Ken Bruen - The Devil

With his Zen philosophy, designer clothes, laid-back mellow style, he had all the trappings of a hip young entrepreneur.

But he was lethal.

My last case, I’d seen exactly how lethal.

He moved into the living room, said,

‘Hey, this is a nice place.’

I said,

‘Alas, I’m all out of that decaffeinated tea or herbal shite you drink, so it’s either a shot of the Jay or bottled water.’

He volunteered that water would be great.

Jesus, the day a glass of water is that is the day I walk into Loch Corrib.

He settled himself on the couch in the frigging lotus position and I went to get the water. If he was chanting some fucking mantra when I got back, I’d throw him out the window.

He took the glass, then,

‘Here are your presents.’

A dressing gown, with the letter J on the pocket,

a dictionary of Zen,

and

green tea capsules.

My fucking cup overfloweth.

I said,

‘I’m lost for words.’

I was.

Anyone bearing links to manners, that is.

He was so totally at ease, I wondered how many Xanax he’d ingested.

He gave me that all-searching gaze I was used to and said,

‘So, they wouldn’t let you into the States?’

I shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

It did.

He asked,

‘What now, big guy?’

My chance to surprise. I said,

‘I’m on a case.’

He came out of the lotus position, his face truly concerned, said,

‘I thought you were all done with that.’

I moved to the window, said,

‘I thought I was going to America. Surely Zen covers that kind of fuck-up?’

He sipped at the water, biding his time, then said,

‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

I did.

The whole shebang.

He never interrupted, and when I was done he was shaking his head.

I asked,

‘What?’

‘Jack, this is real bad karma. Get the hell away from it and finish your investigation.’

I was amused. Just to blow that cool finally I asked,

‘What’s the big deal? Some shitehead comes after me, I’m looking forward to it.’

He moved from the chair, came and touched my shoulder, said,

‘Jack, trust me, this is evil in its truest form. You are not equipped to deal with it.’

I pushed his arm away, turned, said,

‘And what about Noel Jordan, and my dad’s grave? You think I can let that go?’

His face pleading, he said,

‘Jack, I beg you, walk away. You can’t do this alone.’

I gave him my best smile, the hundred-watt vibe – pity the teeth aren’t my own – said,

‘But I’ve got you.’

Moved to the table, picked up the green tea capsules, added,

‘And these.’

Come Friday, the gig at Ridge’s. She’s said to dress casual, mentioninga

sports jacket,

tie.

Like look in my wardrobe, see the black suit, the Garda coat and…some jeans and T-shirts.

Time was, I bought all my clobber in charity shops.

I’d have thought with the economic meltdown people would be flocking back to those stores.

Nope.

People were no longer giving stuff to the charity shops!

I headed down to my favourite one, St Vincent de Paul, and the women who worked there had the welcome of the world for me.

I got grey slacks, a snazzy corduroy jacket with leather patches on the sleeves, a Van Heusen shirt and a dark knitted tie.

Cost?

Ten Euro.

I swear to God.

On the bookshelves, I found:

Brian Evanston, with an intro by Peter Straub,

Daniel Woodrell’s first two novels and John Straley’s volume of poetry.

Add four Euro to my total bill.

And they thanked me.

I had been really trying to cut down on the booze and even the Xanax, and outside the shop, I got a dizzy spell.

I thought,

‘Uh-oh, drop in blood sugar.’

Hoping to fuck that’s what it was.

I walked slowly along Merchant’s Road. Not many merchants there any more, only the usual luxury apartments. Turned left at the tourist office, which was empty, and into Eyre Square.

Walked up past the Skeffington Arms, which had been renovated and looked quite posh now. Past Abracadabra, who’d given Colin Farrell a free card for life for their fare. After the pub, he’d always fancied a kebab.

I crossed at Holland’s newsagents and moved on up to Supermacs.

Galway owner, and fat chips.

What more could you ask?

I went to the counter and reckoned a burger, the big fucker, would bring me levels up, not to mention the fun it would have with my cholesterol.

A pretty girl in the Supermacs T-shirt said,

‘How are you?’

OK, I know they’re told to be polite, but this?

She added,

‘You don’t remember me, and me thinking I made such an impression on you.’

The college student I’d talked to, who luckily was wearing a name tag. Emma.

I gave my best laugh, tried,

‘Emma, how are you? Didn’t recognize you in uniform.’

Did she buy it?

Did she fuck.

Said,

‘Yah divil yah, you read my name tag.’

I ordered the burger and she told me to take a seat and she’d be right over.

Worked for me.

It was busy, always is, and I had to share a table with a guy in a bad-fitting suit, munching down on the Philly Steak Sandwich, which was new to the menu, like his life depended on it.

He had the look of somebody who’d got all the bad news there is and recently. Without preamble, as grease dribbled from his mouth, he launched,

‘Know why the country is gone to the dogs?’

I had a feeling he was about to tell me.

He did.

Said,

‘The fucking non-nationals, you know they get free medical cards? I’ve worked all me fucking life, do I have a medical card?’

I was guessing no.

But thank Christ, his mobile rang, with one of those awful tunes you can download, like a baby crying.

He muttered,

‘Right away.’

Then, grabbing the remains of his Philly, he stood up, said,

‘Fuckers won’t give you two minutes for lunch, and yeah, a non-national.’

The careless bigotry, now more prevalent, was like a slap in the face.

Emma arrived with the burger and chips, said,

‘I added French fries cos you need fattening up.’

I barely stopped meself from correcting her.

French fries?

Chips . Jesus.

But as the Brits say, that would have been a tad churlish .

No doubt about it, I was channelling Evelyn Waugh.

I thanked her and then her face fell, literally, as she said,

‘Poor Noel, what an awful way to die, the poor creature.’

I could hardly bite down on the burger. I asked,

‘What are the students saying, anything to do with Mr K?’

She shook her head, said,

‘No one’s saying anything, and not a light or a sight of Mr K since.’

She motioned to me to eat my food, saying,

‘It will be stone cold.’

I gave it a shot and asked her,

‘You’re a bright girl, Emma. What do you think?’

She looked at her watch. The place was really jamming up and she stood, said,

‘Mind the darkness. Evil rarely appears that on the surface.’

I’d have to hook her up with Stewart.

I’d never seen him with anybody. But then he’s never seen me with anybody either.

I liked her, she was that new bright shining face of Ireland, working to pay her way through college, smart, confident and no one’s inferior.

My generation, we’d been raised Church-beholden and afraid, and wouldn’t have recognized self-esteem if it bit us on the arse.