Purgatory (22 page)

It was and did.

She shot a hand out, grabbed the tattoo needle, and jammed it in the guy’s eye, said,

“Language.”

The tattoo guy stared in horror as the man roared, the needle vibrating in the socket, and it seemed like forever before he fell to the floor. Kelly put her shirt on, put some money on the table, said,

“We’ll pick this up later.”

Thinking,

“Fuck, I’m forgetting something.”

As she drove off, she remembered,

“Don’t leave witnesses.”

But mostly she felt a sadness that only part of Oscar covered her back. That made her laugh and she shouted,

“Who’s got my back, eh? Answer me that.”

The BMW stalled at a traffic light. Heard the constant whine of Reardon, if not of reason,

“Godammit, you’re flooding the engine.”

A young guy, maybe seventeen, at the light, whistled,

At her

The car

The stalling

Or a combo

Wasn’t clear.

She rolled down the window, asked,

“Want this car?”

He did a double take, went,

“You’re fookin’ jokin’.”

She got out, handed him the keys, said,

“Go for it.”

He took the keys, slid in tentatively, asked,

“What’s the catch?”

She smiled, said,

“Only one requirement.”

He’d already decided to get like double fuck time out of there but played, said,

“Yeah?”

“Be Meat Loaf.”

“Wha?”

“Like a bat out of hell.”

He did.

Tires screeching, no flooded engine now. She thought,

“What would Oscar do?”

“A cocktail.”

But of course.

The Skef was running a happy hour. She perched on the long bar, asked the sharp-looking bar guy,

“You do Long Island Tea?”

“Does Greece long for the drachma?”

That being a yes.

Showed he was not only a graduate of handsome lessons but down with, like, you know, events, as in current.

He served the drink with a flourish. She hoped to fuck he wouldn’t say,

“Voilà.”

He did.

She tasted it, said,

“Mmmm.”

She asked,

“You ever see
Basic Instinct
?”

No.

The guy wasn’t the brightest, so she spelled it out.

“Wanna fuck?”

In the bathroom, tearing each other’s clothes off, he stopped, gasped,

“Your back . . . it’s bleeding!”

She adopted a Brit accent, went,

“It’s bleeding Oscar.”

* * *

I’d just woken up, barely had the shower and stuff done, about to have the first kick-ass coffee, when the doorbell went.

Loud and insistent.

I muttered,

“Fuck.”

Pulled it open to Ridge, another Guard, both in pressed uniforms. I snapped,

“What?”

Needed to be on the second cup of caffeine before I could listen to whatever shite they brought. It was never good and always way too early. Ridge said,

“Let’s take this inside.”

We did.

Ridge, glancing around, not seeing anything to warm her, asked,

“Are you alone?”

I grabbed my cup, got some down, asked,

“You mean in the metaphysical sense?”

The Guard, young and obviously gung ho, eager to test his power, commanded,

“Answer the question.”

I looked at him. Ah, to be twenty-two and stupid. I asked,

“Or what?”

Ridge, flexing her sergeant’s stripe, said,

“Yesterday, your lady friend stabbed a man to death.”

I knew, I fucking knew, it could be only one person, stalled.

“Need a little more than that.”

She could play, said,

“Kelly Reardon.”

I finished the coffee, waited for the kick, said,

“I haven’t seen her.”

The young Guard looked around, like he’d like to be sure. Ridge sighed, said,

“If you do hear from her, I trust you’ll be in touch.”

I gave her my best smile, said,

“Trust, loaded word.”

She let that slide, said,

“Later.”

Headed out, the young cop lingered. I’d an idea of what was coming. He said,

“Heard you were a Guard.”

I smiled, said,

“This is where you tell me that won’t cut me any slack, and oh, yeah . . . in a measured tone, you’ll tell me you don’t like me.”

He reddened, so even younger than I thought. I continued,

“You see for it to matter that
you
don’t like someone,
you
have to matter and, trust an old Guard on this, you are a long way from mattering to anyone, so hustle back to Toytown.”

And slammed the door on him.

Another enlistment in the ranks of those who loathed me.

Fun though.

The coffee was way cold. Was it too early for a Jay? Not if the cops have been, so maybe a wee dram. Sat in an armchair, tried to figure about Kelly obviously unraveling. No doubt in my mind now: she was the vigilante killer and, more than likely, Stewart’s killer, too. What was I going to do now in light of my feelings for her?

The Jay answered that.

“Kill the bitch.”

I broke into Reardon’s house.

Why?

Because I could.

Five in the afternoon and the winter darkness had already settled. The house was lit up like hope. I knew sensor alarms were to be installed on the grounds but, owing to a strike with the grounds staff, it was in limbo. And, yes, I did say,
grounds staff.

No point in being sick rich if you didn’t flaunt it. Like,

Two gardeners

Security guards

Gamekeeper (I shit thee not)

And all attending a Galway United match. Thank fuck. Reardon his own self was the guest of honor at the match. I figured on somebody being home but was intending to avoid whoever it was. I mostly hoped Kelly would be there. I was carrying.

Nine mil.

