Ken Bruen - The Devil

If we’d had a mantra, it would have been,

‘Expect nothing, and by Christ, you’re entitled to even less.’

I got outside. The part of the burger I’d eaten had lodged in me stomach like a bad prayer.

I took out my mobile, ruefully thinking,

‘If I’d gotten to America, I’d be calling it my cell phone.’

Stewart answered on the second ring.

I asked,

‘Are you going to Ridge’s…’ I had to swallow hard and then spit it out. ‘Soiree?’

I could hear him laughing and I waited.

He took the hint, said,

‘Yes, I’m invited, and would you be needing a lift?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

I let my resentment pour all over that and he said,

‘I’ll pick you up at seven, and try to be a bit sober.’

He hung up.

Anthony Bradford-Hemple, now isn’t that one hell of a name?

No way you’re going to be working in a fast-food joint with a name like that.

Ridge’s husband.

I was afraid to join up their names. Hers in Irish, Ni Iomaire.

Jesus, you’d need a prompt card to spit it out.

And worse, I’d been the one who hooked them up.

His daughter, Jennifer, was being threatened and her pony was stolen. I’d got Ridge to check it out, thinking I was helping her away from a dire place she’d reached.

And so, dear reader, she fucking married him.

I could understand her reasoning. As a gay Ban Garda, she was already heavily compromised, and then having a radical mastectomy, she was indeed all out of options.

Sure enough, she got her promotion, was now among the ruling classes.

And mostly, I’d kept my mouth shut.

Comes a horseman, came the dreaded Friday.

I put on my new gear, leaving the jacket till last.

Studied me own self in the mirror, tried to persuade myself that I looked like a slightly befuddled English professor.

Didn’t fly.

The doorbell went and there was Stewart, in a fucking Louis Copeland suit. The kind of suit, you roll in the gutter with it, you come to, that suit is brushing you off, saying, ‘You’re a player.’

He looked at my gear, said,

‘Wow.’

My temper wasn’t at its best. I’d only dropped one Xanax and one shot of Jameson and it wasn’t mellowing me out at all.

I said,

‘That is one flash suit, three grand or so, I’d guess.’

He gave his enigmatic smile, said,

‘You’re close.’

I deliberately moved across the room, glancing briefly at the nuns’ convent – they’d be starting evening rosary – poured a large Jameson and asked,

‘Get you something? I’m fresh out of that decaffeinated tea, alas.’

He settled himself on the sofa, like a cat, total relaxation, and I pushed,

‘What is it you do again, since you stopped pushing dope, that affords you the suit?’

He didn’t rise to the bait, rarely did, said,

‘Jack, I have all sorts of interests and if you ever want to get your act together, I’d be delighted to have you along.’

I looked at my watch, said,

‘We’d better get this over with.’

He got to his feet, his suit without a crease or crinkle, and added,

‘You might have fun.’

As we headed out I said,

‘Yeah, and I might get to America someday.’

His car was the new sleek Datsun, grey. Accessorized his suit. He turned the key and pulled effortlessly into the traffic. He hit the tape deck or iPod or whatever and we were blasted by music. I listened in silence for five whole minutes – I know, I counted out the time – and finally asked,

‘What on earth is that?’

He turned it up a notch, said,

‘Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus.’

There are some lines there is just no reply to.

Ridge’s new home was one of those huge sprawling monsters, so beloved by the Anglo-Irish when they ruled the land.

Once impressive, no doubt, but badly in need of repair.

And a bastard to heat.

We drove up a tree-lined path to the main entrance. I asked,

‘How many acres you figure he’s got?’

Without a beat he said,

‘One hundred and fifty-eight.’

‘You checked?’

He gave that familiar half-smile, said,

‘I check everything.’

Didn’t add,

‘Reason I have the suit and the car.’

The whole place was lit up, and a bevy of cars were already parked. Stewart reached into the back seat, grabbed flowers and bottles of wine. He looked at me, asked,

‘You didn’t bring anything?’

I waited till I was out of the car, said,

‘Brought you.’

A girl in a maid’s uniform welcomed us and offered to take our jackets.

No.

Led us into a large room, with maybe fifty people already lashing into champagne, a huge chandelier overhead and the walls lined with paintings.

We were offered canapés and champagne. I took a glass and Stewart asked for some water.

Ridge emerged from a throng of people, looking radiant.

I’ve seen her look

like shite,

lost,

angry,

hurt,

but radiant, never.

A blue silk gown made her seem like a beauty.

She hugged Stewart, thanked him for the lovely flowers, then turned to me, said,

‘Well, you tried.’

I was a bit taken aback, asked,

‘You don’t like the jacket?’

She hugged me, a rare and rarer event, and said,

‘It’s so…you.’

The fuck was with that?

There was Anthony Bradford-Hemple and a tall bald-headed man. She told us that her husband was deep in conversation with a very important prospective client.

Something about him.

The man felt my stare, turned, and I felt a chill. Bald or not, it was the guy from the airport, Kurt.

Jesus wept.

I was rooted to the floor.

The blond locks had been shorn, but it was him.

The fuck was going on?

Champagne on top of Xanax and the shots of Jay would screw with anybody’s head. Right?

Ridge was pulling at my sleeve, going,

‘Jack, are you OK?’

I focused, shook my head and asked her,

‘The guy with your, er…husband, who is he?’

She threw a fast glance at Stewart. The one that asks,

‘Do we need to get him out of here?’

Stewart was no help and she finally said,

‘That’s Carl Franz. He’s arranging for Anthony to turn our home into a tourist resort. He is so amazing.’

Kurt…or maybe Carl?

Carl with a K, I’d bet.

Mr K?

Fuck, champagne really does meddle with the brain sockets.

Before I could arrange any of those fevered thoughts into cohesion, they were approaching. I braced meself, resolved to go with the flow .

Anthony was all Anglo-Irish cordiality, warmth without conviction, went,

‘Jack, so delighted you could make it. May I introduce you to an esteemed prospective business partner, Mr Franz.’

Kurt put out his hand, manners counting most. He said,

‘Jack, I’ve heard so much about you. A wicked pleasure to meet you in the flesh.’

I took his hand, and felt nothing.

Everybody’s hand conveys something.

Sweat,

tremors,

warmth,

cold.

His…zip, nada, like white space.

And oh my sweet Lord, I remembered the old people saying,

‘Shake hands with the Divil, you feel nothing.’

I asked,

‘We met before?’

He gave me the eye-fucking look, smiled, said,

‘Alas, I don’t think so. I’m sure I would remember.’

The tension was palpable and I could see even Anthony looking – what is it the Brits call it? – nonplussed.

But as the story of me bedraggled life, I went with it, reckoning if they are willing to mind fuck, bring it on, yah bollix. I asked,