Ken Bruen - The Emerald Lie

“Religiously.”

I was discharged from the hospital two days later. The doctor gave me a pep talk, beginning like this,

“A man of your age...”

Translates as

“Tops, a year.”

He did give me a painkiller prescription, warning,

“These are heavy-duty...”

(I should fucking hope so.)

“And I trust you will use discretion and due diligence.”

Doctors nowadays speak more like lawyers and lawyers won’t speak at all without heavy cash up front. I said,

“Thank you for all your care.”

He looked to see if he detected a barb, added,

“And absolutely no alcohol.”

“As if I would.”

I called a cab from the River Inn, situated right across from the hospital, and they do a roaring trade. The barmaid, Mary, said,

“Jesus, Jack, you look pale.”

“But willing. I’ll have a Jay and pint.”

My timing was good, finished both as the cab pulled up. I left a tip for Mary, who said,

“You’re the only guy who does that.”

“Due diligence,”

I said.

She shook her head, said,

“I don’t know what you mean but then I never do.”

The cabdriver was a Man United fan.

Alas.

He started,

“We’d a nice win on Saturday. I think Rooney is going to be a fine captain.”

Would I bother?

I would.

Said,

“He got sent off.”

He eyed me in the mirror, not seeing much he liked, then,

“Take that fucking Arsenal, beaten in twelve matches by Chelsea.”

I had nothing to say to that.

He took my silence as assent, said,

“You hear about that guy is killing people for talking bad?”

I didn’t know it was out there, asked,

“How are the people feeling about that?”

He cheered up, could be the voice of the populace if briefly, said,

“They’re hoping he’ll go after the government.”

He then went into a long harangue about the water charges and I said,

“Just drop me here.”

As I paid him, he said,

“Don’t mind me saying so but you’re a bit pale.”

Jesus.

When I opened the door to my apartment, I was near knocked down by the pup. Did twirls and turns of delight and in truth I found my heart sing at such a welcome. A moment later, my neighbor appeared, said,

“Good to have you back, Jack.”

He had stocked my fridge and even laid in beer, cold and plenty. I tried to pay him but he was having none of it, said,

“Minding that pup is a joy.”

I took a sneak look at my neighbor. He was of tremendous help to me in so many ways yet I knew next to nothing about him. Hell, he might even be the Grammarian for all I detected. I gave the pup some chews and a rough ear rub, then fetched two cold ones from the fridge, said,

“Take a pew.”

He settled himself in the armchair, took a long swig, then asked,

“Would you have a cigarette?”

I would and did.

Said,

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

He leaked a smile, said,

“No reason why you should. Just odd times I get the urge and one thing I’ve learned at my age is, have at some of the urges.”

Never having resisted any of my own, was I going to give him an argument?

No.

I asked,

“How are you liking Galway?”

He mulled that over, then,

“I love the poetry of the streets, if that doesn’t sound too much of an asshole thing to say.”

A moment, then we both laughed. I said,

“Poetry and assholes, our speciality. In fact they are intrinsically linked.”

He gave me a very direct look, not something you get much with English people. They tend to come at you sideways. He said,

“You have a great fondness for language.”

What could I answer but,

“Like the Grammarian I hear.”

He was debating something, then,

“My days in the army, the squad called me Doc.”

Was I to call him that?

Continued,

“Not a medical thing but I could doctor any paper you desired.”

Wondering where this was headed, I tried,

“You think I need some... papers?”

He smiled, and the change, his whole personality altered, he looked... um... doctored ? Said,

“Never know when the shit hits the fan and it’s time to move fast.”

Then he veered away, said,

“I’ve been reading Paula Fox, The Western Coast , and she reminded me of the small subtle damages we inflict on each other.”

“Haven’t read her.”

“She went out of print in 1992 and then Jonathan Franzen bigged her, the mags got hold of her connection to Courtney Love, and, voilà, she’s experiencing a mini resurgence.”

Was there a moral, an inference? I couldn’t join the dots so went lame, said,

“Guess it’s never too late to grab the brass ring.”

Lame.

He finished his beer, stood, said,

“I’m glad you are home, Jack.”

And it sounded as if he meant it. I had that awkward male moment of

“So, okay, do we hug or what the fuck?”

The pup came trailing the lead and saved us. I said,

“Looks like I’m going for a walk.”

I got in touch with a semiretired villain I’d known back when my friend Stewart had been alive. The loss of Stewart weighed heavy, like all the others. Sweeny, the ex-crook, spent most of his time in Spain but had returned. He said,

“Too many Irish drug dealers setting up shop there.”

We met in Roldan’s, a quiet pub near what had once been thriving docks, now was just a wasteland like the country itself. Sweeny was brown as oak and had more lines than an Ordnance Survey map. His voice was raspy from too many cigarettes but it worked for him, gave him a gravitas that was an asset in his former line of work. He greeted me warmly, if raspily. He said,

“Look like you’ve been in the wars, Jack.”

“I was caught without a hurley.”

He liked that. His weapon used to be a solid iron bar. He was drinking wine and had ordered a pint and chaser for me. Knew my form. He nodded at the wine, said,

“Got a taste for it on the Costa.”

Drank a sip, then,

“Boring as fuck out there. Us Irish, we don’t do sun real well. I got me an iPad and, after a few glasses of this shit, I’d start buying stuff on Amazon. I wanted to see The Bridge and guess I was a bit befuddled as I ended up with

... get this,

The Bridge , Danish original

The Tunnel ... Australian

The Bridge , the Yanks setting it on the Rio Grande.

So I’m watching all three on consecutive nights and I get to see the icy blond chick in three different nationalities.”

I smiled, asked,

“How’d that work out for you?”

He sighed, said,

“Fuck it. I gave up, went back to Father Ted , the devil you know, eh? But you didn’t ask to meet me to discuss the merits of European crime drama versus the Yanks.”

“No, I wanted to get some armory.”

We decided on something light, in terms not of stopping power but of weight. He took off for about half an hour and I listened to the jukebox.

I kid thee not, an actual jukebox with no fucking Rihanna. Blessings. A tune playing: