Ken Bruen - Headstone

The papers speculated on the weird deaths of Bethany and Wall and concluded:

…………………………A love affair, fuelled on drugs and would-be celebrity, gone berserk when faced with the actual enormity of what they were about to undertake.

Yada fucking yada, on they went, fuel for the talking heads.

Most of the editorials called for Ridge to receive the President’s Medal of Honor. Promotion was a given.

She called me, demanded,

“We have to talk.”

“I don’t think so.”

A pause, then,

“Jack, I can’t accept credit for what I didn’t do.”

Jack!

I weighed my words, let loose,

“Stewart gave you shelter when you needed it. You open this can of worms, he might go to jail. Trust me on this, he would not be able to do time again.”

Slam dunk.

I hoped.

Then,

“Jack, I need you to tell me the truth on something.”

“Fire away.”

Tentative,

“Did you have anything to do with the deaths of the girl and Ronan Wall?”

I could see Al Pacino in Godfather Two as Diane Keaton asked him something similar, said,

“You get to ask me this just one time, right?”

“OK.”

“No.”

Did she believe me?

Did she fuck.

I could feel the cluster fuck of questions she had but she let them slide, said,

“So, I’m indebted to Stewart, then.”

“More than you know.”

“Jack……Bhi curamach…………be careful.”

“Leat féin…………..you too.”

* * *

I had two calls to make. Rang Directory Enquiries and got the number of the new private investigator in town, Mr. Mason.

Rang and he answered with,

“Ultimate Investigations.”

I said,

“I’ve heard you are a great PI.”

Let him bask.

He did.

Then,

“Well, thank you, we do our best or, as our slogan says, our Ultimate.”

Jesus.

I said,

“I’ve some hot information for you.”

“Your name please?”

“David Goodis.”

He was all biz now, barked,

“So David, let’s hear it.”

I gave him Kosta’s address, said he was about to move a major mountain of coke at seven o’clock that evening but to be careful, he carries a Glock always and is extremely dangerous. “He was involved in the killing of that Ronan Wall.”

Rang off before he could quiz me.

Then called Kosta, opened with,

“It’s Jack.”

He didn’t sound surprised. If anything, he was almost friendly, said,

“Thanks for returning my car.”

I launched,

“You helped me in so many ways so, to clean the slate, I wanted to warn you that a guy posing as a PI is going to arrive at your home at seven. He’s been hired by the Romanians to avenge Caz’s death. I don’t know how they manage to get their information but they do. Maybe, the daily threat of deportation has them on constant alert.”

He digested this, then,

“Thanks Jack, maybe after this. . matter, we can be friends again?”

I let that dance, said,

“We’ll always be close.”

He laughed, said,

“A bottle of Stoli is waiting in the ice bucket, my friend.”

On ice.

I said,

“Works for me, hermano.”

He finished with,

“Del corazón, mi amigo.”

Pick battles big enough to matter,

small enough to win.

— Irish saying

Kosta phoned the following evening, just after the Angelus bell had tolled. Outside, a fierce storm was blowing, one of those sudden blasts of terror that come without warning. The windows in the apartment shook from the power of it. He said,

“Yesterday evening was as you had forewarned me, thank you.” I already knew how it went down. Had called the Guards’ hotline and told them a crazy man was going to try and trespass on Kosta’s property. They were waiting for him and he was now in custody, trying to Brit his way out of a gun charge and various other violations.

“You are all right?”

He laughed, said,

“I am but my visitor-let’s say he won’t be making house calls for a time. The police were not exactly gentle in their handling of him.”

As if it just occurred to me, I said,

“Come pick me up, we’ll celebrate.”

Now the trace of caution entered his voice, he said,

“Jack, it’s blowing up a hurricane now.”

I laughed, went with,

“It’s Galway. If you let the weather dictate your life, you’d never go out.”

His intuition battled with his machismo and he conceded, said,

“OK, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

I was waiting outside, being blown to freaking bits by the wind. He opened the door of an Audi, urged me in. He had certainly dressed for the elements: a long Barbour coat, navy wool cap pulled over his ears. Now for the tricky part. I suggested we go to Blackrock, the area of beach passing on from the Salthill promenade. Before he could protest, I added,

“It’s the best view and, trust me, buddy, no more awesome sight than the Atlantic at full roar. You up for that?”

Poking his pride.

He put the car in gear and we were speeding out of there. His face was stone. As we came off the Grattan Road, I saw the off — license I was heavily dependent on still being there, said,

“Kosta, stop a moment. Let’s get some fortification for the wind.” He pulled over, began to get out, asked,

“Jameson?”

“Perfect and oh. .”

Like I’d just thought of it,

“A pack of Gitanes.”

I didn’t want them but I desperately wanted to buy time and prayed the assistant would have to go looking for such a brand, or at least explain why they didn’t have it. I only needed minutes.

Four minutes and he was back, tossed a pack of Marlboro, said,

“No Gitanes.”

The bottle of Jameson felt heavy as he handed it over. He glared at the sea, said,

“It’s getting worse.”

He had no idea.

I said,

“Something you’ll never forget.”

That clinched it.

He parked near the tower, the silhouette of the diving boards barely visible in the driving rain. I said,

“See, under the tower, a shed. We can get protection there. When we were kids, we used to huddle under there, watch the sea roar.” If kids had done it, how could he baulk? He sighed, reached in the glove department, took out the Glock, said,

“Force of habit.”

We made our way down along the side, the wind tugging like the worst kind of religion. Once inside the shed, we caught our breath, I unscrewed the Jay, handed the bottle over, said,

“This will warm you.”

He took a deep draw, handed it back, and I toasted,

“Long life.”

I used the Zippo to fire us up and he put the Glock on his knee, the charade at an end. He took but one long fervent draw on the cigarette and flicked it into the storm, asked,

“What’s up Jack?”

I said,

“I met your daughter.”

He was stunned, muttered,

“What?”

“Actually, she found me. Told me that Edward had many faults but molestation wasn’t one of them. She did say that he was chipping away at your business and you’d never allow that.”

He grabbed the bottle, drank, said,

“Poor girl, she’s deluded.”

I let that sit, then,

“I checked around and, sure enough, he was no prince but he wasn’t what you said and he was most definitely a rival to your business.”

He had the Glock in his hand, said,

“Spit it out Jack.”

I did.

“You used me to erase him. That a friend of mine got killed was just friendly fire. Primarily, you got rid of a son-in-law you loathed.”

He stood up, watching the wild sea, said,

“Ah, Jack, why couldn’t you just let it go?”