Headstone (20 page)

It occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about

him, and yet we had a deep, almost ferocious,

bond. I said,

“Of course.”

He gave me the address, in Taylor’s Hill, our own

upper-class part of the city, home to doctors and

other professionals. He asked if I could be there by

five and I said, sure. Then he added,

“I need your help, my friend.”

“You have it.”

A pause, then,

“Thank you. Please bring the Mossberg.”

Jesus.

Was I being invited to dinner or murder?

Taylor’s Hill still retains those glorious houses,

set well back from the road, with large carefully

tended gardens. Kosta’s was midway, huge hedges

almost shielding it but you could glimpse the

majesty of the building. Built when money was

used lavishly on homes. I opened a heavy wrought

iron gate, and, instantly, two heavies were on me.

Front and back. I said,

“Whoa, easy guys, I’m Taylor, and expected.”

The one facing me, all hard mean muscle, gave me

a cold calculating look, then spoke into a lapel

microphone, waited. Everybody wanted to be an

FBI clone. He motioned,

“Pass.”

Not big on chat those guys. I moved up to the

house, three stories of Connemara granite and kept

scrupulously clean. I rang the bell and wondered if

a maid would answer the door. Did people have

them anymore? Apart from the clergy, of course.

Kosta answered. He was dressed in a navy blue

tracksuit, not unlike Ridge’s, trainers, a white

towel round his neck. He greeted, “Welcome to my

home, Jack Taylor.”

Waved me in. A long hallway was lined with

paintings. I know shite about art but I do know

about cash and here was serious dough in frames.

The only painting I had was of Tad’s Steak-house

in New York. He led me to a book-lined study. Not

the books-for-show variety; you could see they’d

been well used. Comfortable armchairs in front of

a roaring log fire. Few things as reassuring as that.

When I looked closer, I could see it was turf. A

man who knew the country. He indicated I sit after

I shucked off my coat. Left it close by. He offered a

drink and I said,

“Whatever you’re having yourself.”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Great.”

He didn’t ask about on the rocks. Serious drinkers

don’t do ice. I settled in the chair, putting the

Mossberg on the carpet. Maybe he wanted it back.

Got my drink, and he sat, reflected for a moment as

he gazed into the fire, the flames throwing what

seemed like a halo on his bald skull. Like Michael

Chiklis in
The Shield
.

The Mossberg rested—a lethal snake—near his

feet. He said,

“To good friends.”

“Amen.”

He liked that answer. Took a large wallop of his

drink, savored, then swallowed, said,

“Genever.”

Dutch?

I’ve found nodding sagely stands you in good stead

when you don’t have a fucking clue.

I nodded sagely.

He let out a deep…..Ah.

I knew we were now at the main event. He said,

“Jack, like you, I live my life to the minimum.”

He was kidding, right?

Bodyguards, a huge house . . . not really Zen. He

continued, “I have few friends, and you I regard as

one. My history is violent but we don’t need to

dwell on that. I have one daughter, her name is

Irini . . . means peace.”

Stopped.

Fuck, I hoped we weren’t in sharing mode. No way

was I reliving Serena-May and the tragedy.

Pain ran across his eyes, took hold as he said,

“She is . . . otherworldly. Very beautiful, with a

true purity of spirit. I have always, siempre,

always protected her.”

I believed him.

He said, slowly,

“But I was detained for nearly two years. She met

a man named Edward Barton.”

He spat into the fire, continued,

“A Londoner, he smelled money, married her, and

by the time I was . . . undetained, they had a

daughter. This precious girl is five years of age

now.”

Something had entered the room. Apart from the

dark evening full set and the foul weather, it was a

pervading sense of impending doom. Blame the

genever, I guess. He suddenly was on his feet,

grabbed a bottle, refuelled us. Then put the bottle

back, sat again, all his body language reeking of

rage and spittle. The line of his jaw was a study in

controlled ferocity. He said,

“I despise this Edward. A lowlife, a rodent, rank

in every way. I put such shit under my heel every

week but Irini pleaded with me to be . . .”

He paused again as he searched for a word that

wouldn’t blow a hole through his face, said,

“Lenient. This man has spent all the money I had

put aside for her. OK. I can deal with that. Money

is not the issue, but then she comes to me, tells me

this . . . man, is . . . abusing their daughter.” He let

out a torrent of bile and obscenities that were

nearly impressive in their range—if you weren’t

sitting a few feet from the source, realizing he was

close to losing it. And a loaded weapon at his feet,

serious booze in his hand and system. You get the

picture. He looked into the fire as a large piece of

turf fell, and I’d swear I saw tears. A woman

crying is always a man’s undoing. But to see a man

cry, fuck, especially a man like him, it was a knife

in the soul that would forever leave its imprint. I

stayed with the sage gig, i.e., I said fuck all. He

reined it in, took a deep breath, said,

“I am meeting this Edward soon, this evening. He

needs more money. As he is not so stupid to be

unaware of my reputation, he insisted on a public

place. Nimmo’s Pier? You know this?”

Oh, shite, did I ever. Bad, bad history there.

He checked his watch, a slim Philippe Patek. I

know of what I can never afford. He said,

“I’m to meet him in one hour.”

