Ken Bruen - Priest

I was heading along Mary Street when a Daimler pulled up beside me. I’d been limping along, preparing my approach to Reed. I’d more or less decided not to begin with ‘Let’s cut the shit, did you behead Father Joyce?’

The front and back doors opened, two very large men got out, blocked my path. I thought,

‘Uh-oh.’

Their shoes. . Guards. You can always tell. Heavy black jobs with the thick soles. Few items as good for the solid kicking. Tried and tested and yet to be found wanting. The first one said,

‘Taylor.’

Not a question. The second one glared at me, not liking much what he saw, said,

‘Get in the car.’

I looked round, didn’t see any likely citizen about to protest. The first one added,

‘The superintendent wants a word.’

The devil was in me, urging to ask,

‘No chance it might be a civil one?’

Went with,

‘It’s not real convenient right now.’

The second one smiled, said,

‘We won’t take much of your precious time.’

Translation: Get in the fucking car.

I did.

The second piled into the back beside me and the driver clocked the mirror, eased out into traffic. The guy beside me was wearing aftershave, a bucket of it. Took me a moment to identify the name. . then. . Brut. Jeez, I didn’t even know they still made it. Maybe he’d stockpiled it, cornering the market. The early seventies, it was the scent of choice. Came in that distinctive green bottle with a silver medallion and guys lashed it on like a blessing. Women have a hard life but that mass era of Brut must have been among the blackest spots. Then it disappeared.

I looked at his left hand. Wedding band. Perhaps his wife figured it ensured he wouldn’t play around. We passed Mill Street and I asked,

‘We’re not going to the station?’

And no one answered. If they were going to drop me in the Bay, it’d be a relief to escape the Brut. We cruised through Salthill, past Blackrock and turned into the golf club. Pulled to a stop and the guy in the front said,

‘Get out.’

I did and the driver said,

‘He’s waiting in the bar.’

I looked at the guy in the rear, then back to the driver, asked,

‘You get hazardous pay?’

A flicker of a smile, then the window rolled up. As a child, I’d been here a few times, searching for golf balls. Usually got chased off. I didn’t belong and didn’t think I ever would. Went in, past lots of guys in bright sweaters talking loud and saying, birdy. . four-ball. . eagle, as if the words carried weight. Found the bar, and at a large window table was Clancy. Dressed in a diamond-patterned sweater and, I swear, cravat. Nobody — and I mean nobody — other than Roger Moore and the stray mason wears them. Even Edward Heath had managed to forgo them. John Major had wanted to wear them but lacked the balls.

Clancy had golf pants, those shiny affairs that chafe your thighs and make a swishing noise when you walk. Slip-on cordovans on his feet. His face was ruddy, stout, well fed. His once full head of hair was now a sweepover, drawing notice to his accelerating baldness. A pot of coffee, one cup before him.

I walked over, feeling like the poor relation whose sole mission is to beg. He stared at me, said,

‘Sit down.’

I did.

We had a moment of eyeballing, the macho stuff. Hard to credit we’d been great friends, back in my days as a Guard. I got bounced and he got promoted. An inversion of ‘Amazing Grace’ unfolded in my head. ‘Was found but now am lost.’

Oh yeah.

He said,

‘The limp hasn’t improved.’

I smiled, thinking,

‘Game on.’

Answered,

‘Least mine is visible.’

A waiter appeared, asked if the Super required fresh coffee, then looked at me. Clancy said,

‘He’s not a member.’

They both got a kick out of that. I waited and he reached in his pocket, flicked a card on the table. I could see,

Taylor and Cody

Investigations

No divorce work.

He asked,

‘Is that a joke?’

‘Not to Cody.’

‘You set up in business, you better get a licence.’

‘Yes Sir.’

He lifted the coffee pot, poured a cup, added cream, sugar, took a sip, went,

‘Ah. . lovely.’

Then,

‘I’m surprised they let you out of the madhouse. Thought we were rid of you.’

I let him have that one. If he wanted to fire the cheap shot, I’d let him blaze. Someone shouted to him from the corridor, ready to tee off. I said,

‘Don’t let me keep you from your game.’

He prepared to stand, said,

‘The priest who was murdered — don’t even think of going near that.’

I put up my hands, said,

‘Why would I?’

He let out a deep belch, said,

‘Listen to me, Taylor, listen good. I know all about you. That lunatic Father Malachy, who was probably shagging your oul wan, they say he’s going to enlist your help.’

I wanted to wallop the smug smile off his face, ask him was it true his mother was the town ride? I said,

‘If you know so much, how come you don’t know Malachy and I have bad history? Not as bad as you and I, but you get the drift.’

He leaned over, a smell of mint on his breath, said,

‘As for your security job, you can scratch that. I told them you were a bad risk.’

Watching me to see how that landed, he administered his coup de grâce, the one he’d been holding.

‘If your firm want to investigate something, put your detection skills to the test, I might have something for you.’

This was going to be bad, but I asked,

‘Yeah, what would that be?’

He pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders back — he’d practised this in front of the mirror — said,

‘They pulled a wino out of the canal. All we can tell is he was in his fifties. Ring any bells? Maybe you could solve it for us, clear our books, eh?’

My heart pounded. I thought,

‘Jeff.’

I tried to keep my voice neutral, asked,

‘How do you know he was a wino?’

He took a long moment, then,

‘The stench of him.’

Outside, as the Americans say, my ride had gone. I walked down the drive, my head in turmoil, going,

‘Oh God, if God there be, let it not be Jeff.’

Spent the rest of the morning trying to find where the body was. Tedious, frustrating, but primarily terrorizing. At four thirty I was in the city morgue, finally allowed to view the corpse. I stood before a metal table, a sheet covering the body, enclosed by the institution-green colour on the walls, dizzy from smells, real and imagined. The attendant, impatient, asked,

‘You ready yet?’

A whine in there, but I couldn’t really start beating on him, tempting though it was. I nodded and, like some second-grade magician, with a flourish he whipped off the sheet — this was his party piece.

Closed my eyes real tight and begged, did the old Catholic barter, whispered,

‘God, if You let this not be Jeff, I won’t smoke again. I give You my word.’

What else did I have? And that item was shaky, suspect, at the best of times. As a child, you wanted something — something impossible, like civility from your mother — you went to the Abbey, lit a candle and did the trade-off. Telling the Sacred Heart, ‘If Mum is nice to me, I won’t hate people.’

Shit like that.

Never worked. She was hostile till she drew her last bitter breath, which is some achievement. I thought of Jeff, his love of that child, the way his eyes lit up when she smiled. Thought too of his face when he realized the broken tiny body on the footpath was his daughter. And she was lying there, her head twisted to the side, a small pool of blood under her ear, because his best friend, me, wasn’t paying attention.