Ken Bruen - The Emerald Lie

Spittle leaked from the corners of her mouth and her eyes were locked on derangement.

She took a deep breath, said,

“This fucker, this Grammarian , he was part of my father’s circle. You remember dear old Dad, right? Who liked to rape girls.”

Phew.

I said,

“Your father is dead and any talk of a circle of... others... was never proved.”

She was violently shaking her head, said,

“You seriously believe my father operated for so long on just... luck ?”

I tried to keep a conciliatory tone, said,

“I understand you’d want to believe a conspiracy and keep the flame of vengeance hopping but there is one thing you have to concede.”

Her eyes said she wanted to rip my head off but she went with,

“What’s that?”

“He’s in jail, done deal.”

Now she laughed and, with fierce bitterness, asked,

“In this country you know who the best lawyers are?”

I said,

“The ones not in jail.”

She ignored that, said,

“Protestants. They may have lost the land but they still have the juice and guess what, that bollix in jail is... da da, Protestant.”

I was never going to get anywhere. I said,

“How about you get some rest?”

That lame line they trot out in B movies when they run out of script. She grabbed her bag, said,

“I’ll see myself out and, oh, thanks for fucking nothing.”

I fed the pup, left a bowl of water, and then took off after her. It was time to discover where she lived or stayed. She rented cars as she needed them but was now on foot.

Determined.

For a person as paranoid as she was, she didn’t seem to think someone might follow her and took no precautions. I trailed her to an apartment block in Nun’s Island. It was that new popular fad: gated. We had come full circle, from a country that prided itself on not locking its doors to electronic gates and security guards.

Did we feel safer?

Did we fuck?

I watched her disappear inside a three-story building and wondered who she was when she got to her own space. Did she relinquish all the personas, let out her breath, and just be?

I’d wait until she took off somewhere and then break in. I needed to be sure she wasn’t likely to return and find me as she was quite likely to shoot me. Whatever her various contradictory feelings for me, invading her space was not going to fly; she’d go berserk.

I headed back into town and all the speculation had worked up a thirst. A light fog was hovering over the city and made it seem like a serene place. Or maybe it was just so much mist. I went to Garavan’s and grabbed a stool at the bar. I didn’t recognize the barman and was grateful, chat was not on my agenda. Ordered a pint and a Jay. The guy knew his craft, let that pint slow-build. I held up the glass with the Jameson, the gold sheen promising so much. Never ceased to light up my hope. That what?

I’d find some peace, respite?

Not so much no more.

Those days were buried.

I was thus musing when a man stood beside me, ordered a large brandy, and let out a sigh, said to no one in particular,

“Tis a whore of a day.”

He looked like, as Daniel Woodrell once wrote, sixty stiches short of handsome. He knocked back the brandy, shuddered, muttered,

“Christ.”

I knew that feeling. Would it take or resurface? That pure moment of heaven and hell, then it righted and he belched, said,

“Fuck, I needed that.”

Now he could settle into drinking. He got a pint and drank a healthy half, then, at last, surveyed his surroundings, me. He said,

“Grand oul day for it.”

Indeed.

There would probably be an hour of bonhomie, then he’d begin spoiling for aggro. I debated on the wisdom of chancing another round before the curtain fell. He was falling into the I love every-frigging-body , and launched,

“I thought if I got married, nobody would notice how odd I was.”

This had the feel and texture of an oft-repeated refrain, so what the hell, I could do ten minutes, I said,

“Yeah.”

Neither a question nor agreement, just throw it out there. Safe. He said,

“Didn’t work.”

Like seriously, I could give a fuck?

I asked, sounding as if I cared,

“She left you?”

He gave me a look, bordering on pity, said,

“Don’t be daft. She went round telling everybody how odd I was.”

The Jay had worked some abandon and I said,

“Backfired, eh?”

Not good.

He snarled,

“What’s that mean?”

Fuck.

I said,

“Tell you what: you carry on drinking and talking shite and me, I’ll take my good self elsewhere.”

Before he could quite digest the insult I was moving, and the barman said,

“Nice one, Jack.”

Depends on which side of a good beating you sit.

I stopped to listen to a guy massacre “The Fields of Athenry,” got my phone out, and called Emily.

Answering machine that went,

“Hey asshole, you know the drill.”

Okay.

I said,

“Emily, got a lead on your plan for the Grammarian but it’s vital you meet me at the Twelve Pins in Connemara before five this afternoon.”

I got a large takeaway coffee from a deli and a half bottle of Jay, moved down to Nun’s Island, and settled down in a doorway to wait.

Superintendent Clancy had gathered the murder squad. He was caught between the prospects of landing a huge coup and a massive fuckup. He peered at the anxious faces of the Guards and detectives assembled, began,

“We stand on the precipice of a great success.”

Paused.

He did like his drama.

Then,

“Or a horrendous clusterfuck.”

He picked out Ridge’s face, said,

“Park, the suspect, has called for a lawyer and we know what that means.”

Did he expect an answer?

A guy at the back ventured,

“We have to beat the shite out of him now.”

Clancy nearly smiled then reined in, barked,

“That is not how we do things.”

Murmurs.

“Tear his house apart, bring me something that says this is the fellah.”

Ridge tried,

“We already have lots of suspicious items but nothing that is definite. He did have an inordinate amount of dictionaries.”

A moment as the crowd wondered if this was a joke.

Nope.

She continued,

“The suspect seems to be disoriented. We think he administered a DIY version of ECT.”

Clancy took a moment to figure this, then,

“You mean he shocked the be-Jaysus out of his own self?”

He was interrupted by a young Guard who said,

“He’s lawyered up.”

Said it just like in the movies. Clancy said,

“Fuck.”

He snapped at the young guy,

“Is he a Prod?”

The guy did know he meant Protestant but wasn’t altogether sure what one looked like. He’d grown up in the years such nonsense didn’t rate, he tried,

“Should I ask him, sir?”

Clancy raised his eyes to heaven, muttered,

“Give me fucking patience.”

Then to Ridge,

“Get me evidence. We’ll stall this shithead as long as we can.”

The lawyer, named Pearson, knew he had a headline case and had alerted the press, and put on his Mason’s tie for the doorstep lecture he’d deliver. If he handled it the right way, he’d get a book out of this and use that to claim an artist’s tax exemption. It was win-win. Clancy came out of his office, all fuss and blunder, said,

“Be just a moment while your client is having a wee cup of tea.”