I knew where this was going so I volunteered for

my own lynching, despite the fact he had thugs in

the garden and God knows where else. I said,

“Would you like me to come along?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

His gratitude was embarrassing. We both knew

why I was here.

He said,

“My regular employees, you met two on your

arrival—they are as loyal as money.”

I nodded, said with a sinking heart,

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

We stood and he didn’t thank me. If gratitude was a

condition of our friendship, I wouldn’t be there. He

took me out to a large garage with a line of cars,

selected a beat-up Volvo. Cops use them for one

reason: below the radar. Before he put the car in

gear, he flipped the glove department, expertly

caught the Glock that tumbled out. He checked to

be sure it was primed, said, “Jack, my terrible

dilemma is this: I can’t harm the man. He knows

that, my promise to my daughter, so he

feels……………. invincible.”

We sat there as he waited for my answer, which

could be nothing other than,

“I haven’t promised.”

He smiled, put the car in first, said,

“Acrivos.” (Greek for exactly.)

We got there early, and to fill the time, I told him

about Father Gabriel and the drowning of Loyola.

He produced a silver flask, drank from it, handed it

to me, and I didn’t wipe the top, took a swig. He

said,

“Stoli.”

Strong is what I thought, thank God.

From where we were parked, we could see across

the bay, the lights of Quay Street, beckoning to

come party. He moved to get his back comfortable,

said,

“One more thing, Jack. He has a driver, a new one,

some Romanian trash named Caz.”

Oh, shite.

Christ on a bike, no. My decade-long, sometimes

friend. He’d done the thing that counts in my

narrow book: he’d come to see me in hospital—

brought booze, too. In those ten years he’d been

around a lot of, let’s say, under-the-gun stuff I did.

He worked with the Guards as a translator for the

Romanian refugees, and he could not only have

scored major brownie points with Clancy by

selling me out but got paid as well and secured his

always precarious position as a nonnational.

Superintendent Clancy was, yes, that keen to see

me go down.

And, simply, deep down, I just liked him. Doesn’t

need any more analysis.

In one fluid movement, Kosta lit two cigarettes,

handed one over.

He had the instincts of a feral cat.

I took a drag, coughed. He said,

“Gitanes.”

Gypsies.

He was a veritable United Nations of moves,

gestures, and actions And his instincts were

uncanny. He said,

“Jack, your face tells me you know this man.”

When all else is up for grabs, sometimes, the truth

is the only way. I said,

“I do.”

He watched the ash on his cigarette, letting it build,

then,

“And, he is a friend, n’est-ce pas?”

I considered, said,

“We’re about to find out.”

I cannot persuade myself that a

beneficent

and omnipotent God would have

designedly created parasitic

wasps with the express intention of

their feeding within the

living bodies of caterpillars.

—Charles Darwin

Bine was dressed in full combat gear, as if heading

for a riot. All he needed was a face shield to

complete the picture. Blown up behind, in glorious

Technicolor, was the school, the relevant positions

marked in red. He was wearing a holster holding a

Walther, and around his neck, beads with stones

spelling out Medugorje.

Bethany watched him as he downed some speed,

working up his shtick, getting ready to impress his

minions. She thought, as she’d thought so many

times,

“Arsehole.”

And wondered yet anew about men and guns. Like

freaking kids with toys. Give them a weapon and

even deadbeats like the lame brothers developed a

swagger. Jesus, she wanted to puke. But she had a

lust/heat gig going with Bine and still wasn’t sure

where it would go. Mainly, he gave the constant

rage she felt a focus. Gave her the jolt to feel alive.

Too, she had to admit, when the sorry prick got

ranting, he was mesmerizing. Got her to do stuff

she’d never thought she’d have the grit to even

attempt. And got her off on her little independent

flights, like the mind-fucking with the alcoholic

Taylor. Not something she felt was wise to share

with the crew.

And, if they pulled it off, a first in Irish history, as

Bine kept saying, she’d be famous. Maybe get on

Oprah, have Angelina play her in the movie, and

be on the cover of
Hot Press
. One thing she knew:

the girls rarely did jail time, they just did a Linda

Kasabian and squealed. Even in the movies.

She tuned back in to Bine, took a hit of the speed

her own self, washed it down with today’s special,

Jack Daniel’s. Bine was into his rap. She’d missed

the starters, never no mind, it wasn’t too difficult

to play catch-up. He said,

“Now this cat Stewart, the ex-dope dealer, is a

whole different ball game than the lesbian and

Taylor. This dude has interests in the head shops,

so that tells us the guy is clued in. He did six years

in the Joy and no, I don’t mean an English barmaid,

I’m talking h-e-a-v-y time in Mountjoy. So the

dude is cool, into some Zen bullshite, but real laid-

back and real sharp. I’m thinking, like, we got to

waste the dude, right when we make our move, no

bringing him back to base, just close his case there

and then.”

He’d been OD’ing on
Pulp Fiction
again.

Bethany was dizzy trying to sort out his American

expressions and distorted brain sequence. Bine

looked at Jimmy, said, “Your assignment is to

watch this guy, twenty-four-seven. You hear what

I’m saying? Like all the time, and when you get his

routine down—and I mean like cold bro—you

report back.”

Jimmy was down all right, and nodding, not from

the assignment but from the sheer amount of coke

he had inhaled. His brother, always the sharper of

the two, asked,