Headstone (19 page)

“I’m already on all the major cases in the city, so,

mister, don’t let me find you staggering around in

any of them. Do what you do best—drink yourself

stupid.”

I let that hover, seep in, and asked,

“What about Headstone?”

“What?”

I leant over to his face, said,

“Seems you missed one of the major cases. Not

exactly a shining start to your professional career.”

He was mystified, asked,

“Tell me about it?”

I said,

“The fucking dogs in the street know about it. Mind

you, they are Irish dogs.”

He stood up, weighing the wisdom of walloping

me in a pub where I was obviously a regular.

Anger was spitting from his eyes, he hissed,

“You’ve been warned Taylor, next time I won’t be

so polite.”

I said,

“Be careful.”

He pulled himself up to his full height, looked at

me, and I said,

“It’s thin ice.”

He gave a short laugh, said,

“You think I’m worried by the bloody weather?”

I lifted my hands in mock surrender, said,

“Who’s talking about the weather?”

He, dare I say it, stormed out.

Over the next few weeks, as the freeze continued

and refused to relinquish its stranglehold, I

continued to visit Malachy—without Ridge. One

occasion, I left a carrier bag by the bed, a carton of

cigs and the now customary bottle of 7-Up. He

eyed this, said with a twinkle in his eye,

“Uisce beatha (holy water), I presume.”

I said,

“It’s certainly blessed to a lot of us.”

Saying thanks wasn’t ever in the equation but

slowly, painstakingly, I managed to gather, in bits

and scraps, his memory of the attack. I usually

waited till he had a shot or four of the 7-Up as that

lessened the sheer terror in his eyes. I had no love

for him, never had, but we had history, bad, yes,

but still . . . I hated to see a defiant feisty spirit like

his cowed. He remembered.

Three young people, one was a girl. The girl he

regarded as being especially venomous. Said with

a shudder as he clutched his bottle like a prayer he

didn’t believe in,

“She was on fire with pure hatred.”

Headstone, I thought.

Then I’d leave as his old head began to droop and

sleep claimed him. A nurse stopped me one

evening, said,

“You’re a grand man to visit the priest like you do.

You must love him very much.”

I had no reply to that, if she only knew.

She added,

“Is he related?”

Now I could answer, said,

“Only through drink.”

My black eye was now in the yellow phase, like

having jaundice. I had tried so hard not to think of

Loyola and his death in the cold water outside the

cottage he loved and regarded as a refuge. Time to

do something about it. I dressed to intimidate:

black jeans, black T-shirt, heavy black scarf, and

my Garda coat. The Mossberg fitting snugly in the

pocket. I took a Xanax, a wee drop of Jay,

muttered,

“By all that’s holy.”

And went to the house previously occupied by

Father Loyola. I didn’t bring port. Knew the lady

would be long gone. Rang the bell, it was

answered by a Barbie doll. Cross my heart, a real

cutesy pie. Maybe twenty but not anything over.

Jesus, at her age, I was security for a Thin Lizzy

concert, right before Phil Lynott died.

She was heartaching gorgeous and as if in

deference, she wore a heavy silver cross round her

neck. God forgive me but all it served to do was

accentuate her wondrous cleavage. Her clothes

were the thin side of provocative. She asked, in a

cultured voice tinged with the American twang

beloved of Irish young people,

“Help you?”

Jesus, count the ways.

She clocked my hearing aid, my bruised eye, the

black glove on my right hand. Nothing there to

suggest any help……….. could help. I said,

“I’ve an appointment with Father Gabriel.”

She chewed on her bottom lip and I knew if she

had gum, she’d probably have blown a bubble. I

said,

“No need to show me the way.”

Pushed past her. I didn’t knock on the door of the

study, simply barged in. Gabriel was sitting behind

a splendid new oak desk, a Galway crystal tumbler

of booze at his right hand. The walls were adorned

with photos of him with the guys with the juice.

Most of whom were now facing indictments on all

sorts of fraud, embezzling, theft. I focused on the

one with him and Clancy, on the golf course,

golden smiles and empty eyes. He managed, “Jack,

what a surprise; this is unexpected.”

I gave him my best smile. Even if my teeth had

been real, the sentiment never would be. I sat in the

armchair opposite him, lovely soft napa leather

that whispered,

“Relax.”

He asked,

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I said,

“Give me a shot of whatever it is you’re having.”

He had his control back, said,

“This is not really a good time.”

I said,

“Make it good.”

He glanced at the phone on his desk, one of those

fake fucking antique jobs that cost a fortune, then

decided to ride it out, reached in a drawer,

produced a bottle of Laphroaig, then a glass,

poured a smallish measure, pushed it across the

desk. I said,

“Ah, Johnny Depp’s favorite drink.”

Contempt flowed easily now. He said,

“I really wouldn’t know. Pop trivia is not my

forte.”

I said,

“He’s a movie star, but shite, that is one good

drink.”

It was.

Like the smooth lie of an insincere priest. I said,

“Though, is it not a bit unpatriotic of you not to

support the home side, like a decent bottle of

Jameson? God knows, the economy could use all

the help it can get.”

He was tired of me already, asked in a weary tone,

“Was there something?”

I made a show of looking around, asked,

“Where’s the housekeeper?”

We both knew I didn’t mean Barbie.

He made a dry sucking sound with his teeth, not an

easy feat, but then, who’d want it to be? He said,

“Not really your concern but she had divided

loyalties.”

