Ken Bruen - Dublin Noir

An hour later, he was close to Lucan and his favorite pub in Dublin, the Ball Alley House. He had stumbled onto it the first night he arrived in town and had been coming every night the last twenty days. He made sure the barmaid, Maura, always saw him and he tipped her well so if he ever had to explain to the Gardaí, he’d have an alibi and a witness. Besides, you could do worse than flirt with a young one with all her meat in the right places. Not that he’d stray. All he thought of most nights was seeing his Rose and the twins again. He wished they could have come with him, but he’d have had a hard time explaining his nights on the street.

After a stop in the loo to clean up and make sure his wound wasn’t worse than he thought, he strolled to the bar. The barmaid, Maura, smiled as she walked over to him roosting on his favorite stool. She had a pint in her hand already.

“Brilliant, love, thanks so much.”

The young barmaid from the north side smiled, revealing a missing tooth. “It’s nothing. You’re a tad late this evening.”

“On the phone with my bride.”

Maura’s smile dimmed slightly, then she noticed his face. “What in the name of God happened to you?”

He touched the twin scratches the dead man’s fingernails had made on his forehead. “Low branches over near the Uni were thicker than they looked.”

She eyed him like a wife who had caught her man stepping out, then without a word headed past him to another customer.

He leaned onto the walnut bar and took a gulp of the pint. At home he rarely visited pubs. Even with the new job he found himself more at restaurants or, occasionally, at hotel bars. The atmosphere seemed to soothe him.

He nodded as two men plopped onto the stools next to him. Maura was in front of them before they had looked up.

The older man, maybe sixty, next to him just said, “Pint.”

Maura knew to draw a Guinness stout. The other man, a good ten years younger and wearing a light sweater, said, “Harp, my dear.”

The older man turned to him and in a loud voice said, “Harp, Jaysus Christ, didn’t know I was drinking with a girl.” He roared with laughter and looked around for support. Finding little, he settled back with his stout.

Reed cut his eyes to the loud older man who had what sounded like a Limerick accent. Too bad these two were at this bar. They would’ve been perfect except that he knew to never shit where you eat. But the longer they sat there the more enticing it became. The older one told bad joke after bad joke and then commented on every subject from the weather to the euro.

“I tell you, it’s a German plot. They want a consistent currency for the next time they take over the continent. Just more convenient that way.”

He and his friend finally started chatting about some- thing of interest. The younger one said, “Things are quieter in here since the damn butcher’s been roaming the streets.”

“Aye, that’s the Gospel truth. You’d think the Gardaí would be swoopin’ in here like the wrath o’ God.”

Maura walked by adding, “Does nothing for our business and I don’t walk home alone anymore. Three dead in three weeks. It’s a shame.”

The old man said, “Everyone’s hurting, love. Restaurants are closing. The cinemas have three people per show. Even the airport is empty as more and more people hear about our problems.”

Reed kept his mouth shut, not correcting the lovely barmaid that it was four dead in the three weeks. She’d know by tomorrow morning at the latest. Tomorrow would be his last one. That way he’d have plenty of people scared, and by doing it two nights in a row he avoided patterns the police would pick up on.

Reed said to Maura, “You know if Blue Balls are playing tonight?”

“No, they’re only at the International on Saturdays. But with the trouble they may not be playing at all.”

“A shame.” He left some bills on the bar for her and headed out the door, nodding to the few regulars. It was good to be seen.

He slept soundly after a shower and a few minutes cleaning his scratches. He wasn’t used to sleeping late. Usually the twins would start their day early by jumping into bed with him until he woke, pretended to be a monster, and tickled them until everyone had to lay back and catch their breath. The whole time the flat would fill with the smell of sausages as Rose prepared breakfast. It was a grand existence, but he didn’t mind just lying in a big bed as the sun climbed a little higher behind the clouds that seemed to constantly surround Dublin.

By 10:00 he was out of bed and checking his forehead for any sign of infection. Aside from being fresh, they didn’t look much different than the set of scratches he had on his neck from the day his old man lost twenty-five quid on some horse at Gowran Park. He shrugged. It was almost over and he’d be the toast of the town when he got back.

Later that day, as the sun began to set-at least he thought it was setting because it was getting dark though he couldn’t actually see the sun-Reed stepped out of his hotel room and down through the main lobby. He had the last of the knives he had bought in Limerick. A sharp Gerber four-forty steel, with a four-inch blade. With luck he would have to toss it in the Liffey by 10 o’clock. As he turned toward the river, he heard a voice.

“Hang on there.”

Reed turned to find a Dublin cop with hard brown eyes staring down at him. His dark-blue uniform had the name Reily on the left breast. The cop was near his age and looked to be in good shape. That might cause problems if things didn’t go well.

Reed turned and faced the cop, conscious of the bandage he’d stuck over his scratch.

The cop walked over to him, eyeing his forehead. “What happened there, boyo?”

“Tree branch.”

“What were ya doin’ in a tree at your age?”

Reed wasn’t sure if the cop was having a go at him or serious. “Low branch. I was walking.”

The copper nodded and said, “Where you off to this time of night?”

“Six? This time of night is right for a pop before dinner.”

The cop nodded at the answer. “Where d’ya go?”

“Usually the Ball Alley House.”

The cop took in the information and stepped back. Reed tensed like he might be hit or more cops would swoop in and grab him. He had the knife on him. He’d hate to use it on this cop. He wiggled his hip and felt the knife in its scabbard snug against his waistband. He checked out the copper’s uniform, trying to detect any kind of protective vest under it. Too hard to tell. Reed decided he’d have to stab him in the neck quick and deep. The only problem was that it would bring a lot of heat. He’d be gone, but it was a danger regardless.

The cop said, “Bollocks.”

Reed just stared at the beefy man.

“Bakurs on Thomas or the Cukoos Nest beat the arse off the Ball Alley House.”

Reed relaxed slightly. “Ah, it will have to do. That’s my place.”

The cop said, “You got a funny accent. Where you from?”

“Galway.”

“What brings ya to the Big Smoke?”

Reed considered his answer as he calmly placed his hand on his hip, an inch from the knife. This would have to be fast.

An old Honda zipped around the corner and swerved to miss a trash bin in the road, nearly causing it to run down the cop. To make matters worse, the driver beeped at him. The cop hopped onto the sidewalk, pushing Reed away from the street too.

With the cop next to him and distracted, Reed reached under his loose shirt, gripped the hard handle of the Gerber, and prepared for a fluid motion of slashing up, then planting that thing right in the cop’s thick neck.

But the cop jumped back into the street yelling, “You fucking rice-grinding shite!” Without a glance back at Reed, he trotted down the street and hopped into his small, unmarked car. Within twenty seconds the vehicle was racing past Reed toward the speeding Honda.