Ken Bruen - Green Hell

Em did a mock wipe of her brow, said,

“Phew, don’t feel you have to hold back.”

She reached across the table, touched my hand. I didn’t recoil or flinch so some progress. She said,

“Jack, I am truly sorry for your young friend Boru. I really believed we could have saved him.”

I had no answer.

Her hand still resting on mine, she held my gaze firmly, asked,

“I need a solemn pledge from you, Jack.”

Fuck, it wouldn’t be good. I tried deflection.

“Didn’t we do the marriage gig at the start of the meal?”

Slapped my hand, stressed,

“Be serious, Jack.”

“I’ll give it a shot, what is it?”

“Next Friday, you have a table booked for two at Brannigan’s. Be on time and don’t leave until eleven o’clock. Make yourself. . felt.”

WTF?

“Sounds like I’m setting up an alibi.”

Her hand withdrew. She said,

“Once, just once, don’t be a stubborn bollix. Just humor me.”

“What the hell, OK. Who am I dining with?”

Now got the pixie smile, made her look twelve, vulnerable, and, oh shit, I don’t know. . deeply exposed. She said,

“Part of an extended birthday buzz. You really need not to overthink this.”

I nearly smiled, clichéd,

“Go with the flow.”

She signaled for the check, snapped,

“Don’t be a fuckhead. Just blew your shot at getting laid.”

Through Boru’s actual solicitor, I obtained his parents’ address, bought a Mass card, had it signed by a priest in the Augustinians who was a human being, said,

“I am sorry for your loss.”

More like him and the Church might have less to fear from lynch mobs. He was that rare to rarest man, one who by pure simplicity made you glad to be alive. Plus, it didn’t cost an arm and a leg (limping or otherwise). I enclosed the following note:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy,

No words can convey the loss you have endured. Forgive my enclosure of a Mass card but here, it’s our sole feeble attempt to demonstrate our care.

Your son was a true gentleman, shining with intelligence, warmth, and utter charm. I was graced, honored, and humbled to be his friend. Know that, despite his brief time in our city, he became a true Galwegian. He will always live here in our hearts and we walk with deep respect the streets he grew to love.

He is a credit to you and a terrible loss to the very meaning of “life extraordinary.”

With deepest sorrow,

Jack Taylor

If you want to know about spirituality, look into the eyes of a dog. So said William James. Ziggy was growing apace, already quirks of personality asserting themselves. He liked to nap on my Garda coat. Some long-lost tenuous connection to protection. He had brown velvet eyes that seemed to weep with emotion.

Acquiring a dog may be the only

opportunity a human ever has to

choose a relative.

Cheeky little bugger too.

Already knew my favorite part of the couch for TV so he’d get there first. Like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction , he seemed to have adopted the mantra

“I will not be ignored.”

Times, too, he seemed to withdraw, his tiny body curling in on itself, emitting a deep sigh and ignoring all treats.

I’d done that gig my ownself.

I was currently watching the boxed set of

Van Veeteren

Maria Wern.

The latter was like Saga Nordén from The Bridge , without the icy autism.

Maria was a shade too fuckin whitebread.

Nordic noir rules.

I told Ziggy. He seemed unimpressed. Had the makings of a canine critic.

I wondered who Em had set me up to meet at Brannigan’s. I’d given my word, so show up I would. Crossed my mind it might be de Burgo. Now that would make an interesting evening. Friday rolled around with the winds finally easing. The latest scandal was the Irish Water Board. Millions paid to a bunch of carpetbaggers to plan the installation of water meters in every home. First we endured years of poisoned water, now they’d charge us by the drop. The minister in charge of this fiasco, Phil Hogan, told us with his smug expression. .

“ You can’t make an omelet without . .”

I mean, he actually fuckin said that!

Brannigan’s was off Kirwan’s Lane. Had a reputation for great steaks. Ziggy whimpered as I prepared to leave. I told him,

“You guard the apartment. . you know, do dog stuff.”

He ignored me.

I walked down Shop Street, trying to adjust the tie I’d worn. Under my Garda coat I had my sports jacket and, from a distance, might even have passed for respectable. Just past Easons, a man stepped out of the lane. Young, in an expensive Burberry coat, so it wasn’t until he spoke that I realized who he was. The gap where his previous magnificent teeth had been. The punk who’d been beating on Ziggy. He snarled,

“You think you got away with it, Taylor?”

He kept a distance, so he had learned something from our encounter.

I asked,

“You want something?”

Bravado and caution fought in his face. He said,

“You stole my wallet.”

I smiled, said,

“Put it down to a fine for disorderly conduct.”

His hands were in his pockets and a debate was raging in his mind. He settled for,

“You’ll pay for it, Taylor.”

I shook my head, said.

“Hey, I’m here now, why wait?”

He turned, scuttled back into the lane. I said,

“That’s what I thought.”

I was standing in the reception area of Brannigan’s. A pleasing aroma of charcoal/grill/barbecue gave me that rare but fleeting feeling,

An appetite!

Throw in a hint of anxiety/anticipation and you’re, if not raring to go, certainly on the precipice.

I saw Ridge approach, a puzzled expression in place. She was dressed for an evening out. An almost too-tight little black number, semi-killer heels, highlights in her hair, caution in her eyes. We almost said in unison,

. . What are you doing here?

I checked with the maître d’. Hard to even write that with an Irish accent. The reservation for two was in the name of Semple (or if you wanted to push buttons, Simple.)

Ridge got there first.

“Someone thinks we should meet?”

I rolled, said,

“Maybe to help us rekindle a friendship.”

Raised her eyes, said,

“Take more than a bloody dinner.”

I wanted to slap her, pleaded,

“For just one fucking time. . chill.”

A waitress approached, asked,

“Would Mr. and Mrs. Semple care for a complimentary cocktail before dinner?”

Ridge nearly relented.

I said,

“One drink?”

She agreed.

The barman was one of those people whom Kevin Bridges described as

“Never having been punched in the face.”

His enthusiasm to see us was grating. He beamed,

“And what can I tempt you fine folk with this evening?”

Mario Rosenstock would have loved him! All that plastic blarney. Ridge snarled,

“Assault and battery.”

I interceded, said,

“Two frozen margaritas.”

Add more ice to the chill Ridge trailed. I made a T gesture to the guy, indicating

“Large amount of tequila or trouble.”

I think he’d already caught the gist of the latter. I said,

“Ridge, you look nice.”

Didn’t fly.

She said,

“I thought my ex-husband was surprising me.”

The drinks came, I raised my glass, said,

“Slainte.”

“Whatever.”

She took a lethal taste, color rising to her cheeks. I realized she might have had a preparatory one. . or two.

I tried,

“Perhaps dinner would go some way to us reconnecting?”

She ignored that, asked,