Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

“In all me born days...”

He moved down to take a closer look but a sudden spasm doubled him and he projected a line of vomit that would cause CSI all kinds of headaches. He wiped his brow and swore,

“That is my last drink. Ever.”

He didn’t of course stop drinking but he did avoid Eyre Square for a long time. He also stopped backing horses.

I dressed to, if not impress, then to make a statement. That being,

“I’m fucked.”

So my now very battered Garda all-weather coat, scuffed Doc Martens, a once white T now in shades of washed gray, and my fade to faded 501s.

The man from Ukraine had his mansion near the golf links. I had as a child worked as a caddy, thus ensuring a lifetime aversion to the sport.

I let his name swirl in my mouth to get a sense of it.

Alexander

    Knox-

       Keaton

No way was this his real name but I could care less. His house was a glass affair, screaming two things:

Money.

Bad taste.

A car, BMW, with two occupants, either bodyguards or the local cops. Which, depending how much juice you had, could be both.

I stopped to survey the house and, with Galway Bay at my back, let out a deep sigh. I was bone tired, tired of assholes and stupid money. I lit one of my now five a day rationed cigs and blew the smoke toward the monstrosity of glass. Then muttered,

“Let’s rock and moan.”

Headed for the door. Opened as I reached it, a young Filipino woman in maid’s uniform said,

“Mr. Taylor?”

I nodded and she stepped aside to let me by.

In the hallway was a huge tapestry of what appeared to be a page from The Book of Kells .

The maid led me to a study, ablaze with books, the walls lined with beautifully covered volumes and they had that look of being well used. Not for show then. But that rarity. A working library. Thick heavy wooden furniture that you might imagine carved from a line of oaks but, too, seemed to be lived in. An open fireplace had a raging inferno going on.

Few things as comforting as that. Like an echo of the childhood you only ever read about. The maid withdrew and I examined the books up close, nearly missed hearing the door open behind me, turned to see a man who reflected the grandeur and solidity of the room. A man over six feet tall and power oozing from every pore. He was wearing a tweed suit, very Anglo-Irish of the ’50s, and, I shit thee not, a cravat, adding a slight P. G. Wodehouse vibe. He had a full head of well-darkened hair and a face that testified to the use of money and force. His age was a well-preserved seventy or a very fucked forty.

He held out a big hand, calloused and creased so not just a sightseer. Boomed,

“Mr. Taylor.”

I took his hand and was relieved he wasn’t one of those bonecrushing idiots who think that means anything other than

“Bollocks.”

I said,

“Jack, please.”

He smiled, revealing one gold tooth among the very best cosmetic dentistry. He said,

“And I am Alex.”

Then,

“Sit, sit and let me treat you to a shot of Slain whiskey.”

Made at Slain castle and promoted by Lord Henry Mount Charles himself and not due to hit the market until late 2017.

Was I impressed?

Yeah, a little.

Taking a heavy tumbler of Galway crystal, I sank into an armchair. Inhaled a smoky whiff of the drink. Fucking marvelous. He asked,

“How are you finding the job?”

Tell the truth or kiss arse?

I said,

“Has me bored shitless.”

He laughed, seemed actually amused. Then he asked,

“ The Red Book , this is known to you?”

His English had that tight careful air of the second-language perfectionist. Almost a clipped precision and you nearly hear the translation occur. I said,

“Apart from Mao’s little red one, no.”

He topped up our glasses and then,

“You are, I believe, an...”

He paused to taste, savor, the next word,

... Aficionado

A conniver of books?

Conniver?

I said,

“I like to read but a bibliophile? Hardly.”

He liked that word, could see him store it. He continued,

“ The Book of Kells . This you know?”

“Know is hardly the description but, yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

He settled himself into the chair opposite me, composing some lecture he’d prepared.

Began,

“It was written around AD 800. It is a book of the Gospels. No one knows who wrote it but it is believed to be a series of monks.”

He paused.

I said,

“So?”

He gave what can only be described as a wolverine smile, said,

“A rival book came out shortly after, decrying the Gospels, and is generally regarded as the first true work of heresy.”

Let me digest that, then.

“Known as The Red Book , the Church of course denies its existence. It is sometimes known by its title in Irish but, alas, that pronunciation is a little beyond me.”

I supplied,

“ An Leabhar Dearg .”

He was impressed, said,

“I am impressed.”

I said,

“Fascinating as this little side trip down a Dan Brown alley is, what has it got to do with me?”

“I want you to get the book.”

I stood up, said,

“Thanks for the drink and the chat.”

He said,

“Here.”

Offering a check it seemed like. Well, fuck it. I am always going to look at one of those suckers.

Gasped.

Went,

“You are shitting me.”

He said,

“I am told you are dogged in your dedication to a case and that, somehow or other, you get results.”

This was patently untrue.

But was I going to argue? A gift horse is what you throw a saddle on and shut the fuck up.

He continued.

“You are familiar with the term rogue priest ?”

I nearly laughed, wanted to ask,

“Nowadays, is there any other kind?”

But went with,

“Indeed.”

“The curator of sacred manuscripts and other treasures in the

Vatican recently died and his assistant, a Father Frank Miller, took the opportunity to not only quit his vocation but also abscond with The Red Book .”

If he was expecting a comment, I didn’t have one. He continued.

“Mr. Miller is now hiding out in Galway and has offered the book for sale.”

I said,

“So buy it.”

He sighed.

“Would it were so easy but Miller is, as they say, gun shy .”

This term would come back to haunt him.

“I want you to negotiate with him.”

I said,

“I don’t really do well with priests.”

“Ex-priest.”

“Whatever. I am sure you have better people to deal with him. I am quite likely to end up beating the shit out of him.”

He laughed, delighted, said,

“This is exactly what is required, fear and loathing.”

What the hell. I could give it a shot.

I said,

“Frank Miller. Shares a name with the renowned author, graphic artist, moviemaker.”

He looked as if this was of no relevance. I added,

“The film was Sin City . Nice serendipity, don’t you think?”

He didn’t.

Said,

“Just get the job done.”

Heard the steel in there and wanted to tell him to go

... Fuck his own self.

But the check.

Won out.

Said,

“I’ll get right on it.”

My dog Storm seemed to know I had recently considered suicide and was now keeping a canine watchful eye on me. In the apartment, he’d sit on my chair, staring at me as if to ask,

“What’s up, bud?”

I said,

Going American,

“Phew, I nearly bought the farm there, pal.”

He didn’t speak U.S. so just wagged his tail. I grabbed the leash and got a short bark of utter joy. Shucking into my Garda all-weather coat we headed out, my pockets holding treats and a small flask of Jay. Ending October, the air was dry and alive, people shouted how yah , and the warm vibe was largely a result of our soccer team beating the Germans by a goal.