I pushed,

“Where is she now?”

Exasperation oozed from him. He took a fine nip of

the fine booze, patriotism notwithstanding, said,

“I’ve absolutely no idea.”

And the thought/sentinel riding point was,

“And I could give a fuck.”

Reared in the school of
not giving a fuck,
I

recognized a fellow pilgrim.

Time to up the ante, get him focused.

I stood up and he was about to smile, thinking I

was leaving. Used my left hand to free the

Mossberg, pumped a shell into the chamber. The

sound was awesome; you could have heard a nun

drop. Momentarily startled, he managed to rein it

in, said, “Such theatrics Taylor. You’re going to

shoot a priest?”

Now he laughed, at the sheer absurdity of the

thought. The bollix hadn’t been out much, it

seemed. The laugh galvanized me, I was across the

desk like I actually had the energy, the barrel

jammed into his tanned cheek. I said,

“Great movie, available on DVD,
Mesrine,
classic

French cinema. In it, Mesrine said,
There are no

rules, like me. I live without rules
. You get my

drift I’d hazard. Here’s the gig: you find the

housekeeper and give her the money you

‘recovered’ from poor old Loyola. Sound fair?”

He was shaken, it’s hard not to be when a

Mossberg is jammed into your face, but fair dues,

he did rally, managed,

“Or what?”

I admire spirit, truly appreciate cojones in the face

of a barrel but, truth to tell, I didn’t like this slimy

bastard, simple as that. I pulled the trigger an inch

from his ear, blowing a hole in the wall almost the

size of the Greek national deficit. Then the sound

of running feet and the babe-slash-housekeeper

burst in. I said, “Fuck off, and if I hear the phone,

you’ll be joining this dude.”

She took off.

I felt reasonably certain, not for the phone.

Gabriel was meanwhile whining,

“My ear, my ear, I can’t hear.”

Fucking tell me about it.

I stepped back from the desk, adjusted my hearing

aid, said,

“I can suggest a good ear man.”

He grabbed his glass, hands trembling, said,

“Taylor, you’ve no idea of what you’re getting

into. The Brethren have a very severe code of

punishment.”

I moved back to my seat, facing him, asked,

“Like, say, drowning a helpless old man. Are you

actually threatening me?”

The smirk was creeping back, not only to his face

but to his very tone. He said,

“You can take it as a guarantee.”

He was either very drunk or very stupid. I grabbed

the bottle, asked,

“May I?”

Even added a drop to his glass, I’m not vindictive .

. . much. Asked,

“An actual threat from a man of the cloth, this is

really something. You are serious, right?”

He lifted his glass, assured he’d regained the

higher ground, back in control, the peasant in his

place. I took a swig of the drink. It was smooth,

smooth as false hope. I sat back, lit up a cigarette,

just to see the flicker of annoyance on his movie

star face, clicked the Zippo, twice, asked,

“You hear that?”

He was all done with my idiocy, began to reach for

a file, said,

“I can hear fine now . . .”

I held up my damaged hand, said,

“Sh….ussh.”

God forgive me, it’s a rush to do that to a priest.

They’d been trying for bloody centuries to keep us

quiet, so throwing it back was a blast, if not indeed

blasphemy. I put the Mossberg on the oak desk,

would love if he tried for it, reached in my jacket,

took out a slim silver recorder. Bought it earlier in

the day from the Army and Navy Shop. They even

sold grenades, collector’s items. Asked,

“Ready?”

Hit the play button.

His face took a serious drop as he heard his rich,

clear voice.

I let it play, then pressed stop.

Put it back in my jacket, said,

“There will be two copies of this. One goes to

Garda headquarters in Dublin, unless your golfing

buddy Clancy really wants a copy? And the second

to my friend Kosta.”

He was speechless. Maybe he could join a Silent

Disorder.

I continued,

“Kosta I don’t think you’d like much. He hates

priests and for some odd reason has a real hard-on

for you. He got me the Mossberg and, cross my

bedraggled heart, I love him dearly but it has to be

said, he’s a nutter, your out-and-out psycho. The

kind of guy who’d cut your balls off and shove

them in your mouth. Or so they say. I haven’t

actually seen it but I think it’s probably true. And

here’s the best bit. You ready? He regards me as

his great friend. Go figure, huh? Anyway, sorry for

rambling on like a priest on a Sunday sermon, the

point is, if anything………….anything happens to

me, I were you, I’d hope the Guards came before

Kosta. So you see, I don’t like to be crude but I

have you by the . . . nuts.”

I stood up, drained my glass, put the gun back in

my jacket, said, “Keep it in your pants, padre.”

The housekeeper was standing by the door, her

face ablaze with anger and fury. She glared at me. I

said,

“Alanna, I’m not the enemy. Your boss in there, he

had the previous occupant of this house put in the

river.”

She spat in my face.

I let the spittle dribble down my cheek, no attempt

to stop it, stared at her. She began to move back. I

pulled off the glove, put my stumped fingers right

in her face, lied,

“Your precious employer, the saintly Gabriel in

there, he did that to me because he suspected I

knew some things. I have one question for you.”

She was transfixed by the ugly remains of my hand,

muttered,

“What?”

I pulled the glove back, asked,

“What does he think
you
know?”

Don’t play what’s there, play what’s

not there.

—Miles Davis

The call from Kosta was unexpected. He began,

“Jack, you extended me the hospitality of your

home. I’d like to repay the courtesy.”