Ken Bruen - The Devil

To the great relief of the Brits.

The Paddy pound , as they termed it, meant a huge source of income to the tiny English town.

They didn’t like us any better, but they sure as hell were glad of the Irish insane gambling spirit.

It wasn’t just the betting, the Irish liked to party and their parties were the stuff of myth.

Like the Oscars on meth and Jameson.

Publicity wise, Sawyer got shot the wrong week.

The lead singer of the Devil’s Minions, nobody gave – forgive the pun – a toss. Trash was tossed in the canal every night.

Sawyer had, to stay with the racing terminology, form.

Or as the Americans say,

‘He was a person of interest.’

Did I feel any remorse?

Did I fuck.

Ridge phoned me a few days after, asked if we could meet for a coffee.

I asked if I had to gear up.

She thought I meant clothes.

We met in Café du Journal on Quay Street.

Does it get more Irish?

The place was packed and we had to wait for ten minutes to get a table.

Recession?

Not for the designer-coffee crew, or maybe the news hadn’t filtered down yet.

Or perhaps, following the government’s lead, they just didn’t give a fuck.

St Patrick’s Day was looming and the government, in the midst of the worst crisis we had faced in twenty years, awarded themselves a twelve-day holiday.

St Patrick had obviously seriously screwed up the ridding-of-snakes gig.

Ridge looked well.

Despite her recent beating, she had an almost healthy glow. Make-up had disguised most of the fading bruises. She was dressed in a tweed suit, as befits the wife of a Lord.

I could see black shadows under her eyes though.

No make-up is that effective.

I know shadows, and not just beneath my eyes.

I lied, said,

‘You look great.’

She lied right back.

‘You too.’

Getting a table finally near the door, we ordered lattes from the extremely affable Polish waitress. Ridge declined a Danish and me, of course, I don’t do sweet.

Never one to preamble, she launched in with,

‘I see Mr Sawyer had some bother.’

One way of putting it, I suppose.

I nodded.

She knew, let a silence build, then,

‘Thanks.’

I gave her my fake smile, admitting nothing. She was still a Guard.

The coffee came, lots of froth. I asked the waitress,

‘Think you could hit that with a double espresso?’

Gave me the radiant smile of another caffeine fiend, said,

‘I think we could manage that.’

Ridge sipped at hers, I just knew she couldn’t let it slide, said,

‘Always the rush .’

I could play, went,

‘Don’t tell me, the movie with Jason Patric and Jennifer Jason Leigh. Not a lot of people know this, but Pete Dexter did the screenplay.’

Movie buffs like that kind of small print.

Ridge didn’t.

I think the last movie she saw was The Quiet Man .

But Jesus, she’d had the crap beaten out of her by a thug, so I said,

‘The rush, the edginess, it’s what I’m used to.’

Surprise, surprise, she let it go, asked,

‘How was your dinner with Carl?’

I had a lot of answers that didn’t contain civility, so I said,

‘Didn’t develop along the lines I’d anticipated. He speaks very highly of you, though.’

Her face darkened, like a cloud crept behind her eyes and lodged there. She asked,

‘Can I be honest?’

It would have been cheap to take a cheap shot. I took it, said,

‘Isn’t that part of your job description?’

Wounded her and she looked away. I said,

‘Tell me.’

She was torn between walloping me and fear. Never an easy choice. She began,

‘Anthony has money problems. He had to sell the horses and those thoroughbreds will go to the knacker’s yard. He had to sell some land too. The upkeep on the estate is ferocious, we even had to let three of the staff go.’

My heart bled.

Sell the horses?

Let the staff go?

Most of the frigging country couldn’t put fuel in their lighters, never mind their cars.

She faltered for a moment then reached in her purse, took out a small gold box. Flipped it like a pro, took out a pill and swallowed it, washing it down with the latte.

I had but a fleeting glimpse of the pill but I know me pharmaceuticals.

Valium 10.

Not yer 5, yer 10.

Mother’s little helper.

I didn’t comment, waited while she let the Val do its work, weave its artificial magic.

My serious coffee arrived and I took a serious slug of it.

Bliss.

Had instant heart palpitations.

Lock and load.

I thought of me Sig, nestled in the waistband of me jeans.

Never leave home without one.

Mine was the grown-up model, 226. Recently revised to carry fifteen rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammo.

You get what you pay for.

Like the militants’ new promise, maybe?

She finally continued and I had to put aside childish things.

Her eyes had that V-glow which delights

Roche,

Bayer, and all the other legal dope moguls.

She continued,

‘Carl showed up, he has such magnificent plans for the estate and he is, as you know, so charming.’

I stayed quiet, thinking,

Charming?

‘He seemed the answer to our prayers.’

Made you wonder who they prayed to.

‘We were so relieved. Jennifer, Anthony’s daughter, would be able to keep her pony and so naturally we invited him to stay with us.’

She took a hit of the latte, maybe the Val gave it a blast, went on,

‘Carl liked you so much, Jack, said he could get you into America, and I was so delighted.’

Being the renowned PI I am, I asked,

‘And?’

She looked truly scared now, then said,

‘It was a few days after the dinner party. I was tidying up. That makes Anthony cross, he says that is the duty of the help, but I suppose you can’t escape your upbringing.’

I was wondering how she’d feel about sharing some of the Val. She said,

‘I had some fresh towels for Carl. I thought he’d gone shooting with Anthony. They like to get an early start while the pheasants are resting.’

No doubt a peasant would suffice if the birds had flown the coop. She went on,

‘I entered his room and he was there. Stark naked.’

Not an image I wanted to cling to. She asked,

‘You know how bald he is?’

I thought it depended where and when you met him. Then, she seemed to physically shrink, said,

‘He was combing long blond golden hair. I thought it was a wig. I was so shocked, I dropped the towels.’

She squeezed her eyes tight shut for a moment, then said,

‘He turned, smiled at me, asked, “Would you like to touch it?”’

Her voice now a little stronger, she said,

‘I thought he meant his hair, till I saw…Mother of my heart, his…phallus. Erect and monstrous.’

She buried her face in her hands, weeping softly. I reached over, took her hands, said,

‘It’s OK. I know who he is.’

That seemed to help her, and worse, she was grateful. She said,

‘Jack, oh Jesus, Jack, when he appeared that evening for dinner – Anthony likes a formal sit down when we have guests, produces his finest vintage wine – Carl was dressed in a formal suit and was completely bald. Then he looked right at me and…winked.’

The waitress, concerned, appeared, asked,

‘Is everything all right?’

I gave her my best smile – it’s a blend of thank you and fuck off – said,

‘Absolutely, my friend here just got promoted to Sergeant in the Guards.’

Cops?

She took off.

This was a people who’d believed in Lech Walesa.

We got out of there and Ridge produced a pack of Silk Cut, lit one with a trembling hand, apologized with ‘I know, I shouldn’t be smoking.’