Ken Bruen - The Devil

He smiled, impossible to decipher, said,

‘Check him out, he’s relevant to our earlier talk. Anyway, he always referred to his homeland as “The United Satanic States of America”.’

I was about to mention the demon again when he held up his hand, made the European sign of warding off the Evil Eye, said,

‘Jack, don’t tell me. I don’t want him to take an interest in me.’

As if on cue, his mobile rang. He had that awful ring tone ‘I kill you’. Spoke rapidly in what I presume was Romanian, slid off his stool, closed his mobile, said,

‘Gotta go, Jack.’

And was gone.

I paid for the pints.

I gave the gorgeous girl a tip and she gave me an icy glare.

Caz leaving abruptly was my fault, she seemed to imply, and I thought she might have a point.

Naturally, I Googled Anton LaVey.

Went ‘Oh fuck’ as I read.

The night before the first of May is the Satanic festival of Walpurgisnacht. In 1969, an ex-carnival roustabout and part-time crime-scene photographer, LaVey, set up the Church of Satan.

Not a guy for half measures, he plunged right in.

In short order, he got himself a house, painted it black, got a whole new wardrobe in yeah, black, and even purchased a black panther.

The animal, not the movement.

His star seemed to be rising as he gained some brief passing fame with a cameo in Rosemary’s Baby . And the guy knew how to play the press, leaking them all sorts of lurid stories that led to them dubbing him the Black Pope.

Euphoric on his brief fifteen minutes of infamy, he set up his own church.

Worked for Hubbard.

His gimmick -

Naked altar girls.

An ecclesiastical lap dance before his time.

And it worked.

For a time.

Got Sammy Davis Jr and the then hot-to-trot, Jayne Mansfield.

It blew fast, luridly and tragically.

He had a hard on for Mansfield’s lawyer, who knew him for what he was.

And LaVey laid a public curse on the lawyer.

Went badly wrong.

The lawyer died in a car crash, but Mansfield was in the car with him and was horrendously decapitated.

I paused for a moment, lit a cig with the now well-oiled Zippo and couldn’t help but think, Headless canines?

I stood for a moment, took a Xanax, trying to make some sense of how all this tied in with my situation, then poured a wee Jay, and thus fortified, sat down to read the conclusion.

LaVey died in 1997 in a Catholic hospital. An enterprising reporter named Cathi Unsworth who went on to become a fine novelist discovered LaVey was…

Jewish.

I went to a pub in lower Salthill.

Not my usual stomping ground.

It’s not quite upmarket.

Yet.

But getting there.

The barman had a dicky bow, but alas, had neglected to iron the almost-white shirt.

I could tell by his eyes, he was probably the best customer.

I ordered a pint. Unlike in the UK, here you don’t tip, or ever offer the bar crew a drink. I asked,

‘Something for yourself, maybe?’

Large brandy.

I had me guy.

He muttered,

‘Normally I don’t, you know, but…’

I gave him my best smile, said,

‘If a man can’t have a wee snort now and again.’

He clinked my glass, said,

‘ Slainte amach .’

And threw it back like a man in dire straits.

Straits I knew better than I cared to admit.

I put a fifty note on the counter and his red eyes, the brandy giving them that artificial respite, fell on it eagerly. He put out a hand, said,

‘I’m Bob, pleasure to meet you.’

I’d most of me pint gone and he volunteered,

‘Another? On the house this time.’

By tea time, he’d be gone.

Once the owner showed up, he’d be so out of the game, it was done but to shoot the poor bastard.

I said,

‘Terrific.’

And excused meself to go to the toilet.

Let him wreak havoc on the optics.

Gave him five minutes.

Sitting back on the counter, he was by now my new best mate.

I said,

‘You look like a guy who’s clued in.’

He rubbed his nose in that way of the doomed coke addict, figuring I wanted to be hooked up, smiled – God, it had been a time since he saw the dentist – said,

‘I’ve been around, could tell some stories.’

I tried to suppress,

‘Gotcha.’

Sipped at the fresh pint, let him stew a little, eye the fifty, and then I asked,

‘A guy named Sawyer, you know him?’

I won’t be daft and say it sobered him, but it definitely got his attention.

He leaned forward, the brandy fumes like a blast of bad news in my face, said,

‘Whoa, you don’t want to, like, you know, be messing with that dude.’

I waited, touching the fifty lightly with my index finger.

He took a deep breath, then,

‘The guy is a major player, got connections, y’know?’

I smiled, us dudes just shooting the bull, and asked,

‘I was just wondering, as I have a little biz I might put his way and hopefully put a little something your way, in the light of a finder’s fee, no one to be the wiser, of course.’

He took the fifty, pushed it in his pocket, said,

‘Every day, like clockwork, he plays nine holes, then has a brew or two in the bar, members only.’

Bitterness came off him like rabies as he said that. He knew ‘members’ was a term he’d never have dealings with.

Half my pint was going sour as the atmosphere went south and I stood, said,

‘Be seeing you.’

He was as close to stunned as it gets.

He was at that stage where he was about to lay out his whole shitty life.

He near pleaded,

‘You’re leaving? I never got your name.’

As I opened the door, I said,

‘ Dude , that’s like, cos I didn’t give it.’

*

My dad always told me,

‘The golf club is not for the likes of us.’

Seeing my crushed face, he’d quickly added,

‘But they always need caddies!’

Don’t they fucking just?

James Ellroy used to be a caddy.

Need I add more?

But for once, I didn’t go blasting in, decided to do this right.

I watched.

For one whole week.

Loitering, you might say.

With serious intent.

Sure enough, my brandy buddy was right. Every day, like jig time, Sawyer played nine holes.

And he cheated.

O.J. Simpson did too and there’s a moral there.

Not of any uplift.

Mostly I clocked the two heavies who followed him around.

Big fuckers.

Built to hurt.

He had a drink in the clubhouse after, and then the gorillas drove him home.

One usually sat outside in the BMW. He would have had a Humvee if the market would take it. The second heavy usually stayed at the clubhouse. Minding the clubs, perhaps?

Come three thirty, having safely delivered Sawyer home to his mansion, the car guy moved off to collect the three daughters, who were no doubt exhausted from a day bullying the wee Down syndrome girleen.

Monitoring a case, following a guy, is just about as tedious as it sounds.

But I stayed with it.

At one point, I even read a discarded cig packet.

The government warning went:

SMOKING MAY REDUCE THE BLOOD FLOW AND CAUSE IMPOTENCE.

At close to nine Euro a pack of twenty, you’d think nobody would smoke. But the country was still smoking like Bette Davis in her prime.

Broke but fuming.

I kept tabs on Ridge’s progress.

She was due to leave the hospital in a day or two.

Figured I wouldn’t be on the welcome committee.

Rang Kelli’s mother and right off the bat she began,