I’d a scenario in my head. See her and just pump two in her fucking head, no frills. A kitchen window was fairly easily maneuvered. The alarm it should have set off was, like the rest, at the match. God bless football. I stood in the kitchen, listened. Quiet. Lights were on all over but I felt they were cosmetic. The house felt empty. Nevertheless, I let the nine slide to my right hand, headed for the stairs, stopped en route, had a glass of rye, keep it U.S. Tasted good, tasted like more. I moved on. Up the stairs, did a full search of six bedrooms, not a dickey bird.

So, okay.

I’d wait.

Back downstairs, another rye, with ice; just because I felt like fucking with my own head, sat in a large leather chair, settled in. The room had a comfortable feel, lots of books that had never been opened. I know my used books. When books are for show, be sure you’ve put ammunition in the nine, double-check.

Close to midnight when the front door opened, I’d turned the lights down so it appeared undisturbed. Reardon’s voice and a woman laughing.

Kelly.

Shoot them both?

It wasn’t Kelly. They’d walked into the living room, arm in arm, she still laughing at something he said. I did recognize her, vaguely. From a recent reality show that was like all those shows, about fucking nothing. Worse, nothing with what they thought of as
street cred.

Jesus.

She had one of those new bogus Irish names, like

Blaithín

Or

Sneachta.

Which translated as flowers and snow, respectively. I don’t know either. Their sole function seemed to be the annoyance factor. I had the gun down by my leg and felt there was little need to show it now. Reardon reacted smartly, said,

“Jack, glad you could come by.”

I went with,

“Sorry to intrude but I felt it was best to report personally.”

The woman was pissed, whined,

“You’re working now?”

Man, she sure leaned on that
now.
Managing to get a world of complaint into it. Seriously, I don’t think anyone would ever call what Reardon did work but, hey, she was a reality star. But he liked to play, always, said,

“Jack’s my gopher, you know, the one who jumps when I whistle.”

Building a whole amount of
sneer
into that. She liked it, pushed,

“Get him to jump now.”

Maybe I’d just shoot her.

A long moment. We were frozen in a tableau of dislike. Reardon broke the spell, said,

“Jack has to run along now. Isn’t that right, Jack? There’s a good boy, hop it.”

The sneer was so inbuilt, you could almost miss it—almost. I stood, slipping the nine into the pocket of item 1834, my all-weather Garda coat, asked,

“Any idea of where your wife might be?”

The reality genius heard wrong, laughed, said,

“Is he looking for a wife, Daniel?”

Daniel. Jesus, who knew?

I’d of course read about Danny Reardon, American poet/actor/author who now lectured at Trinity, but, I figured, no kin. Daniel smiled.

“Jack, you’re a PI and asking me?”

The bright spark was about to ask something and he lashed her, fast, with,

“Shut . . . the . . . fuck . . . up.”

She did.

I looked right into his eyes, let him see I was not fucking around, said,

“Best for all if maybe I find her before, you know, the cops?”

We both knew that was a crock. He asked,

“Where would Oscar flee to?”

I was on my way out, a slight tremor niggling at my nerve ends. I heard, in whine song,

“Who’s Oscar?”

Galway was on the world stage for all the wrong worst reasons.

An Indian woman died of blood poisoning after being denied a pregnancy termination. Though she was in severe pain, the hospital refused to act, as the staff said,

. . . there was still a fetal heartbeat and this was a Catholic country.

Previously, she’d been told she was having a spontaneous abortion and the fetus had no chance. Details of the woman’s horrendous agony and agonizing death led to immediate street protests, and crowds from both sides of the abortion divide shouted at each other outside the hospital.

The government ducked and dived, muttering platitudes, adding fuel to the notion it was the most hated government we’d ever had. The new austerity measures, seemingly new ones daily, had the people already at breaking point.

I was in Garavan’s, a pint before me, and a man in a splendid suit, groomed hair, tan, knocked back a large gin and tonic, pronounced,

“See, say what the fuck you like, the church still rules this country. The clergy might be less profile but they are still covert. Abortion is their ticket back.”

His use of the obscenity seemed especially offensive. A photo of the deceased woman was on all the front pages. She had one of those lovely faces that testify to a gentle soul. The suit turned to me, assessed me, found me wanting, asked—demanded—

“What do you think, fellah?”

I moved from my stool, looked at him, said,

“You shout the odds in a pub but what are you going to do?”

This seemed to baffle him. He echoed,

“Do? What can I
possibly
do?”

I hadn’t the energy to start, said,

“Gotcha.”

He grabbed my arm, hissed,

“What’s that mean, eh? We’re a nation of talkers, we shout and rant, it’s our heritage.”

“But what happened to the country of fighters?”

I asked.

“Not the point,”

He said.

. . . and more’s the Irish-ed pity.

33

“Naturally,” he said, “I don’t defend evil deeds, but if you can’t understand the nature of crime . . . the motives of a criminal . . . well, you won’t get very far as a detective. There is a sort of twisted logic which is often easier to discover than the logic which governs our everyday actions. As we all know, chaos is the neighbour of God; but everything’s usually neat and tidy in hell.”