Headstone (21 page)

“Who’s going to put out this dude’s lights?”

Bine smiled, his recent tongue ring still not healed,

so his mouth looked like the sorry pit of disease,

said,

“Eeny

Meeny

Miney

Mo.

Catch a retard by the toe . . .”

His finger stopped at Bethany. He gave her that

look that scared her, like he knew what she’d been

thinking and was way ahead in the fuck you

department. He asked,

“You cool babe? You up for this?”

She shrugged, said,

“Whatever.”

Getting enough boredom in there to convince him.

It seemed to. He asked,

“You gonna go up close and in the dude’s face,

like with the Stanley—or you wanna waste him

mega, like with the AK?”

She risked a look into his eyes and just saw the

psycho megalomania, said,

“I’m thinking, the blade, yah know? Send a

message to Taylor, let him know, like, it’s on the

edge, like we’re burning bad.”

Even with drugs, sometimes she found it difficult

to trot out the half-arsed Americanisms and ghetto

gangsta shite. But he bought it, said,

“I’m liking it, lady. I’m real up on this.”

Bine downed his tumbler of Jack, gulped as it hit,

turned to the blowup of the school, and then,

reaching for a samurai sword—which was still

legal to buy in Ireland—pointed out the entrance,

said,

“I’m thinking, the bros go in here.”

Paused, did a little flick with the sword, nearly

dropped it, which they’d have to pretend not to

have seen, recovered, said,

“Here, the back, me and the babe, we’ll do our

mojo from here, start killing the retards as they

head for the exit.”

He let that hover. Jimmy asked,

“You got a head count in mind?”

Bine graced him with a bow, said,

“I’m thinking twenty-four would be, like,

adequate.”

Fever Kill

—Tom Piccirilli

We got to Nimmo’s ten minutes before the

appointed time and in silence. Both of us thinking

on Caz, but for wholly different reasons. Kosta, no

doubt, wondering how much of a stand-up guy I

was going to be. And me, thinking, how much of a

friend do you have to be for me not to kill you?

Jesus, ghosts must do again what once they had

thought was over and done.

A BMW, shining new, was already there, blocking

the end of the pier. Kosta said,

“Ah. How predictable. He so likes his expensive

toys.”

His eyes aglow with such venom that I could have

lit a cig from them, he ordered,

“Reach in the bag for the satchel. The money is in

that—the money he thinks is his.”

I gave it to him and he asked, without looking at

me,

“Ready?”

“As rain.”

We got out, waited by the Volvo. The BMW

bathed us in its lights. Two figures emerged, began

to stroll towards us. Caz was nervous, I could see

it in the slope of his shoulders. And he didn’t even

know yet that I was part of the gig.

Edward.

Edward was glorious. Beautifully coiffed blond

hair, permanent tan, aviator shades, and, of course,

of fucking course, an Armani suit.

Jesus, didn’t anyone dress down anymore?

He was striking in the way that certain sharks are.

You could admire their sleekness but you didn’t

ever want to get close. He said,

“Who is this? I told you Kosta, I told you to come

alone.”

Now I could see Caz’s nervous eyes and the twist

in his body language. He was trying to say,

“No problem.”

Kosta said,

“My driver, like you have.”

Edward was enjoying the rush, the sense of calling

the shots, asked,

“Has he got a name?”

Kosta was totally relaxed, said,

“Employee.”

Edward enjoyed that a lot. Asked,

“You got my money?”

I kept hoping the macho posing, the cock of the

walk—or pier—bullshit would be all we’d have

to deal with. These guys were having themselves a

fine old time, strutting and mind fucking. Kosta

threw the satchel at his feet. Edward, without

looking at Caz, said,

“Count it.”

As Caz knelt, and began to do that, Kosta asked,

“How do I know this is the last time?”

Edward laughed, said,

“You don’t know shit, I’ll let you know when I’m

done.”

Kosta looked at me and I slid the Mossberg out,

racked the slide. Edward laughed harder, asked,

“Is that to scare me…………whoo-eh, I’m so

afraid. Fuck your employee, fuck you.”

I shot him in the face, range of about five yards.

The proximity nearly took his head off —clean off.

Caz, on his knees, looked up as pieces of brain and

gore splattered over the money and his face was a

study of pure bewilderment. He began to rise when

Kosta shot him between the eyes, a great shot if

you weren’t a friend of the one on the receiving

end.

He moved fast, stood over Caz, put in the coup de

grace. He glanced at me, the Mossberg still in

position, and with his boot shoved Edward into the

water. Then he turned, plucked the sodden notes

from my dead friend’s hand, pushed them in the

satchel, said,

“You drive the Volvo, I’ll follow in their car.”

A moment.

The gun in my hand, my mutilated hand, still hot

from the firing, and I thought,

“Yah think?”

But Kosta was up and moving and I’d have to

shoot him in the back.

He said,

“Jack, I’m truly sorry for your friend.”

I said,

“Not my friend anymore.”

Lowered the Mossberg and got in the Volvo,

reversed, turned towards the city, looked in my

mirror to see Kosta boot my friend into the dark

water. Said,

“Codladh sámh leat mo chara.”

…..Sleep safe my friend.

Yeah.

I felt as fucking hollow as the words.

We got to Kosta’s home, parked the cars, and,

standing outside, he touched my shoulder, said,

“Let’s get inside, get some serious drink in us.”

I shrugged him off, said,

“Oh, I intend to get some serious drinking done but

not with you, not now.”

I began to walk down the driveway, knowing the

thugs were at the gates in every sense, and my back

exposed to Kosta.

If he’d shot me, I felt he would have truly done me

a service.

He didn’t.

I made my slow way into town, got into a crowded

Sheridan’s on the docks, ordered a large Jay, took

it outside so I could smoke and get wasted. As I

was doing this a guy approached, started,

“Jack.”

Without looking, I said,

“Fuck off.”

And looked across the Claddagh basin to the pier.

The double Jameson didn’t erase what lay beneath

the water. I don’t think they’ve invented that drink

yet, the one that wipes the slate clean of utter

treachery.

Pick battles big enough to matter,

small enough to win.

—Irish saying

The next week passed in a daze, Stewart and I

trying to get a solid line on Headstone, both now

feeling that time was of the utmost. That the major

event these lunatics were planning was edging

closer. Friday morning, I was up early, not booze

early, but eight o’clock.

Like that.

Feeling numb, feeling dead. You kill an innocent

friend, you get to hoping the fires of hell will be

roasting. Dwell on it, and they already are. I had

my coffee, black, bitter, strong, no sugar. No

sweetness, Jesus, God forbid. Showered, shaved,

Xanaxed to the goddamn hilt, switched on the

radio.

Galway Bay FM.

Jimmy Norman’s breakfast show. Helped me chill.

He plays the best music—music that makes you

yearn. And he keeps it light, keeps it moving. He

was saying that Keith (Finnegan) on the top of the

hour had some special guests but . . .

He had the Saw Doctors on the line from Australia.

Their manager, Ollie Jennings, is just about one of

the nicest people I ever met.

And seeing as I don’t do nice, that is something

unique. The Saw Doctors, from Tuam, just down

the road a piece, were the perfect blend of

traditional Irish, rock ’n’ roll, and their own spin

on live gigs was to be seen to be believed. They’d

been around almost as long as I’d been slogging

my befuddled gig in Galway. But they’d gone

global. A new drummer, new album, and they

sounded as down-to-earth as if they’d just released

their first single. Not a notion in their repertoire. In

America, they’d said they were fans of Jodie

Foster, she got in touch and, as the lads said,

“Went for a burger with them.”

I just loved that.

And, they said,

“She was quiet.”

There is something awesome in that apparently

simple meeting.

When a legend blends with the iconic, and the

result is humility, fuck, you want to shout,

“Bono, hope you’re taking notes.”

Jimmy asked if they’d do a song, live, right then

and there, and they did. Just sang.

My foot was tapping along, just in the groove with

the best of Irish, when the phone rang.

You get a call out of the proverbial blue that

knocks the bejaysus out of you. I’d had a dream, on

Thursday night, that I still hadn’t been able to

shake. Laura was back in my life. I swear, I could

feel her hand in my mine.

For reasons not at all.

We were feeding the swans at the Claddagh, and

she leant back into my shoulder and I was so

deliriously happy.

And woke.

Tears on my face, coursing down my cheek.

Hard arse that.

Had muttered, in a vain attempt to shake it away,

“’Tis the holy all of it.”

The awful loss had paralyzed me. I’d sat on the

side of my empty bed, woebegone. In fucking bits,

then shouted,

“Get a fucking grip.”

Had

Kind of.

I’d made my own self busy, and then pulled on a

sweatshirt that bore the logo:

NUIG, Ropes.

My oldest 501s and my winter crocs, the ones that

whispered,

“We love you, love your feet.”

You are getting love from shoes, you are so

seriously deranged, it’s pathetic.

And I’d been relishing Jimmy’s show, with the

Saw Doctors,

hated having to answer the damn phone. Said,

“Yeah.”

In that icy tone.

“Mr. Taylor, it’s Sister Maeve.”

I had given her my number, never………….never

expecting to hear from her. But nuns, they give

nothing away, in every sense. I said,

“Ah, good morning, Sister.”

Lame, right?

She replied,

“Mr. Taylor, you are a very unusual man, a mix of

tremendous sadness and such violent acts.”

I’d need a little more to go on than my character

analysis, said,

“I’ll need a little more to go on.”

I swear to God, she seemed to be suppressing utter

joy, said,

“Father Gabriel and his . . . housekeeper have

taken off and with all of the Brethren’s funds.”

Gabe did a runner? I knew I’d got his attention but

that he legged it, phew-oh. I was literally lost for

words, tried,

“Really?”

Now she let it loose, said,

“Oh, Mr. Taylor, it means the Brethren are a spent

force. Their terrible shadow has been lifted.”

I said,

“That’s great.”

Meant it. She replied with,

“Mr. Taylor, I’ve become familiar with your

methods and I don’t much approve, but this . . . I

knew you were involved and you turned it around,

did our Church a true service. God bless you,

Jack.”

And rang off.

I was still trying to digest this when my mobile

shrilled.

Stewart.

“Jack, starting today, I’m going to be at my head

shop every day at three. I’ve let my routine out

along the grapevine so people know where they

can find me. If you’re right and they’re trying to

make a move on me, well, here is a routine they’ll

find.”

I said,

“Give it three, four days, they’ll bite.”

“What makes you so sure?”

I thought about all we’d discussed, tried to figure it

out, said,

“They are working towards a very definite

timetable and everything needs to be in place for

the mad bastards.”

He gave that some thought, then,

“Why are you so certain they’ll target me?”

Easy answer if not exactly true,