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Authors: Ken Bruen

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Green Hell

BOOK: Green Hell
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GREEN HELL

Also by Ken Bruen

Once Were Cops

Sanctuary

Cross

Priest

The Dramatist

The Magdalen Martyrs

The Killing of the Tinkers

Funeral: Tales of Irish Morbidities

Shades of Grace

Martyrs

Sherry and Other Stories

Time of Serena-May/Upon the Third Class

Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

Rilke on Black

The Hackman Blues

A White Arrest

Taming the Alien

The Guards

London Boulevard

Blitz

The McDead

Vixen

Dispatching Baudelaire

The Dead Room

American Skin

Bust (with Jason Starr)

Calibre

A Fifth of Bruen

Slide (with Jason Starr)

Ammunition

The Max (with Jason Starr)

All the Old Songs and Nothing to Lose

Headstone

Purgatory

GREEN HELL

A Jack Taylor Novel

Ken Bruen

Including a Biography of Jack Taylor, by Boru Kennedy

The Mysterious Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

New York

Copyright © 2015 by Ken Bruen

Jacket design by Gretchen Mergenthaler

Author photograph © Rob W. Hart

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or
[email protected]
.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-0-8021-2356-5

eISBN 978-0-8021-9130-4

The Mysterious Press

an imprint of Grove Atlantic

154 West 14th Street

New York, NY 10011

Distributed by Publishers Group West

groveatlantic.com

For

my friends

J
OHN
C
ASSERLEY
and O
WEN
D
AGLISH

and Damanja and Prodrag Finei (The Lights of Bosnia)

Part I

Forgiveness
Might Be Feeding the
Hand that
Bites You

The day began . . . badly.

For Jack, this was like breathing. Natural.

It was never a plan to write about Jack Taylor. I'd come to Dublin as part of a Rhodes scholarship to conclude a treatise on Beckett. To end up living in Galway, drinking as if I meant it,

. . . how'd that happen?

As Jack would say,

“Fuck knows.”

This is not . . .

A Boswell to Dr. Johnson

Or even . . .

A Watson to Holmes gig.

But rather a haphazard series of events leading me to abandon Beckett in pursuit of the Taylor enigma. Little did I know it would be an ironic reflection of one of Jack's favorite novels:

The Wrong Case
.

As Jim Crumley had once said of a book,

“This is not a crime novel, it's a story with some crimes in it.”

Quite.

I met Jack Taylor at a time of odd disturbance.

James Gandolfini,

Cory Monteith,

Alan Whicker

Had all recently died. Jack mourned all three. He had heard of only the first. The second was the star of
Glee
and the third had presented a show called

Whicker's World
.

Jack said those last two represented (a) the youth he never had and (b) how old he was not to recall Whicker.

Both ends of his booze-soaked candle. James G of course was in
The Sopranos
, demonstrating, Jack said,

“How depression and brutality are uneven dance partners.”

This, like many things he said, made sense only to him.

I hadn't, he claimed,

“Drunk enough.”

To truly grasp absurdity. Accounts in part for my name. My mother is Irish and steeped in the iconography of a blood saturated in epic/tragic history and so, after

Brian Boru

My first name.

My father hails from Boston though, alas, is not of the infamous immediate family. Though they do say all Kennedys are related.

Yeah, right!

That dog doesn't hunt. I haven't come within a spit of the Hyannis Port compound. I will admit to a certain strain of impetuousness. Spring break in Cancún the year of my graduation, I came to from a tequila slammer ruin with a tattoo on my arm, reading

P.T. 108.

When I'd jokingly suggested to Taylor I write of his life, he'd gone deep.

Then,

“Do a Tom Waits.”

“Huh?”

He sighed, said,

“Shall I tell you the truth or just string you along?”

The heft of the man. Jack was, he claimed, exactly six feet tall, adding,

“Like the Pale Nazarene.”

For such a ferocious derider of the Church, he was sodden with its

ritual, innuendo,

propaganda.

I'd told him I was an atheist and he laughed, loud and warm. He had one of those truly epic laughs. It was so rare but when he let go, it was all-embracing. His eyes and his wounded spirit on song.

Said,

“See how that flies when a fucker shoves a gun in your mouth at three-thirty in the morning.”

Riddle me that.

The books he was reading in those last days. As if he knew something.

Satan, your Kingdom must

Come down. . . .

(Massive Attack)

Playing as I perused the book titles.

“Perused.”

A fifty-euro sound bite, Jack said. Adding,

“That track used in two TV series:

Hannibal

and

Lecter.

The connection?

Jack's coked taste.

Those books:

Reconstructing Amelia

Where'd You Go, Bernadette

Lottie Moggach,
Kiss Me First

Sara Gran,
The Bohemian Highway

Lynn S. Hightower,
Flashpoint

The Universe Versus Alex Woods

Malcolm Mackay,
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter

And of course, the boxed DVDs:

House of Cards

Breaking Bad

Les Revenants

Borgen

The Americans

And I wondered how a perpetual drunk, pill-popping, on/off nicotine freak could focus long enough for any of the above. I asked.

He said,

“Practice.”

July 2013: The Galway Races on the shimmering horizon. I'd known Jack for three months. In truth, with him,

The rush.

The intensity.

The sheer hard core.

It felt like three years.

How we met? Not as you'd hazard: in a pub.

I was on the ground, my top teeth crushed by a steel-toed Dr. Martens. Two thugs, trainees almost, no more than sixteen . . . collectively had waylaid me as I came out of McDonagh's Fish 'n' Chips. Bottom of Quay Street but a bad poem away from the Spanish Arch. I was balancing my smartphone and the food, authentically wrapped in the weekly
Galway Advertiser
, the first one asked,

“Gis a chip, cunt.”

The richness of Irish youth vocabulary. The second one, I'd carelessly allowed behind me.

Come on.

I'm an academic, not a kung fu fighter.

He hit me hard in my lower back with a baseball bat. The shame, not to be even mugged with authenticity, like, say, with a hurly.

Oh, America, we export too well.

Shock and pain swamped me as the first took my top teeth out with his boot. Shame too, mortification, I was taken down by . . . fuck's sake . . .

Kids!

Seriously?

Amid blood and dizziness, I gasped as both kids stood, ready to, as they chanted,

“Let's kick the fuckin be-Jaysus out of this bollix.”

A figure loomed behind, then I heard,

“What's the craic?”

And he literally cracked their small, malicious skulls together. They reeled apart, moaning, and he dropped the first with a kick to the groin. He reached a hand to me, said,

“Take it slow, Pilgrim.”

As . . . was I hallucinating? . . . John Wayne.

With his help, I was able to stand, even spit out some teeth. I mumbled,

“Thanks, I guess.”

He smiled, said,

“A Yank.”

I asked, as I tried to fight off nausea and tremors,

“Is that like . . . bad?”

He was staring at the second kid, who, though on his feet, was dazed. He answered,

“Long as you got the bucks, we love you.”

Then checking my ruined mouth, said,

“Better get you to A & E.”

Used his cell, called a cab, urging them,

“Get here like yesterday.”

Again a faux American intonation, as if he was subtly mocking me. Sure enough, a cab screeched to a halt in, as I'd come to know Jack's term,

“Jig time.”

Helped me to the cab, then turned, moved back to the seriously fucked kids, and, get this,
frisked them.

The kid still standing, utterly dazed.

Jack slid into the seat beside me, holding the kid's money wedge, said,

“Cab fare.”

Contempt

Prior

to

Investigation

From Boru Kennedy's Notes/Journals

He sees the little girl, Serena May, delighted with the new trick he showed her. How to make a silver coin disappear. He'd thought, ruefully,

A trick the banks had perfected to an inordinate degree.

The sun had been uncharacteristically hot. He'd opened the window on the first story and watched as the little girl gurgled happily on the floor.

Then he dozed.

Woken by a small cry.

Barely a whisper, more a tiny whisper of utter dread. Jumped to his feet.

The child was gone.

Thus began a whole fresh circle of hell. Later, when the full truth was revealed, he might have been partially absolved.

But forgiven?

No.

Never that.

Least of all by himself.

I worry about anyone who is lighting himself on fire for our enjoyment.

The
New York Times
wrote in 2012 about Cat Marnell, a confessional columnist who described her vampire hours, soulless sex, fragile mental state, and drug-fueled lifestyle. Her job, she said, was to be:

“Fucked up.”

Jack Taylor had been doing that job all his life.

I was released from the hospital on the first day of the Galway Races. The fierce three-week heat wave had come to a deluging stop. Torrential rain lashed the streets. Did it stop the racing?

In Galway?

Like . . . hello!

A temporary bridge in my upper mouth would hold until, a cheerful doctor said,

“Some fancy dentist can charge you exorbitantly.”

Dentistry, I soon learned, like everything else in Ireland, was nightmarish expensive. To my utter amazement and perhaps a little delight, my savior was standing outside the hospital's main entrance. He was wearing chinos, Crocs, and faded T-shirt with the slogan

“Is maith an talann an ocross.”

(Hunger is the best sauce).

He was deeply tanned and his full head of graying hair needed a trim. Deep lines gave his face the allure of old parchment but the eyes were alive and slightly mocking. Extending a hand, he said,

“They let you out.”

I took his hand, registering two missing fingers. Barely perceptible was a tiny hearing aid. I shook his hand (carefully), said,

“I owe you big-time.”

Holding my gaze, he said,

“Jesus kid, lighten up, these are the jokes. C'mon, I'll buy you a jar.”

Not for the first time I behaved like a prig, protested,

“It's not noon yet.”

He sighed, took my arm, said,

“It's Race Week, the town is on the piss.”

Led me across the road to a pub called the River Inn. He said,

“It's Ireland, there's not a river within spittin distance.”

I noticed he limped slightly but still moved with an economy that belied his years. He was right about the town. The place was jammed but he muscled his way to the bar amid shouts of

“Taylor, thought you were dead . . .”

“Jack, ya bollix . . .”

“Lend us a tenner . . .”

“Any tips for the Plate . . .”

He ignored all, got a winning smile from the barwoman, who asked,

“Usual, Jack?”

“By two,” he said,

And somehow, despite the crush, carried out a table for us by a large window. He said,

“Plant yer arse on that.”

Did he mean the table? He straddled a stool, producing a second from the crowd. I sat, asked,

“How will she find us in this mob?”

He asked,

“Roisin?”

“. . . if that's her name.”

I trailed. He muttered,

“I hope to fuck, hell of a time to discover she's a Mary.”

Then added,

“Take her a few minutes to build those pints.”

“Pints!”

I said,

“Alas, not for me, Jack . . . it's Jack, yes? I'm on painkillers.”

“Yah lucky fuck, the pints will have you flyin in jig time.”

The woman appeared, unfazed by the madding crowd, plunked two perfect pints and two shots before us. Jack handed her a flash of notes, said,

“And one for yourself, hon.”

She gave him a smile of pure radiance. He raised the pint, said,

“Slainte amach.”

Downed half his pint, hammered the shot, said,

“Get that in yah, another round coming.”

My Taylor baptism if not of fire, then certainly Jameson.

Flashes of

Huge merriment

Amazement

Incredulity

Pathos

Punctuate my fractured recollection of that first, long, insane day with Jack. We even backed a horse, named, I shit thee not:

Beckett's Boy

Ridden by A. P. McCoy

And Jack saying to me,

“See kid, the shit-hot favorite is ridden by the people's favorite,

Ruby Walsh.”

He paused.

The bookies were truly like Dante's forgotten circle of a Celtic hell. Despite the ban on smoking, the air was suffused with smoke. Smoke of frenzied desperation.

Jack said,

“Bang a ton on BB.”

“A ton?”

Slight shadow of annoyance flitted across his battered face, then was gone, he enunciated slowly,

“Put a hundred euros to win.”

Despite the booze, the sheer adrenaline in the very air, caution whispered. I asked,

“Couldn't we, like, put fifty to show?”

Took him a moment to translate American to Irish-English, then,

“Place better? No fuckin way. I never played for safety my whole befuddled life.”

I bit down, withheld,

“And gee, look at the evidence.”

I played to win.

Won.

At 8 to 1.

Jesus H!

I never won a goddamn thing outside of literary stuff. I yelled,

“My Gawd, that's like, with the exchange rate, like . . . a thousand bucks!”

Tried to give him half.

No way. Jack's response . . . like this,

“Buy me dinner.”

Which was chips doused in vinegar, sitting on the rocks over Galway Bay. A six-pack in a cooler and a twenty-euro dope deal.

We proceeded to:

Do a line

Throat-drop two fat chips

Chug the beer

Then belch as if you meant it. With Jack, I was learning he could turn on a red cent without conversation, rhyme, or reason. He was talking about Walter Macken, veered, asked,

“How was Dublin?”

I said, of my Dublin impressions,

“What's with the rabbits?”

I told him that

(a) I was stunned by the number of beggars and in one bizarre scene, outside the ultraexpensive Brown Thomas, a man on his knees, a cardboard sign pleading for food.

(b) All the homeless guys/beggars on nigh every bridge had, get this, a rabbit.

Jack gave a resigned chuckle, said,

“Last year, on a slow news day—meaning Syria, the Banks, Household Charges were on hold—the media ran with a story of a young homeless guy who kept a pet rabbit. Some mindless morons grabbed the animal, slung it into the Liffey.”

“Fuck,” I said,

“Then . . .”

He continued,

“The homeless guy dived in, saved his rabbit. . . . Lo and behold, he got all sorts of help, including the Mayor's Bravery Award.”

Paused.

“. . . so now every lowlife is trying to cash in on the act.”

I mulled this over, then,

“In Galway . . . are there rabbits?”

Shook his head,

“Naw, we have a no-frills gig going. Just feck the homeless guy in the river.”

Impossible to tell if he was yankin my chain. I tried,

“No rabbits then?”

“Only in stew.”

BOOK: Green Hell
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