Ken Bruen - Green Hell

Moved back behind his desk, put his size twelves on the desk, said,

“Taylor is a drunk, a fabulist, he even believes some of his own fantasies. Much as I’d like your. .”

Pause.

“Yarn to be true, it’s horseshite. Even Taylor, with all his dodgy dealings and, dare I say, nefarious enterprises, not even he would quite stoop to such a lunatic scheme.”

He stood up.

I was being dismissed and, hate to admit, shamed. My cheeks burned. Clancy said,

“And let’s face it, sonny, if you’re his friend, he’s even more bollixed than I thought. But, tell you what, if you ever get something solid-like date, time, location, give us a call. We live to serve.”

I’d gotten to the door, feeling as crushed as a Beckett character in a garbage bin, when Clancy said,

“If you intend to reside a while. .”

He let contempt pour over that word, then,

“It might behoove you to remember that we tolerate most shenanigans on this proud little island of ours but. .”

He stared me full in the face,

“But we fucking loathe informers.”

Later that day, a female Guard named Ridge, recently returned to the force after a horrendous accident, dropped the dime on me. To Jack!

It is biologically impossible for a human being to remain conscious in the face of such a potent weapon of narcolepsy as a modern. . politician. Boring, snoring, Rachel Reeves isn’t the only dull MP.

(Stephen Pollard, editor of The Jewish Chronicle )

Even if you’re a brain surgeon, you’re allowed to

be interested in your appearance.

(Alexandra Shulman, editor in chief of British Vogue, reassures women that it’s all right to be clever and talk about frocks)

When I’d ventured to Jack my idea of writing about him, he said,

“Jesus, get a fuckin life.”

Undeterred, I continued and carefully (very), I’d ask him questions. He snapped,

“I don’t do sharing.”

But somewhere in there, he wasn’t entirely resistant. Sometime later, he said,

“Perhaps you could do a Tom Waits.”

Lost me.

I said,

“Lost me.”

He sighed, said,

“For a young guy, part of the most sophisticated techno-savvy generation, you are pig ignorant of the things that matter.”

Annoyed, I tried,

“And like. . Tom. . whoever. . matters?”

He was shaking his head.

“Fuck me, that’s like asking if the Clash are relevant.”

I sat down, waited, then got,

“Tom Waits said,

‘Shall I tell you the truth or just string

You along?’”

Getting no comment from me, he went on,

“I like the idea of the unreliable narrator.”

Why was I not surprised?

That evening a book dropped through my mailbox.

Patricia Highsmith, Edith’s Diary .

A note enclosed:

Kid,

About the best unreliable narrator you could read. Maybe pick up a few pointers.

J.T.

Was he asking/telling me a lie?

After my visit to Superintendent Clancy-I’m not going to lie to you-I felt bad, real shitty. I’d not only done a pretty dubious act but damn, it had blown up in my face. Clancy had not only dismissed me but oh, Lord, effectively called me a rat, a fink.

I took the Jack solution, I went to a bar, Jury’s, and who knows, maybe I thought I might run into the South American specter. The bar was pretty much empty, mirroring accurately how I felt.

Two young women were at a corner table poring over a magazine. I ordered a 7 and 7 and got a look from the bar guy.

“Seagram’s 7 and 7-Up.”

His look said. . “Then, that’s what you should have said.”

Day just kept giving!

I was considering a second one when a voice said,

“Oh, go on, live a bit.”

One of the girls ordering wine spritzers. I noticed how pretty she was, verging on seriously hot.

Because I’d been around Jack his, shall I say, “terseness” rather than “blunt rudeness” had rubbed off.

I snapped,

“How would it be if you minded your own business.”

A beat.

Then,

She laughed out loud, said,

“A guy with balls. You’re a rare breed.”

I sank back into my funk. Twenty dire minutes later, I finished the drink and, if anything, it had deepened my despair. Asked myself if it was too late to get back on my Beckett or cut my literary loss, head stateside. On the way to the door, the girl blocked my path. And her looks? She could be a ringer for Meadow, Tony Soprano’s daughter and, in my fragmented book, that was solid. She asked,

“Are you some kind of mature student?”

Mature was imbued with a weight of scorn.

I tried for Jack’s “wipe the floor” with her but I had nothing. Her face, just truly lovely, had unnerved me. She stood there for a moment assessing me.

Man, there are few analyses like that of an Irishwoman. It’s not even so much what you are as

“what they might make of you.”

Scary shit.

She asked,

“If I marry you will I get a green card?”

I spluttered,

“What the. .”

She gave a radiant smile, said,

“But let’s play by the rules. Meet me here at eight tomorrow and buy me dinner.”

I managed,

“Like a date?”

She was turning on her heel, then,

“Well, it’s hardly like a. . tragedy.”

A shopping mall in Nairobi was seized by terrorists brandishing automatic weapons. They screamed at anyone who was a Muslim to leave. A young non-Muslim, an Englishman, managed a few nervous words of Arabic and was released. They then began to systematically murder the remainder. At least fifty people were killed.

My dinner date with Aine (it was, she said, Irish for Ann) went well. After I asked her to my apartment for a coffee, she said,

“You just want a fuck.”

Good Lord!

Then she added,

“Let’s see if you’re worth screwing.”

I thought her use of the most basic obscenity was a test and, heavens to Betsy, it certainly was testing, but I felt I could hang in there. Bottom line being that she kept me off balance and that in itself was a rush. She said to me,

“If a man says no to a woman, she wants to die. If a woman says no to a man, he wants to kill.”

I told her a partial truth, said,

“That’s very provocative.”

And got that Irish look, mix of amusement and derision, as she answered,

“But provocative to whom?”

Van Veeteren assumed that in this simple

way he was obtaining permission to proceed

from a higher authority and wondered

in passing if this might be one of the motives

for all religious activities: the need to pass responsibility on to someone else.

(Håkan Nesser, The Strangler’s Honeymoon)

I was attempting to explain to Aine why I’d started writing a book on Jack Taylor, began with,

“The guy saved my ass.”

She was skeptical, said,

“He stopped a street fight! It hardly merits you devoting your life to him.”

As I’ve said, Aine was hot but, truth to tell, exasperating. I continued,

“One book is hardly devotion.”

She fixed on me that intense no-prisoners Irish gaze,

“You got some high-flying scholarship to study Samuel Beckett and you’re jeopardizing that to write about a worn-out alky nobody?”

I tried to explain that mystery and Ireland would be a surefire combination in the States. Then I could, having sold film rights, return to Beckett at my leisure. She was raging.

“Are you three kinds of eejit! A book about a broken-down Kojak in the west of Ireland is going to fly?”

I said, rattled,

“I know about books.”

She rolled her eyes, said,

“And sweet fuck-all about the real world.”

A single entry in Jack Taylor’s journal/notes for all of September 2013: