Ken Bruen - Headstone

Jesus, didn’t anyone dress down anymore?

He was striking in the way that certain sharks are. You could admire their sleekness but you didn’t ever want to get close. He said,

“Who is this? I told you Kosta, I told you to come alone.”

Now I could see Caz’s nervous eyes and the twist in his body language. He was trying to say,

“No problem.”

Kosta said,

“My driver, like you have.”

Edward was enjoying the rush, the sense of calling the shots, asked,

“Has he got a name?”

Kosta was totally relaxed, said,

“Employee.”

Edward enjoyed that a lot. Asked,

“You got my money?”

I kept hoping the macho posing, the cock of the walk-or pier-bullshit would be all we’d have to deal with. These guys were having themselves a fine old time, strutting and mind fucking. Kosta threw the satchel at his feet. Edward, without looking at Caz, said,

“Count it.”

As Caz knelt, and began to do that, Kosta asked,

“How do I know this is the last time?”

Edward laughed, said,

“You don’t know shit, I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Kosta looked at me and I slid the Mossberg out, racked the slide. Edward laughed harder, asked,

“Is that to scare me…………whoo-eh, I’m so afraid. Fuck your employee, fuck you.”

I shot him in the face, range of about five yards.

The proximity nearly took his head off — clean off. Caz, on his knees, looked up as pieces of brain and gore splattered over the money and his face was a study of pure bewilderment. He began to rise when Kosta shot him between the eyes, a great shot if you weren’t a friend of the one on the receiving end.

He moved fast, stood over Caz, put in the coup de grace. He glanced at me, the Mossberg still in position, and with his boot shoved Edward into the water. Then he turned, plucked the sodden notes from my dead friend’s hand, pushed them in the satchel, said,

“You drive the Volvo, I’ll follow in their car.”

A moment.

The gun in my hand, my mutilated hand, still hot from the firing, and I thought,

“Yah think?”

But Kosta was up and moving and I’d have to shoot him in the back.

He said,

“Jack, I’m truly sorry for your friend.”

I said,

“Not my friend anymore.”

Lowered the Mossberg and got in the Volvo, reversed, turned towards the city, looked in my mirror to see Kosta boot my friend into the dark water. Said,

“Codladh sámh leat mo chara.”

…..Sleep safe my friend.

Yeah.

I felt as fucking hollow as the words.

We got to Kosta’s home, parked the cars, and, standing outside, he touched my shoulder, said,

“Let’s get inside, get some serious drink in us.”

I shrugged him off, said,

“Oh, I intend to get some serious drinking done but not with you, not now.”

I began to walk down the driveway, knowing the thugs were at the gates in every sense, and my back exposed to Kosta.

If he’d shot me, I felt he would have truly done me a service.

He didn’t.

I made my slow way into town, got into a crowded Sheridan’s on the docks, ordered a large Jay, took it outside so I could smoke and get wasted. As I was doing this a guy approached, started,

“Jack.”

Without looking, I said,

“Fuck off.”

And looked across the Claddagh basin to the pier. The double Jameson didn’t erase what lay beneath the water. I don’t think they’ve invented that drink yet, the one that wipes the slate clean of utter treachery.

Pick battles big enough to matter,

small enough to win.

— Irish saying

The next week passed in a daze, Stewart and I trying to get a solid line on Headstone, both now feeling that time was of the utmost. That the major event these lunatics were planning was edging closer. Friday morning, I was up early, not booze early, but eight o’clock.

Like that.

Feeling numb, feeling dead. You kill an innocent friend, you get to hoping the fires of hell will be roasting. Dwell on it, and they already are. I had my coffee, black, bitter, strong, no sugar. No sweetness, Jesus, God forbid. Showered, shaved, Xanaxed to the goddamn hilt, switched on the radio.

Galway Bay FM.

Jimmy Norman’s breakfast show. Helped me chill. He plays the best music-music that makes you yearn. And he keeps it light, keeps it moving. He was saying that Keith (Finnegan) on the top of the hour had some special guests but. .

He had the Saw Doctors on the line from Australia.

Their manager, Ollie Jennings, is just about one of the nicest people I ever met.

And seeing as I don’t do nice, that is something unique. The Saw Doctors, from Tuam, just down the road a piece, were the perfect blend of traditional Irish, rock ’n’ roll, and their own spin on live gigs was to be seen to be believed. They’d been around almost as long as I’d been slogging my befuddled gig in Galway. But they’d gone global. A new drummer, new album, and they sounded as down-to-earth as if they’d just released their first single. Not a notion in their repertoire. In America, they’d said they were fans of Jodie Foster, she got in touch and, as the lads said,

“Went for a burger with them.”

I just loved that.

And, they said,

“She was quiet.”

There is something awesome in that apparently simple meeting.

When a legend blends with the iconic, and the result is humility, fuck, you want to shout,

“Bono, hope you’re taking notes.”

Jimmy asked if they’d do a song, live, right then and there, and they did. Just sang.

My foot was tapping along, just in the groove with the best of Irish, when the phone rang.

You get a call out of the proverbial blue that knocks the bejaysus out of you. I’d had a dream, on Thursday night, that I still hadn’t been able to shake. Laura was back in my life. I swear, I could feel her hand in my mine.

For reasons not at all.

We were feeding the swans at the Claddagh, and she leant back into my shoulder and I was so deliriously happy.

And woke.

Tears on my face, coursing down my cheek.

Hard arse that.

Had muttered, in a vain attempt to shake it away,

“’Tis the holy all of it.”

The awful loss had paralyzed me. I’d sat on the side of my empty bed, woebegone. In fucking bits, then shouted,

“Get a fucking grip.”

Had

Kind of.

I’d made my own self busy, and then pulled on a sweatshirt that bore the logo:

NUIG, Ropes.

My oldest 501s and my winter crocs, the ones that whispered,

“We love you, love your feet.”

You are getting love from shoes, you are so seriously deranged, it’s pathetic.

And I’d been relishing Jimmy’s show, with the Saw Doctors,

hated having to answer the damn phone. Said,

“Yeah.”

In that icy tone.

“Mr. Taylor, it’s Sister Maeve.”

I had given her my number, never………….never expecting to hear from her. But nuns, they give nothing away, in every sense. I said,

“Ah, good morning, Sister.”

Lame, right?

She replied,

“Mr. Taylor, you are a very unusual man, a mix of tremendous sadness and such violent acts.”

I’d need a little more to go on than my character analysis, said,

“I’ll need a little more to go on.”

I swear to God, she seemed to be suppressing utter joy, said,

“Father Gabriel and his. . housekeeper have taken off and with all of the Brethren’s funds.”

Gabe did a runner? I knew I’d got his attention but that he legged it, phew-oh. I was literally lost for words, tried,

“Really?”

Now she let it loose, said,

“Oh, Mr. Taylor, it means the Brethren are a spent force. Their terrible shadow has been lifted.”