Ken Bruen - The Emerald Lie

(Gideon Lewis-Kraus, A Sense of Direction )

“The art of punctuation is of infinite consequence in writing; as it contributes to the perspicuity and consequently to the beauty of every composition.”

This edict of Joseph Robertson was running through Park’s mind like good news. He knew it signaled a return to his former self and his dormant energy. His aunt Sarah had fussed over settling him in the guest room, insisting,

“Rest, you need to rest.”

“No.”

He thought,

“I need to kill somebody.”

And he remembered how the female sergeant had scoffed at his language, had sneered,

“Afraid of a little bad grammar, are we?”

The construction of that sentence infuriated him and the casual way she abused and tore apart the very basics of structure revealed the barbarian she was.

He lay on the bed and ran the rudiments of his favorite linguistics, and running alongside this pleasure was the idea of shutting the Guard’s mouth permanently. He asked aloud,

... “Affect or effect?”

I.e.,

The sergeant was affected by the effect of the hatchet.

Emily was standing in the center of my apartment, so enraged that the pup hid under a chair. Loud voices freaked him; didn’t do a whole lot for me either.

Like this,

“My place was burgled, you believe it?”

Oh, I not only believed; I knew. When she was in full riot, her eyes seemed bright green. She was spitting from anger, continued,

“Going through my private stuff, and you know who did it?”

A question or a touch of rhetoric?

I frowned accordingly. She threw her hands in the air. Spat,

“That cunt cop.”

Whoa...

I asked,

“What?”

“Ridge, the gay bitch, she’s had it in for me since I rubbed her nose in it.”

Had to close this down, said,

“Seriously, I don’t think breaking and entering is part of their remit.”

She spun around, eyes spitting iron.

“Ah, you dumb, deluded sap.”

Couldn’t let that go, said,

“I don’t think they use sap outside of earnest chick lit.”

Then she had a sea change, touched my face, tenderly, her eyes now soft, said,

“Ah, Jack.”

And a lightbulb went on. I realized something.

She

Had

Feelings

For me.

Oh, sweet fuck.

How could I not have seen? The huge framed photo on her wall. Always there for me. As I tried to process this, she asked quietly,

“Jack, can we talk?”

Lord above.

I resolved, in my utter blindness, to let her down easy.

Aw, fuck, the arrogance and sheer stupidity. If only I could blame drink, dope, stress, but no, it was all on me, my total lack of cop on is absolutely appalling. I have no excuse save pure bollix.

Me.

I said (oh, the generosity and sensitivity!),

“Let’s go and have dinner, my treat, and we can talk.”

I cringe as I recall the smugness of my tone.

She said,

“Oh, thank you, jack. I knew you’d get it.”

My name in lowercase there as that is how small I feel now.

I need to see Emily’s mother and find out about the four in the picture. Two had been convicted of sexual offenses and, as is the case now with Irish justice, they were on holiday in Marbella, awaiting appeals. Emily’s father was dead and that left Park Wilson, the alleged Grammarian. I needed transport and knocked on my neighbor Doc’s door. He had been many times in my apartment but I had never set foot in his. He had a fairly new Austin and that would do my trip nicely.

The pup was on his lead and his tail wagging gently as I knocked. Took a few minutes and then the door opened a fraction, the way you do for TV license inspectors, giving not an inch. Doc’s head appeared. Looking startled, he gasped,

“What?”

Fuck, not a good sign, he had never been anything but warmly friendly. The pup tried to push in but Doc snapped,

“Not now.”

Sharp.

Jesus.

Maybe I could rent a bloody car.

I said,

“Really sorry to disturb you.”

He actually went,

“Whatever!”

Now if ever a comment deserved a slap in the mouth, it’s that. I tried,

“I was hoping to borrow your car, I’ll pay for the petrol and...”

He cut me off, muttered,

“Jesus.”

Went back inside and did I hear a whispered conversation?

Then he was back, handed me the keys, and shut the door. The pup stared at the door, crushed, his tail beneath his legs. I said,

“Ah, fuck him, come on, we’ll have a wild spin.”

Thing with dogs, they instantly forgive but they don’t forget.

Me neither.

The Grammarian would kill me for that sentence.

I put the pup in the shotgun seat and then went,

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.”

Not the pup, not a stick shift. Damn automatic. I could with some difficulty manage but said to the pup,

“Gonna be a bumpy ride.”

He seemed to trust me. I said to him,

“See, the old ways, they had some style. Did I ever tell you of the old Galway cures?”

He turned his head to the side so I figured, no. I began,

Baldness: Beef bone marrow rubbed on the bald pate.

Corns: Paraffin oil on cotton wool and rub in slowly like sarcasm.

I swear the pup found that amusing.

Chesty cough: Hot water in a mug with honey and a mass of carrageen moss.

Toothache: Drop of Jameson with salt added and rub gently on the gums. If that failed, drink more Jay.

The radio was playing and a news bulletin, P. D. James had died.

RIP.

She wasn’t exactly noted for her sense of humor but, at a book signing, in Australia, a long line of people and with each customer she tried to write the buyer’s name and have a word.

One woman handed over the book and when P. D. asked, she wasn’t sure she could spell the name correctly but gave it her best shot

... Emma Chessit.

As she handed back the book, she realized the woman was asking the price of the book.

I’d once given a copy of

An Unsuitable Job for a Woman

To Ridge.

In the days when we were still friends, before the death of our beloved friend, Stewart, Ridge had asked me to suggest some crime novels and she had loved James Lee Burke

Hilary Davidson

Patti Abbott

Sara Gran

So, emboldend, I’d given her the P. D. James and she stared at the title, snarled,

“What? You trying to tell me something, Taylor?”

Ah, just fuck off already.

A Swollen Red Sun

By Matthew McBride, which is among my ten favorites, I decided she would not now be getting. Let her go back to fucking chick lit.

Emily’s mother’s house was still bright, clean, and alive. So, still sober, then.

I left the radio on for the pup, a few treats, said,

“Back in a sec, buddy.”

He looked as if that seemed unlikely. I approached the door with a certain amount of trepidation. Rang the bell, and in a beat, there she was. She asked,

“Yes?”

“I am so sorry to bother you. I’m a friend of Em...”

Didn’t get to finish. She rasped,

“Taylor.”

Uh-oh.

Not good.

I tried,

“So sorry to disturb you.”

“No, you’re not, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Fuck... Okay... deep breath.

Think I liked her better as a drunk.

She stared past me, asked,

“What kind of person leaves a pup locked in a car?”