Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

“Are you familiar with the expression cap in hand ?”

Stopped her.

Then her face got that peevish expression that screams,

“The fuck is it now?”

She said,

“Jack, I never understood half of what you were muttering about.”

Muttering!

Nice.

I said,

“Thanks for feeling you could share that but, back to the topic, it means to beg.”

She threw her hands up, said,

“Whatever.”

I gave her my second best smile, the one that is driven by malice.

I said,

“You never thought much of my work as an investigator.”

She didn’t leap in, protesting, in fact she said nothing.

The old silent assention.

Never no mind.

I continued in a very quiet, almost soothing tone,

“But what if I know what you want to tell me and...”

Big dramatic pause.

“Might even have the actual help you wish to get?”

She was stunned but disbelieving.

Said,

“I think that would be highly unlikely.”

The waitress came, adding to the nice air of tension, building mightily.

I ordered a Jameson, and Anne, almost desperately, a vodka and slimline tonic.

She went to ask me something and, very annoyingly, I made the shush gesture, let the drinks arrive.

They did.

And she gulped down the vodka without the tonic, slimline or otherwise. I said, sipping at my Jay,

“The rehab centers say more and more women are showing up. They call it the wine factor or indeed perhaps the whine factor.”

She was not amused, snapped,

“Get to it.”

I said,

“You were sleeping with Superintendent Clancy, photos were taken, and said photos now jeopardize his chance to become the police commissioner.”

She was stunned.

I asked,

“Did I miss anything? He sure has a fat arse.”

She did that new gig, crying without tears . You see it on reality TV. She whispered something I couldn’t decipher but I guess it wasn’t So sorry, Jack .

I asked,

“Is that you saying amazing job?”

She sniffled some more, then,

“What do I have to do?”

I could have been nasty, said,

“A blow job for openers.”

I did say,

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

She grasped at this tiny straw, said,

“Oh, Jack, thank you.”

I let that false gratitude hover a wee while, then,

“But Clancy, he has to do something.”

Suspicious,

And more than a little angry, she asked,

“What had you in mind?”

I said,

“To come to me, cap in hand.”

I prompted,

“You do recall at the beginning of our tête-à-tête I explained that expression?”

She gave a deep sigh, eerily reminiscent of my late mother and, God knows, that bitch could sigh for Ireland. She said,

“What does that actually mean in this case?”

I gave her a warm smile, no real warmth but lots of patience. I said,

“He puts on his dress uniform, comes to my door, knocks...”

I paused and, very annoyingly, made the gesture of knocking. Continued.

“Then he whips off his ceremonial hat and, bingo, done deal.”

She stood up, adjusted her coat, gave me a tight cold smile, asked,

“Anything else?”

I acted like I gave it some serious consideration, said,

“Tell him to grovel a little.”

Clancy waited two days before he showed up. Early evening, a short knock at my door.

Solid, authoritative.

I let him simmer then opened the door. He wasn’t in uniform. I gave him a look of perplexity, asked,

“Help you?”

He gave a grunt of barely suppressed rage, said,

“Not a time for your usual bullshit.”

And brushed past me.

I weighed my options:

Scream obscenities,

Throw him out,

Shoot him?

Much as I liked the third one, I closed the door, said,

“How have you been?”

Let a beat pass, then,

“Tom?”

He was checking out the room, seeing nothing to impress him. He said, gritted teeth,

“I, um, appreciate you doing this, Jack.”

I shut the door, walked carefully to the chair, sat opposite him, the coffee table between us, and thirty years of bile. I said, with great warmth,

“Glad to be of help.”

And I sat still.

He glanced around, definitely on edge, tried,

“If ever there is anything you need, some special assistance with?”

I let that hum, then asked,

“Like if I hadn’t paid my TV license?”

He gave a tight smile, said,

“Always the smart mouth but, really, if you get in a bind?”

Bind!

I said,

“Bind? Hell of a word.”

Enough fencing.

I reached behind me, produced a large brown envelope, laid it flat on the table. He stared at it, tried,

“Thing between me and Anne, it was simply a fuck and run.”

I bit my lip, managed not to smash his face, said,

“There you go and... off you go.”

He stood, contemplated a hand shake, settled for

“Thanks again.”

And was gone.

Clancy was in his office, the envelope before him. He had shut his door, barked at his secretary,

“No calls.”

He let out a sigh of relief, couldn’t believe it had been so easy. He picked up a gold letter opener, presented to him by the Rotary Club, sliced the top of the package.

Went,

“Huh?”

As he pulled out large blank sheets of paper.

In the middle was a page with black capital letters.

Took him a moment then he read

AS

   IF.

For once, I did the right thing.

I mailed the photos to Anne. I didn’t want to. In truth I wanted to wound her but I ignored the base instinct and sent them. There was the bonus of Clancy not sending his thugs to collect them from me. After I left the post office I paused to take a moment. A bedraggled busker was hammering

“Galway Girl”

So badly, as if he had a mission to ruin Steve Earle’s song. I walked past him and he muttered,

“Call yerself a patron of the arts?”

I couldn’t think of a witty rejoinder so I gave him ten euros. He looked at it, said,

“Great, I can now retire.”

When buskers on the street abuse you, after you gave them money, something is seriously fucked.

I got back to the apartment and immediately knew there was someone inside. Not that I am psychic but loud music was playing. Sounded like Status Quo. I eased the door open and saw Emily dancing in the middle of the room, singing along with Quo. Trust me, to sing along with them is a feat of dark madness. I found the source, a small player on the bookshelf, turned it off. Emily stood mid — dance step, went,

“You’re not down with the headbangers?”

I didn’t even know what that meant, asked,

“Why are people constantly breaking into my home?”

She giggled, yeah, giggled! Said,

“Because we love you, Jack-o.”

She was dressed in black jeans, white T, and her hair was brightest blond. The whole outfit gave her an almost waif appearance, which might have been appealing if she wasn’t so flat-out crazy. She flopped into a chair, drew a silver flask from her bag, drank deep, did a mock shudder, gasped.

“Fuck, that is good.”

Then looked at me, offered the flask, which I declined. She said,

“Jack me boy, we have us a

    Quandary,

    Quagmire.

Laughed.

Added,

“Well, all sorts of shite beginning with a Q.”