Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

“I heard you were a funny guy.”

Nothing in his quiet tone suggested he thought there was anything even remotely humorous. I asked,

“If I say no?”

Bigger grin and

“Then I’d have to shoot you.”

Waited a beat.

Then,

“And the cute dog.”

I let him in and he strode over to the bookcase, asked,

“You think it’s true you can read somebody by what they read ?”

As I said, his tone, his voice was barely above a whisper but it held a ferocity and steel that was damn impressive.

I said,

“Well, nowadays, skels keep the good stuff on Kindle.”

He looked impressed, exclaimed,

“I’m impressed. Skels! You obviously have read Andrew Vachss.”

The pup gave a soft sigh, not much liking the shoot the dog crack, and hid under the sofa. Sheridan indicated a chair, asked,

“May I sit?”

And sat.

Asked,

“Coffee?”

Got to hand it to him, he had some moves, knew how to make an entrance.

I bit down on a slightly dormant aggression, fetched the Jameson, offered.

He laughed, quietly of course, said,

“Tad early but, good Lord, how often does one meet Jack Taylor?”

Bollix.

I poured two bracing measures, said,

“Slainte a match.”

He answered,

“Agus leat fein.”

I was meant to remark on his command of our native tongue.

I didn’t.

Said,

“We have established you know all sorts of shite, but what

Exactly

Are you doing here? ”

He assumed a grave expression, said,

“There has been a suicide.”

I didn’t want to know.

I truly did not.

I said,

“Do tell.”

Even sounded like I might care.

He said,

“Terence Wood, alleged killer of two Guards, shot his bad self in his very bad head.”

Pause.

“Good fucking riddance.”

No argument.

I echoed,

“Suicide.”

For absolutely no reason, he observed,

“I have lived my life betwixt suicide and murder.”

Right!

I said,

“Me, I have endured my life between vicious cunts.”

He ran the taste of that ’round his gums, then said,

“I’m not buying in to the suicide scenario.”

“Why?”

He laughed, asked,

“Jesus H, how monosyllabic are you going to be?”

“A lot.”

He suddenly reached down and rubbed the pup’s ears, startling not only me but the pup.

The pup wasn’t buying it.

Sheridan said,

“Here’s the thing. On the ground near the fallen gun was an emerald heart.”

I thought,

Oh, fuck.

He looked at me, asked,

“That mean something, partner?”

I could sink her, just drop the murderous bitch right in it.

I said,

“Not a damn thing.”

He shook his head, then,

“Okeydoke, let’s get to it.”

I stood up, said,

“Naw, it’s time you hopped on your white charger and charged the fuck off.”

He stood too and was about an inch taller than me. That inch gave him a false sense of power, thinking size matters.

He said,

“You need to know I was on loan to Quantico, learned stuff about broken-down ex-cops who hit the sauce. They have a need to be recognized.”

(The Quantico was a lie.)

I said,

“Like I could give a toss, no matter what kind of super cop you think you are. You really need to leave.”

And he sat back down, said,

“I could go another shot of that there sipping whiskey.”

I was torn betwixt beating him to a bloody pulp and a sneaking admiration for his sheer front. I poured him a drink, gave the pup a treat, and, ah fuck it, lit up a Red Marlboro.

He sank the drink, went,

“Ah...”

Said,

“Jack, me lad, we have us here a three-pronged assault.”

Paused.

Asked,

“You do know what a prong is, right?”

“Any relation to a prick?”

He moved along.

Said,

“If this were a crime novel, a character who was introduced at the beginning, then seemed to be discarded, has reentered the narrative. I speak of Alexander Knox-Keaton, with all the hyphens as opposed to the trimmings. You do remember him? He employed you as a security guard though, if you want my ten cents, you couldn’t mind a flaming box of matches.”

I said,

“You talk funny.”

He nearly sighed, said,

“That is education, my son.”

He then looked around, asked,

“Might I cadge a cig?”

I gave him one and he produced a heavy, battered gold Zippo.

Clanked that baby up and I relished the clunk of the shutting motion. Perhaps it’s the pro-American in me but a Zippo has always reached a part of me that is not yet frozen.

But fuck, what does it say of a man to have his heart touched by a goddamn lighter?

I asked,

“No vaping for you?”

He snarled,

“I look like a cocksucker to you?”

“Well, yes.”

I swear the pup wagged his tiny tail. He likes when I take the war to them.

He flicked ash on my worn carpet, said, all business,

“This Knox-Keaton employed you to find the notorious Red Book and you, major fuckhole that you are, botched the job and in walks the Mickey Mouse gang, the so-called Ghosts of Galway.”

Paused.

“Wimps of Galway more like but, hey, they got lucky and found the rogue priest, offed the poor fucker then — who knew? — your bird .”

(Bird. How’d we get back to the sixties?)

Continued.

“Emerald or some such dumb-ass jewel name, fucks the head Ghost honcho and her sidekick.”

He pulled out a black notebook, checked,

“Yeah Hayden. Jesus H, where do they get these names? What happened to Paddy and Mary for chrissakes?”

He snapped his fingers, near spat,

“Gimme another smoke.”

I gave him the look, said,

“Give me the bottom line on what it is you want.”

He made a show of draining his glass, then,

“So Hayden for some bizarre reason gives you the book and what do you do?”

He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands, says,

“You just hand it on over to a nicotine priest.”

With a hint of admiration, I say,

“You are well informed.”

He reached into his jacket. A gun?

No.

Pack of soft-pack Camels, shucked one out, fired up.

I said,

“No thank you.”

He grimaced, began,

“Your hyphened Mr. Knox was using the Ghosts of Galway to hide his real outfit, the Fenians. Like the Internet hides the dark web, these boyos are hidden by the Mickey Mouse Ghosts. These are hard-core, ex-soldiers who served in Jordan, in Syria, and under Knox they aim to launch a second Reformation.”

I said,

“That’s fucked up.”

“No,”

He said.

“That is terrorism.”

He stood up, said,

“You are going to trap Knox for us.”

“Why would I do that?”

He gave a grin of such utter malice, then,

“Because I am going to let your little psycho bitch slide.”

Fuck.

I near whined,

“Why would I want to save her?”

He smirked, said,

“Look at you, elderly drunken fool besotted with a hot young vixen.”

As he went, he threw,

“Sew Knox up ASAP.”

I was on my knees, vomiting and cradling the tiny crushed body.