Purgatory (17 page)

“Hey.”

Deep, yeah.

I sat up, real bad idea. The room did a jig, a reel. The man stood, got a glass of water, said,

“Get some of this down, slow ’n’ easy.”

I did, slowly, and managed to keep some if it down. I asked,

“Who are you?”

He was even bigger when my vision settled, over six two and climbing. And must have been close to 200 pounds, not much of it fat. A face that had been squatted in then grilled. Cold blue eyes but with a shot of amusement. Wearing chinos and black, battered Dr. Martens, the originals. A T-shirt with the logo

Monterey rocks
.

So faded it might have been an original, which could mean he saw Jimi Hendrix. I shook my head as he said,

“Name is Moore, least that’s we’re giving out today.”

And he smiled, kind of.

He said,

“I’ve got some healing here for you, buddy, some pills your benefactor Mr. Reardon provided.”

Reardon.

Moore had been asked by Reardon to keep an eye on me, mainly for Kelly’s sake, and found me crumpled in a mess outside my apartment, reeking to high heaven of booze. Got me inside and halfway cleaned up.

I snapped,

“So, have I to beg? Let’s make with the fucking things or not.”

He laughed, took out a battered tin, began to roll a cig. I said,

“No-smoking zone, pal.”

He laughed, said,

“I like it, and gotta say, dude who’s taken the punishment you have, to crack funny, that’s . . . hard-core.”

He, I kid thee not, flicked a long match off his boot, lit up. I said,

“You’re kidding. What, you studied Clint movies and then figured you’d trot out that party trick?”

He blew a perfect ring, said,

“Just a match, partner, nothing more.”

Jesus, I’d woken up in a scene from a clichéd western by the freaking numbers. He reached in his pocket, tossed a phial, and, no, I didn’t catch it. Fuck.

Got the lid off, got two capsules out, dry-swallowed them. He said,

“Trusting type, ain’t yah?”

I said,

“If you’re poisoning me, the hangover I have coming down the pike, you’d be doing me a favor.”

He shrugged, said,

“You’ve got some grit, fellah.”

I asked,

“So, who the fuck are you? And what are you doing in my home, besides cowboy cameos?”

He stood up, did the neck exercise beloved of jocks, said,

“I’m your guardian angel.”

His accent was gruff, no prisoners New York, Lower East Side if I knew my Jimmy Breslin. His eyes testified to war years with not so many bullets avoided.

I gave him my best skeptical look, honed by years of dealing with priests who told me the Kingdom of Heaven was within.

Within whom they neglected to mention.

Christ, I began to feel good, not just, um . . . hungover, but fucking real fine. I had a shower, shouted,

“Brew up some coffee there,”

Pause

“Pilgrim.” Angel dust indeed. I dressed fast, raring to go. Faded Levi’s, cleanish white cotton shirt, my fave boots, the ones that clicked, made you sound like you were going places or, at least, had been to some joint of significance. A light jacket, khaki in color, that gave the vibe of a player.

Being able to stand straight, I was nearly as tall as Moore. He handed me a steaming mug of caff, said,

“Roasted Colombian.”

Roast heaven.

All I needed was spurs, a gray palomino, and
wagons fucking ho
to be the full cowboy.

Moore was surveying me, then pulled out a small jotter and with a stub of a pencil made some notes. No Mont Blanc posing here. I asked,

“You taking notes?”

Growled,

“Sure as shooting.”

Time to showtime, asked,

“Why?”

“For Mr. Reardon. He sicced me on you, to keep your dumb ass safe.”

He saw my expression, said,

“Smell the beans, compadre. You’re . . . a guinea pig. Those pills, you’re . . .”

He chuckled.

“. . . straight out”

Fucking chuckled.

“. . . the trial subject.”

Added,

“Used to be there was gold in them thar hills.”

Breath.

“Now, it’s pharmaceuticals, the Big Dipper, the treasure of the Sierra Madre, all rolled in one. Can you imagine having a real live test subject, not in a goddamn lab but out on the street, living it, if not large at least colorful? The FDA will be shitting themselves.”

I was horrified but buoyed by the dope so . . . you know . . .
torn.

Managed,

“He’s using me as a guinea pig?”

He made a gun of his hand, let the thumb/hammer fall. I managed,

“Jesus, wait till Kelly hears this.”

He laughed, said,

“Her idea.”

It was out before I could think.

“The . . . cunt.”

Wagged a finger in my face, said,

“Easy, partner, that’s my sister you’re dissing.”

God on a bloody unbelievable bike. I muttered,

“Jesus, you people all related?”

He smiled, said,

“Like to roll our own.”

And,

“Tell you what, caballero. Those pills should be kicking in and I hear give you an appetite, so how’s about I treat you to some eggs over easy, bacon, pot of joe?”

Truth to tell, I was now ravenous, said,

“Sure, long as I can have me some grits.”

He looked at me, asked,

“They do grits?”

“Get fucking real, Clint.”

I chilled for a few hours, the pills coasting me back to the land of hunger, near normality, and light. Moore sighed, said,

“I can see you’re improved, and it’s time we grabbed some chow.”

He was out the door, his boots echoing in the hall like a rumor that was only half understood. I caught up with him on the street, said,

“Tell you what, I’ll buy breakfast, see if you can open up a bit about Reardon.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

The GBC does the best fry-up.

Lots of neon cholesterol.

Runny eggs

Fat Clonakilty sausages.

Black pudding like the pope ordered (cross me heart)

Thick streaky rashers

And a pot of Barry’s tea like the childhood you never had. I ordered all of this for two and then, under the table, pushed the snub-nosed .38 to him, said,

“Think you mislaid this.”

He reached for his back, where I’d relieved him of it during my
stumble.
He was as close to impressed as a stone jackal got, asked,

“You learn that in the Guards?”

I waved at Frank Casserly, the chef, then said,

“I learned it on the streets.”

The tea and thick buttered toast arrived and he asked,

“So, want to know what you missed while you were . . . away . . . for five days?”

I had to focus, trying to measure how long it had been since Stewart . . . since Stewart, said,

“The Olympics.”

He poured the strong tea, bit down on a hefty wedge of dripping toast, said,

“You guys got five medals, gold for the Taylor lass in boxing.”

Jesus.

“Really?”

“Yup, no shit, Sherlock, you guys can fight.”

The food arrived, freaking mountains of it. Moore said,

“Man, gonna flood some major arteries here.”

But he dug in, like he had a shovel rather than a fork. He said,

“Lots of folks bought the farm while you were AWOL.”

I felt the food lodge in my throat, spat,

“Besides my best friend?”

He shrugged, said,

“Yeah, well, condolences and all that good shit. Gore Vidal, Helen Gurley Brown, Ernest Borgnine.”

Like I could give a fuck.

I said,

“So you’re to babysit while I’m running on experimental meds.”

He was having a second mug of tea, seemed to be liking it, said,

“Reardon wants to ensure you don’t end up like your best bud.”

“I’m touched.”

He laughed, said,

“Hell, Taylor, you ain’t shit to shinola to him but Kelly, she seems to have some weird shine on you. Go figure, huh?”

I simply muttered,

“C33.”

He stopped,

Actually held his mug mid-frozen, asked,

“What did you say?”

I was about to tell about Westbury and he grabbed my arm, snarled,

“Not the whole fucking saga, the number, you said a number.”

“C33.”

He put the mug down, shaken, murmured,

“I’ll be fucking hog-tied.”

“What?”

“That’s the name of the pills—the crap you’re swallowing.”

I think that’s what they call a
showstopper.

Jesus.

My mind racing to all sorts of scenarios.

. . . Reardon was C33?

Playing at vigilantism like he fucked around with everything else. And what a perfect rat fuck, to dabble in serial killing. Just the kind of sick shit he’d relish. Would explain the initial letters to me. Reardon was stuck in every aspect of my life. Did Stewart surprise him and just happen to be collateral damage?

As my mind jumped through a maze, Moore stood up, said,

“Gotta go jam my head under some real cold water.”

The bill was on the table. I said,

“You picking up the tab?”

He grimaced, said,

“Been picking up the freight on you for five days, hoss. Time you paid some dues.”

He was heading out. I said,

“Moore?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me
hoss
again.”

27

Like most people raised on American movies, I have poor access to my emotions but can banter like a motherfucker.

—Josh Bazell,
Wild Thing

Rumor is always more exciting than truth.

I was in Crowe’s pub on Prospect Hill, the borderline between that and Bohermore, probably the only true neighborhoods remaining in the city. Like in the awful theme from
Cheers,
people here
did know your name.

Ollie Crowe was arranging a post party for the crowds attending Eamonn Deacy’s testimonial and a young guy near me was regaling his girl with a line from the new Joan Rivers biography.

Like this:

Joan Rivers’s mother asked the doctor, “Will the baby live?”

Meaning Joan.

“Not unless you take your foot off her throat.”

His girl looked at him, asked,

“Joan who?”

A guy staring at a pint of Guinness, as if he might find some answer, then looked at me, said,

“You hear about the new trend?”

Jesus, kidding or what?

Could be anything from
The Rose of Tralee
being fixed to Galway losing the minor semifinal.

It wasn’t.

He said,

“Mirror fasting.”

WTF?

I asked,

“What the fuck are you on about?”

He smirked, delighted to have that Irish prized possession, knowledge, especially knowledge
you
don’t have, said,

“Women are trying not to look in mirrors for certain amounts of time, as it only pressures them if they do it daily.”

I’d have laughed if my spirit wasn’t so overladen.

Ridge arrived looking . . . forlorn . . . but gorgeous. Dressed in black leather jacket, black jeans, boots, she could have passed for a mild dominatrix. I kept that to myself, asked,

“Get you something?”

Her eyes were on fire. I knew I’d be catching some sparks. She said,

“Your answer to everything, a drink.”

Spurred,

“Not really. I was just trying to inject some civility.”

She gave a bitter smile, said,

“Make a nice change.”