Ken Bruen - Headstone

I said,

“You didn’t have that in the hospital.”

He was mildly impressed, said,

“A keen observer, that’s good, very good. My driver brought it over.”

He had a driver? I asked,

“DUI, that it?”

The briefcase was snapped open-and I mean, snapped . Then he rested his tanned hands on it and, fuck, were his nails. . manicured?

His tone was now that of a stern parent to an unruly child. He said,

“I know all about your smart mouth, your-how shall I put it- cynical repartee, but it’s wasted on me so let’s drop the smart-alec pose, shall we?”

I threw him with the monosyllable

“Fine.”

His chastisements obviously carried huge freight in his usual circles. He asked,

“I beg your pardon?”

“Isn’t Jesus about love, spreading the joy, or are you more the school of,

Man is born of woman

and is full of misery ?”

He leant back, folded those perfect hands in his lap, said,

“You remember your Catechism.”

“No, I remember me funerals.”

His food came. He snapped at the girl,

“Glass of sparkling water, very thin wedge of lemon.”

Waved her away. I said,

“Bon appétit.”

I hoped it choked him. He didn’t answer, set about his food like a rabid dog, ate with a ferocious determination. This was his food and by Christ he was going to have every last bite. I drank, thanked the girl when she brought my Jameson, and waited for whatever this prick had in mind.

Finished, he cleaned the corners of his mouth, delicately, with the napkin, took a sip of water, said,

“To business.”

“I can hardly contain myself.”

Briefcase flicked open again. He took a fat envelope, passed it over to me, said,

“A retainer.”

I didn’t touch it. He stared straight into my eyes. I knew he didn’t much care for what he saw there. He said,

“The church, as you are well aware, has been under intense scrutiny; the errors of the few have cast a shadow on the many.”

I nearly laughed out loud.

Fucking errors!

Echoed,

“You mean

the child molesters,

the Magdalen Girls,

our local bishop who refuses to resign despite the whole country

howling for his head?”

He winced.

An actual physical tic appeared under his left eye, began a rat-tat-tat like the drumbeat of the fallen.

He reined it in, said,

“Recovery must come from within. To that end, a group was formed within the church to deal with misconduct before it becomes public.”

I said,

“A splinter group, like the Provos breaking from the official IRA?”

His efforts to control his temper were admirable. He almost sneered,

“I don’t believe we have been accused of bearing arms?”

I said,

“Yet.”

And before he could muster, I added,

“Least with the IRA, we could see the weapons.”

He asked, in a patient, icy tone,

“Might I continue?”

“Go for it, Gabe.”

“Our reform group are known as the Brethren , and, despite your cynicism, Mr. Taylor, we have managed to avoid further unsavory revelations.”

He said avoid . I heard, cover up . I let him drone on.

“Alas, our chief fund-raiser and most active member, Father Loyola Dunne, seems to have disappeared.”

I sat back, let the moment linger, then,

“Let me guess: him and your slush fund?”

He was silent, seething. I pushed, “How much?”

He had to drag it from deep down, gritted, “Three quarters of a million.”

I gave an appreciative whistle, said,

“And you can’t go the official route. You want him found, discreetly , No, let me rephrase that: you want the cash back?”

His eyes burning on me, he said, “In a nutshell, yes.”

I said,

“Tried Vegas?”

His patience with me was well gone. He shook his head, flicked the briefcase again, slid over a photograph, said, “This is Loyola; his details are on the back.”

A man in his late fifties, with a kind face, laughter lines on the eyes, high forehead, but deep bags under his eyes, heavy jowled.

I asked,

“A drinker?”

Tight smile, then,

“None of us is without our frailties.”

“Want to share some of yours, Gabe, help us. . bond?”

He shut down. The meeting was over. He handed me a tiny white card, three phone numbers, said,

“You report only to me, and need I stress that speed is of the essence?”

I nearly gave the Nazi salute but it would have been too obvious.

I flicked his card on the table, said,

“You’re forgetting the important bit.”

Finally, with a look of surprise, he indicated the fat envelope, said,

“I think you’ll find the fee more than generous and a speedy resolution will result in a very handsome bonus.”

I said,

“You don’t listen too good, do you Gabe? So, I’ll say it slow, you might be able to hear it then. I haven’t said I’ll take the job.”

His lips literally peeled back to reveal those marvelous teeth.

He said,

“Mr. Taylor, you are a Catholic, lapsed, perhaps, but still part of our flock. You have helped the Church in the past, albeit reluctantly, I understand, but surely you want to see the Church restored to its former glory?”

Back to its bullying days, its arrogance, its total disregard of the people. I had an overwhelming desire to wallop him, a powerful right hand to his tanned face, wipe out one or two of those perfect teeth.

I said,

“I’ll take the case. One, because I think you’re lying through your teeth. Two, it’s a blast to be actually receiving money from the Church. But know this, Gabe, I don’t report and I’m not, no way, part of your flock, lapsed or otherwise.”

It was impossible to gauge how he took it. He stood, said,

“I have covered our dinner bill.”

I asked,

“When was Loyola last seen?”

He was already leaving, said,

“He gave the eleven o’clock mass in his parish ten days ago and then disappeared.”

He strode off, master of all he surveyed. A vague rumor of piety in his wake. He hadn’t wished me

“God bless.”

In lieu, I counted the cash, a blessing in its commercial self.

Later I picked up some books from Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop.

Vinny in full metal said,

“They’re preparing a flood fund for the families devastated from the rains.”

I said,

“Why don’t they just use their usual slush fund?”

I bought a shitload of books,

including:

Jason Starr,

Craig McDonald,

Tom Piccirilli,

R.J. Ellory,

Megan Abbott.

Vinny said,

“Nice selection.”

I also picked up Carol O’Connell, I don’t care what anyone says,

Mallory was a definite influence on Stieg Larsson.

In Find Me, there’s a passage that scalds my soul.

“…………………………..he asked her

‘Why don’t you want to have kids?’

Mallory said

‘Because I don’t know what they’re for.’”

My apartment in Nun’s Island was sublet to me by a guy who decided to take a gap year in his late forties. Some gap. Reeked more of midlife crisis but better, I guess, than a red sports car. He showed no inclination to return and I wasn’t encouraging him. Nun’s Island is a small neighborhood, nestling close to the cathedral.

And, yes, there are nuns.

The Poor Clares.

An enclosed community. To simply enter their grounds was to find a rare tranquility. To tread lightly on holy ground. They were currently running a campaign to pay for the restoration of the convent. Titled:

“Buy a Brick.”

You bought a brick by buying a ticket which then went forward to a lotto. Being newly flush with cash, I went to them, offered the Mother Superior fifty euros. She protested it was too much. She noticed me staring at her neck. Nuns, like cops, see everything. I thought, if you’re staring at a nun’s neck, you need a brick.