As rain.”

We got out, waited by the Volvo. The BMW bathed us in its lights. Two figures emerged, began to stroll towards us. Caz was nervous, I could see it in the slope of his shoulders. And he didn’t even know yet that I was part of the gig.

Edward.

Edward was glorious. Beautifully coiffed blond hair, permanent tan, aviator shades, and, of course, of fucking course, an Armani suit.