Ken Bruen - Green Hell

We were sitting, not close but not distant. From left field she just launched.

“My old man sends me hefty checks for the guilt.”

Uh-oh.

“What guilt?”

“For diddling me in every orifice until I was sixteen.”

Then she swiveled in her seat, exclaimed,

“Over there, I saw Iain Glen. Be still my heart. He’s got that intense brooding gig going.”

Then switched again, said,

“Think of me as a cocktail. You take,

Carol O’Connell’s Mallory

A note of Sara Gran’s Claire DeWitt

A sprinkle of angel dust

Shake that mojo

And

Out

Pops

Me fein (me!).”

Before I could comment she added,

“You only need to know I’m less Sylvia Plath and more Anne Sexton.”

I said,

“Or you could just be full of shite.”

We were on our second margaritas and those suckers were sliding down bad and easy. Em took out an e-cig, the green light glowing against the tequila sheen in her eyes. She said,

“I descended into a complete full madness and if you can know and accept that, you can function on a whole other level.”

I watched her exhale the nicotine-based water vapor and felt a powerful urge to smoke. A kick-in-the-gut, honest-to-God, unfiltered Lucky Strike. Em continued,

“Some people, before bed, they lay out the next day’s clothes. Me, I lay out a slew of personalities, then, come morning I wake, pop an upper, chase it with a double espresso, and see who I’m going to be that day.”

I asked,

“Isn’t that tiresome?”

Now, she was coming to it, asked,

“Jack. .”

Pause.

“Don’t you ever want to be somebody else, even for a little while?”

“I’d settle for being some where else, even for a little while.”

I could feel the tequila, settling then whispering, so I let it talk, said,

“Truth is, I only ever wish to be a fictional character.”

She was delighted, asked,

“Oh, do tell, and please. . sweet Jesus, don’t be predictable and do a James Bond shite song. . let it be colorful!”

I said,

“Raylan Givens, as written by Elmore Leonard. Gets to wear a cool hat and not look like an eejit, has a side that is pure mellow. He’s a U.S. marshal.”

She was disappointed or maybe the booze was on its rota of up/down swings, she said,

“You like him because of the hat?”

“No, because he legally shoots people.”

I didn’t come to. . wake would be too mild a word, to find myself naked in bed. The events of the night went blank after I’d sat on the sofa with Em.

I staggered out of bed, expecting the thundering hangover tequila guarantees, but no. . and I certainly shouldn’t have slept as soundly as I did. The norm would be the porcelain prayer, i.e., early in the morning (very early) puking my guts over the toilet bowl, on my knees, sweating like be-Jaysus. But no.

Apart from light-headedness, not unpleasant, I appeared to be fine. Fuck, even wanted coffee and a smoke. Pulling on a Galway United long sweatshirt, I went to the front room. A neatly wrapped package on the table with a note.

Lover,

I slipped you a Mickey Finn lest you attempted

to slip me some Irish. I was up early, fucked with

you a little (kidding), went out and brought you

a present. . for the Raylan in all of us.

Catch you nine sharp tomorrow. We’re heading

for Portlaoise to visit your young felon. Dress for

jail!

Meantime, I brewed fresh coffee so there should

still be some kick in it. . like your old self really.

Tootle-Pip,

The

Emerald

I poured the coffee, still hot and indeed with a punch and then opened the package.

A perfect cowboy hat, with the snap brim.

You had to love her!

Next morning, I was outside the apartment, no idea what to expect. A yellow VW Beetle pulled up. A very beat-up one. The window rolled down, Em, behind the wheel, said,

“Pickup for a Mr. Taylor?”

She wasn’t wearing a chauffeur’s hat but her voice had the vibe. She was dressed in lawyer mode again. This time a prim white suit, blue-striped and expensive, hair tied back, sensible shoes.

I got in and she eased into traffic, hit the stereo, and music surrounded us.

I asked,

“A yellow bug. . really?”

She was trying to identify the song, said,

“I know this? Why? Arcade fire?”

I asked,

“Ever hear of Ted Bundy?”

As we reached the outskirts of the city she reached down, then handed me an iPad.

“Some light reading for the trip.”

She said,

“ Taylor-

Made.

“It’s Boru’s first draft of his book on you.”

“Jesus, how’d you get that?”

She was turning at the traffic circle, said,

“Young man in charge of the Evidence Room.”

“Yeah?”

“He has a Britney thing. I donned the outfit from her first video, the school gym? The wet dream of middle-aged guys everywhere.”

Skeptical.

“And what, he just gave it to you?”

She fumbled for a flask of coffee, said,

“I gave him a blow job.”

Jesus!

I poured the coffee, settled back to read, a way in, thought,

“Holy fuck!”

She asked,

“How you liking it so far, Mr. Johnson?”

“Christ, everybody seems to hate me.”

She shrugged, said,

“Now you know how Sting feels.”

She asked,

“So where’s your manners, bud?”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t feel a wee mite of gratitude for the U.S. marshal hat?”

I let lots of hard leak over my tone, said,

“Rohipnol? Fucking date rape. . you really want to go there, to revisit the source of the. . misdemeanor?”

She laughed, mock-shuddered, said,

“Oh. . scary. . I think I’m a little turned on.”

No real answer to that involves any sanity. I noticed a small logo on the dashboard, read:

Go gangsta,

Go ghetto.

How non-Irish do you get? I asked,

“Might I inquire who you’ll be today?”

She used a dashboard lighter to fire up. I kid you not, a fuckin spiff, inhaled deep, said,

“Hope the fuck I don’t get the munchies.”

Offered me the joint, I said,

“One dope per car seems sufficient.”

She snorted, then,

“To answer your previous, in light of this. .”

waved the joint,

“. . I was thinking, Nancy Botwin, you know, from Weeds ?”

Terse, I snapped,

“I know who she is, Mary-Louise Parker.”

She said,

“Jesus, got you already.”

Mercifully, we were approaching Portlaoise. She stopped the car suddenly, looked right at me, asked,

“Right now, this moment, what would you most like to be doing?”

“Not sitting here in a yellow bug, not a spit from prison with. . Sybil.”

Her eyes were serious, no dancing lunacy, she said,

“I’m serious, tell me.”

“Well, in my apartment, sipping fifty-year-old whiskey from the oak, watching Borgen with maybe the collected short stories of Amy Hempel as backup.”

I thought I saw a wetness touch her eyes, then she was back to biz, grabbing a battered briefcase, fixing her hair, said,

“That’s probably the saddest thing I ever heard.”

Portlaoise Prison is Ireland’s only high-security prison. Beside it is Midland Prison, a newer medium-security unit.

Built in 1830, it is notorious for the number of Provos there. Now it houses Ireland’s most dangerous criminals,

Drug gangs,

Killers,

Rapists.

Irish Republican prisoners are on the old E-Block.

Irish Defense Forces are used as Guards. An exclusion zone operates over the entire complex,