Ken Bruen - Dublin Noir

“That’s right. Is your room satisfactory, Mr…?”

“Jeffers.”

“Mr. Jeffries, that’s it.”

“It’s fine. But it’s Mr. Jeffers . Actually, it’s an Irish name.”

“It is so. From up north, I think, Donegal, that way.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” He smiled, wonky somehow, like he’d had botox and was still getting used to his face again. “How do I get to Trinity College?”

“Ah, you have to work really hard at school.” His smile stayed fixed-no sense of humor. “Just a little joke there. It’s right around the corner. Bryan here will point the way.”

Bryan had been straightening leaflets but snapped to attention now and ushered the Englishman out onto the street. He was cute, Bryan, a tight little backside on him, and he was going to get exactly what he wanted tonight, and the dates would be close enough that he’d never think to question whether the kid was his. How could he? In all probability, it was even going to look like him.

Jeffers had listened attentively as Bryan gave him directions for the short walk across to Trinity, but he seemed in no mood to move anywhere once he’d finished. So Bryan stood in silence with him, the two of them surveying the street like they were looking out over their ranch at sunset.

Then, absentmindedly, Jeffers said, “Have you heard of the name? Jeffers?”

“I haven’t. Sorry.” Jeffers nodded but still looked straight ahead, feet planted firmly, so Bryan tried to fill the pause by saying, “I’m a student at Trinity myself. History.”

Jeffers turned and looked at him as if he’d revealed something vital. He stared at him for a few seconds, a look intense enough to be unnerving, and Bryan couldn’t help but see that Jeffers seemed troubled. Finally, he said, “Let me tell you something: Don’t ever fall into the trap of believing you don’t have choices. You always have a choice, in everything.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded to himself and handed Bryan five euros before walking off along the street with Bryan’s thanks lost in the noise behind him. Bryan stood there looking at the five euros, wondering what might have induced such a bizarre fit of profundity.

He was close to laughing it off as he walked back into the hotel, ready to get another smile out of Kate by telling her, and then for some reason it made him think of Lucy and it was no longer funny. You always have a choice, in everything . Lucy-if ever a girl could have turned him into a poet.

It was strange, though-two minutes with an English businessman who didn’t know how to smile, and suddenly he felt that if he didn’t get in touch with Lucy right now, see her this very evening, he’d regret it for the rest of his life. What was that all about?

Kate was smiling at him as he walked toward the desk. She was a pretty girl, and Danny had said she was easy, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it anymore, not with her, not with any of these other girls.

“I’ve just got to make a call.” She smiled back at him, coquettishly, he thought, but girl, it wouldn’t be tonight.

“Mr. Parker, you do not have to write essays on Joyce, and when we’re discussing him, I will not mark you down for opting out of the conversation, but if you insist on writing essays and speaking your mind, please be so kind as to read something other than Dubliners.”

The others laughed but Parker was smiling, too. She only teased him because she knew he could take it and because he was probably smarter than all the rest put together.

“You know, Dr. Burns, I have skim-read Ulysses.”

“Would that be the jogging tour of Dublin, Mr. Parker?” That earned another laugh, but the hour was upon them and they were already putting their things together. Parker was first out the door. Clare was the last, waiting till everyone had left before shyly handing in an essay.

She started to read through it once she was on her own again, but was only a page or two in-impressive, if lacking a little in flair-when there was a knock at the door and it opened a fraction.

“Come in.”

The man who stepped into the room was about thirty-five, six foot, the average kind of build that couldn’t easily be read under a suit. Facially, he looked innocuous, which immediately put her on guard.

“Dr. Elizabeth Burns?” She nodded, smiling, and he closed the door behind him.

“Call me Liz, Mr…?”

She’d gestured at the seat across from her desk, and as he sat down and placed his briefcase in front of him, he said, “Patrick Jeffers. The office sent me.”

The office . It was about twenty years since she’d heard anyone call it that.

“And what office would that be?”

He didn’t answer, just smiled awkwardly and relaxed into his seat.

He seemed to relax then, confident and in control as he said, “I’ve got a lot of admiration for people like you.” She offered him a quizzical expression. No one had ever contacted her like this, so whoever he was, she wanted to draw him out a little more. “People in 14. And no, I don’t expect you to admit it, but being buried deep the way you were for, what was it, four years, that really takes something.”

Her expression unnerved him a little, and with no wonder, for she was wearing a look of utter astonishment. “Mr. Jeffers, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. People in 14 what ?”

He nodded knowingly, uncomfortable, as if he’d spoken out of turn and made himself look unprofessional, which he had. At the same time, she was unnerved herself, wondering what this Jeffers was doing here, wondering why she’d had no word that he was coming. He knew she’d been in 14, so somebody must have sent him.

“You don’t sound Irish.” He tilted his head questioningly. “Jeffers is an Irish name, but you don’t sound Irish. Irish grandparents, perhaps?”

“Yes, I think so.” He hesitated before saying, “So you’ve heard of the name? I think you’re the first person since I arrived who recognizes it.”

“There’s actually a folk song, somewhere down in the southwest, though the exact location escapes me at the moment, about the death of a Jeffers.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“Of course, there’s also the American poet, Robinson Jeffers.”

“Yes.”

She could tell he didn’t like being sidetracked. He was here on business and wanted to get on with it. “What do you want here, Mr. Jeffers? Why has your office sent you?”

“Yes, I’m really just here to deliver a message.” He bent down and picked up his briefcase, but started to cover himself, saying, “Just some paperwork you need to read and sign.”

Amateur! He was opening the briefcase on his lap and she had absolutely no doubt what kind of message he was about to produce from it. There were all kinds of thoughts running through her head, questions of whether she’d been double-crossed, and if so, by whom, questions of who he was working for and whether she’d have to move on, but there was something more immediate, an instinctive reflex that would never leave her.

She picked the phone up off the desk and threw it hard. It cracked him on the head with a clatter, and then a further clatter as the briefcase and the gun inside it fell onto the floor. He was dazed for only a second, but she was around the desk before he came up for air and she was pulling the telephone cord tight around his neck.

“Who sent you?”

His arms flailed, trying to strike her a body blow but unable to find her where she stood directly behind him.

“Who sent you?”

He took another approach, trying to pull her hands off, then trying to get his fingers under the cord, desperately tearing at his neck, drawing blood with his fingernails. He wouldn’t talk; he was at least that professional. She yanked up the tension an extra notch, and the flailing of the arms gave way to a more convulsive movement through his entire body. She had to use all her strength to keep him in the seat, but she couldn’t resist leaning down, whispering breathlessly into his ear.