Ken Bruen - Green Hell

Google threw up that Dec lived at home in Taylor’s Hill with his father, a pediatrician of note; and his mother, a runner-up in the Rose of Tralee. The family had no pets.

Keith Finnegan was reading the news. I heard this:

“A young student from a prominent family was savagely beaten in a mugging outside Galway Cathedral as he attempted to attend midnight Mass.”

Unless they were now offering Black Masses, the Guards had failed to notice the locked doors.

To ensure Ziggy’s warmth and sense of belonging, I placed him in a Galway United sweatshirt beside my pillow at night.

I woke in the morning to find him snuggled sound asleep on my chest.

He was adapting.

It was like a scene from an

Armageddon movie. Large boulders

were thrown over the wall onto the

car park by the sea.

(Comment on the storm by Joe Garrity, manager of Sea World in County Clare)

A card from Arizona read:

Jack-o,

I went to the Poisoned Pen Bookshop.

Met a hot guy named Patrick Milliken and

Heard Jim Sallis read. That dude rocks.

Back soon.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Your greenish Em

Ziggy was improving rapidly, already knew where the treats were. Chewed on every available table, chair, bed leg. It was a given he would be lying next to my pillow. That was oddly endearing.

I kept up a nigh daily posting of nails to de Burgo. Oiled and cleaned the Ruger daily. Visualizing putting two rounds in the fucker’s balls.

The storms continued to lash holy hell out of the west coast. I so wanted to bring the pup to run on the Salthill beach but the ferocity of the Atlantic on Galway Bay would be too much.

He’d already had a lash of Galway ferocity.

The Guards were now saying they had an eyewitness to the mugging of the young man at Galway Cathedral.

Were they blowing smoke? I sure hoped to fuck they were.

Noon that Thursday, I opened the door to. . Em. The pup peeping from behind my legs. She was dressed. . Parisian chic? Pale leather coat, black polo, and-surely not-leather pants over black boots. Her hair was now in that elfin cute brown style like the poster of Amélie, the French movie. She greeted me,

“Bon soir mon fils et le petit chien.”

She had a rugged worn gladstone bag which she handed to me, said,

“Snap to it, Jeeves.”

Despite the nonsense, I was glad to see her. Nearly. . nearly hugged her.

She breezed in and, with one fluid gesture, scooped up the pup, said,

“Vas bon, mon chéri.”

Plunked herself on the couch, the pup already snug in her arms, said,

“So, let’s make with the beverages, Jacques.”

I built some fine hot toddies, even lit a cig, and as I handed it to her, a loud thump rattled the door. I muttered,

“. . the fuck?”

Opened it to Ridge and a new face to me, in a crisp new uniform. He looked about twelve but a mean little twelve. Viciousness already marking his eyes. She ordered,

“Jack Taylor, I need to interview you in relation to a very serious assault.”

I swept my arms wide, said,

“Do come in.”

She stopped on seeing Em, the recruit nearly colliding with her back. She said,

“The ubiquitous Em?”

Ridge always had a tell. I had tried. I had tried to clue her on it, comparing it to a royal flush. But she brushed it off as

“Drink shite talk.”

Eyeing the dog, she opened with,

“Mr. Taylor, we have a witness who describes a man resembling you as being the assailant in a vicious mugging.”

Em, slowly lighting a slim cigarette with a gold lighter, asked,

“The time and date, sergeant?”

Ridge glared at her, looked at the travel bag, played the queen, asked,

“Been traveling?”

“I was in Korea but that was some time ago, the bag is dirty laundry. Feel free to root about in it. I sense that’s your forte.”

Ridge, red color climbing up her cheeks, reined in, gave the time and day.

The recruit, whose name I learned was Costello, glared at me. I said,

“Not sure if. .”

I glanced at the pup,

“You have a dog in this fight, son?”

The “son,” rattled, looked to Ridge, who ignored him. Em said,

“Jack and I were. . what’s the buzz term?. . en flagrant the evening in question.”

Ridge went for her king, already faltering, tried,

“The witness mentioned something about. .”

Paused,

“A pup being part of the struggle. What is this pup’s name?”

Em, highly amused, dropped the remainder of the cig in the empty toddy glass, handed the glass to Costello, said,

“Be a dear, sweetie. .”

Then, back to Ridge.

“Not sure you were entirely paying attention earlier, sergeant, but I did mention my recent sojourn in Korea.”

Ridge looked fit to explode, snapped,

“Is there a point to this little. . detour?”

Em gave her most beatific smile, said,

“Alas, I did, to my shame, pick up on one of their culinary customs. .”

She stroked the pup’s ears.

“I never name something I may later eat.”

Quote from the Sunday Times :

Samantha Ellis believes that heroines such as

Scarlett O’Hara and Sylvia Plath’s

Esther Greenwood are appealing precisely

because they behave so badly.

“I’d had so many good girl heroines,” writes Ellis.

“Plath gave me a heroine who was anything but. .

As Esther gets suicidal, she also gets mean .

She releases her inner bad girl, she picks up sailors, reads scandal sheets, howls at her father’s grave.”

After Ridge left, I let out a long breath, said,

“Em, you know she will check the airlines.”

Em pulled out her iPhone, five minutes of elegant, furious texting, and she smiled, said,

“’Tis done and best if t’were done well.”

I asked,

“Seriously, who the fuck are you?”

She was nuzzling her face against the pup’s ears, said,

“The girl who just saved your ass from arrest. A thank-you about now might be good so feel free to jump in. .”

Instead, I made her a kick-heart coffee, even lit her cig, asked,

“Were you in Arizona?”

She savored the coffee, said,

“I’d like it a bit more Sara Gran, you know, New Orleans, hint of chicory. . yes, I went to rehab there.”

Jesus wept!

“For which of your many personalities?”

“Jack, I have a near genius for math, tech stuff, but they say I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

She laughed, no humor touching her eyes, added,

“As in Cowboy Junkies , I am your skewed Misguided Angel and I need you to help to off the monster that is de Burgo.”

“You have always managed to evade, like so much else, your motive, your hard-on for him.”

Her phone buzzed. . she read a text, put the pup gently aside, gathered her things, said,

“I’m Gone Girl.”

Pecked me on the cheek, said,

“Catch you up for dinner, my treat tomorrow evening, and, oh. . de Burgo. .

he’s my dad.”

Using Google Search

Friends Reunite Ireland

I found Em’s mother. She was living in a cottage in Kinvara. She was a “home-keeper,” whatever the fuck that is. She was now using her maiden name, Marion McKee. Google Maps even showed me the cottage. The old adage:

“You want to know what the daughter will

become, meet the mother.”

Worth a shot.

I went to Charley Byrne’s Bookshop and wished Vinny a happy new year. He smiled ruefully at that. Then,

“So, what do you want, Jack?”

I did mock-offended.

“You think that’s the only reason I’m here?”

“Pretty much.”