Ken Bruen - The Emerald Lie

“I will of course be paying you handsomely for your time.”

“For murder.”

I spat.

He stood, said,

“Maybe I will have a drink after all.”

He returned with half a bottle of Jameson. Unheard of in any Irish pub unless it was in the wee small hours and you were assured of at least two off-duty cops in the vicinity. He offered to pour for me but I covered my glass with my hand. He took that as the insult it was.

I tried to rein in my racing mind, said,

“As one who has trod the road of revenge and retribution, and was nigh insane with grief afterward... The price was very high and you know what? No peace, either.”

He sank a shot, did another but it didn’t seem to do much, not even color his cheeks, then placed the glass carefully on the edge of the table, said in a very measured tone, as if he was controlling his temper more than a fear of slurring,

“Appreciate the little lecture on morals but you know what? You hold the twisted broken limbs of your gorgeous child, who has been ravaged in every possible way. The coroner said they placed objects in every...”

He faltered.

Looked away.

“In every orifice.”

Jesus.

I tried to ease some understanding into my words but like, what the hell, I said,

“I can’t get your absolute pain but neither can I be part of this.”

He mulled that over, then,

“Would you go and see the Yank who is overseeing the operation?”

“What possible good would that do?”

His body shook and he grimaced.

“Good? Who’s talking about fucking good ? That went into the river with my daughter. I’m asking you for a bit of damn leeway, and don’t sweat — I’ll pay you for your time.”

More to ease him down than acquiesce, I said okay. He wrote down an address, said,

“The gentleman has offices here.”

Then he reached into his jacket, passed over a fat envelope, said,

“For your trouble.”

I looked at it, asked,

“You had the money ready? You knew I’d agree?”

He stood up, said,

“I’m an accountant; I know exactly what money can buy.”

I tried for world-weary, snapped,

“Everyone can be bought, eh?”

He was already leaving, said,

“No, just the empty ones.”

I stayed on for another pint after he left, the fat money envelope before me. Tried to tell myself that money has no feeling. You get it, you keep it.

M... m... m.

Decided I could go see the Yank and just play it as it presented. Thus unsettled, and with a tiny cloud of, if not unknowing, then certainly vague dread trailing.

I wasn’t striving to win.

Just wanted to mix up failure a bit.

Told myself I’d take the dog for a long walk, let the ocean blow away whatever ghosts were forming. Soon as I got to my door, I sensed something off. And could hear muted sounds from within. Bracing myself, I pushed it open. The dog ran to greet me, wild love as if he hadn’t seen me for a year.

Sitting in my armchair was a woman, dressed like Annie Hall, smoking a thin cheroot. I kid thee fucking not.

Emily.

I said,

“Jesus wept.”

She gave that radiant smile, asked,

“Miss me, Jack?”

Already I was off balance, which is what I’d always been with her. No matter what tack I took, she was always out of left field. All you could do was hope the damage would be short. I said,

“See you made yourself at home.”

She shook the glass in her hand, said,

“I’m about ready for a refill.”

The dog gave me a delighted greeting then, the treacherous bastard, bounded onto her lap. She asked,

“What did you name him?”

I grabbed the bottle from the table, poured one, and refreshed hers. I said,

“Storm.”

She rubbed his ears, then,

“How very you.”

“Is there any point in asking you where the hell you’ve been?”

She seemed to be seriously weighing her response, then,

“First I have to choose an accent, add a little drama.”

I sighed, almost the way my mother did, her whole wretched life. Said,

“I suppose the truth would be too far a reach?”

She finished her drink, smiled, more to herself than the world, asked,

“But where’s the fun in that?”

The Annie Hall persona was already evaporating and a new hard force sliding in. She said,

“I worked for a hedge fund in New York; everyone should learn how to steal professionally.”

Ah, fuck.

I said,

“The banks here found it came naturally.”

A sharp tone.

“Don’t interrupt, Taylor.”

The dog gave her a look, like,

“Seriously?”

“I married a dude in Vegas and, believe me, that was plain tacky.”

She was beginning to sound a lot like Sinead O’Connor and that not even I could stomach. I waited.

“Then I took a holiday on Turks and Caicos, see how the superrich play. Guess what?”

“Bored the arse off you.”

And she laughed, genuinely, though with her, the term genuine was a tad misleading. She nigh sang,

“Exactly. No wonder I missed you. You’re so... hmm... sharp, for your age.”

She had the Irish knack of simultaneously patting your head and putting her shoe in your arse. I asked,

“And what, dare one inquire, are your plans now?”

She reached into her bag, a tote that had the logo

... not friggin’ Gucci!

Cute.

Took out a gold cigarette case, extracted what appeared to be a Virginia Slim. I recognized the distinctive motif and, God forgive me, could even remember the slogan back in the day. I can’t bring meself to repeat it, it’s too folksy, and, fuckit, I can’t do folksy.

She lit it with a simple Bic, a girl with all the commercial contradictions. She inhaled like a redneck, all corpse-sucked-in-cheeks, then exhaled, got into lecture mode. Began,

“Jacky, our last adventure, adventures? Think of it like a TV pilot. Especially as you’ve such a hard-on for U.S. drama. Well, the good news is we’ve been picked up for a second season and hey, I’m not promising Golden Globes but we’re in the game.”

I reached for the cig case, and took out what appeared to be your basic cigarette, without a slogan, lit up, said,

“Staying with your analogy, I’ve decided to go solo, focus on my own series.”

If I had hoped to amuse her, I was wrong.

Very.

She near spat.

“Cunt, you are under contract.”

Even the dog moved under the chair at the vehemence; he’d been reared on aggression. I kept the steel out of my tone, said,

“Endgame, lady, time to fold the crazy tent and bring the bazaar to further shores.”

She was on her feet, all five-foot-four of her, all of it mad as a loon. She snarled,

“I know where the bodies are buried. The nails? Remember them, that they took out of my dear dad and the asshole who killed your dog?”

This was literally the whole summary of my last horrendous case. I took a breath, said,

“You drop a dime on me, bitch, you go down too.”

And she laughed, said,

“You dumb Mick — down is where I live.”

Before I could reply to this, she reached into the bag again, pulled out a package, said,

“Got you a present, homey.”

Fuck.

Hard to flow with her changes. The dog, seeing the package, was all ears, maybe he’d score. I took the present, said,

“Thank you.”

And got the radiant smile. Then,

“Well, come on, boss, open up that sucker.”

I held it up to my ear, listening for ticking. Pulled the paper off and there was a fancy box, containing a watch, Patek Philippe. I was lost for an answer, I mean, the usual shite, like,

“Gee, you shouldn’t have.”

Always sounded so awful, but I had nothing else. She was amused at my dilemma, said,