Ken Bruen - Green Hell

“Nice to meet you.”

And waited.

She cleared her throat, said,

“My husband died a long time ago and all I really have is one brother.”

I wanted to say,

“Fascinating, but should I give a fuck why?”

Went with,

“My condolences.”

No maneuver room there. But she tried,

“My brother was killed recently and the Guards appear to have abandoned the case. A Superintendent Clancy suggested you might help. Said you were a form of a forlorn St. Jude. For hopeless cases?”

Clancy fucking with me. I whistled for Ziggy, stood, said,

“I’m very sorry but I’m temporarily out of the business.”

I was putting the lead on Ziggy, she handed me a card, said,

“If you might reconsider, I would reward your time generously.”

I shoved the card into my jeans, said,

“Nice talking to you.”

We’d gotten about five yards when she called,

“That’s my business card, it’s my maiden name.

I didn’t snap. .

Whatever!

That evening as Ziggy and I shared a pot of Irish stew with a hint of Jameson, the card slipped out of my pocket. Picked it up, read:

Alison de Burgo.

The sound, the feel of some words linger in my mouth. There is almost a joy in uttering the Danish TV series,

Forbrydelsen,

a current favorite. The translation now seems bitterly apt on that wet, stormy Saturday. I had the lead ready for Ziggy but the sound of the storm discouraged him. Maybe he had flashbacks to the evening I found him. So I said,

“It’s OK, buddy. You snuggle up on the couch, I’ll get the shopping and be back in jig time.” Earlier, when I’d been playing with him, the joy in his little body so overwhelmed him that he lay back, gave a yawn/sigh to release it. I tickled his ears, then headed out.

The wind was fierce, with a cold rain lashing across the streets. I’d gotten the shopping and stopped for brief shelter near Garavan’s. A ne’er-do-well named Jackson coerced me into a fast pint.

I did delay a bit. The chat was lively and the pub was warm, whispering:

“Stay a little longer.”

Guilt-ridden, I pushed out of there, way past my intended plan. Struggled against the wind, got my keys out, juggling the groceries. My front door was wide open. A hard kick had taken it completely off the hinges. My heart lurched.

The pup literally had been torn apart. His tiny head was left on the arm of the couch. A sheet of paper underneath, awash in blood, but clearly scrawled on it was:

“Doggone.”

Em had said to me one time,

“Yo, Dude ( sic ), if I’m not, like, around, and you need me, e-mail me at

Greenhell@gmail.com.

Sick and near broken, I did e-mail her and outlined the events of the last few days and ended with

“Sometimes there’s just no justice. The bad guys do live, if not happily ever after, then certainly conspicuously.”

She didn’t reply.

At least not by e-mail.

You might say her reply was more biblical, and definitely more colorful.

At the tennis championships in Melbourne, one of the players had a tattoo in Celtic print. From Beckett, it read:

I can’t go on, I won’t go on. . I’ll go on.

A month later, almost to the day, the head of a young man was found, wrapped in a blanket, outside Galway City’s dog shelter.

Newspapers variously described the blanket as dark blue and dull green, but one tabloid, in a fanciful piece, described it as “emerald green.”

Identifying the young man was proving difficult as his teeth had been removed.

Returning to the flat on a fine Sunday evening, I found a small Labrador pup in a box at my door. I cried,

“I can’t. . Jesus, I just can’t!”

Can I?

I bent down to touch the warm little head. He was sleeping soundly on my Garda coat. Then I noticed he was wearing a shiny new leather collar.

Green.

A medallion attached had his name. I had to squint to read it.

BORU.