Purgatory (8 page)

And had kept under the radar as those larger-than-life scumbags went national, prompting

Movies

TV documentaries

Countless tabloid fodder.

With the creation of CAB, the special unit to nail those guys on their illegal assets, Brennan had fled to the west, gradually seeping into the Galway geography like vile limestone. His only son, the statue stealer, was a grave disappointment to the would-be Irish drug lord. Built an empire of dirt and dope, and had an eejit heir.

Seemed karma right.

Brennan, in his sixties, still a formidable physical presence and, like Jack, favored a hurley for his ad hoc boardroom meetings. Rumored to have recently taken out a rival dealer with two mighty wallops to the guy’s head, shouting,

“Come on the Dubs.”

Didn’t make him any more appealing despite his support of the capital’s team. In the few available photos from Google, he looked like Gerard Depardieu without the Gallic charm. An eye for the ladies, was said to be proud of his
fuck pad.
A penthouse over the Bridge Mills. What his wife thought was not recorded. But going on Brennan’s reputable temper, she wasn’t likely to be saying a whole bunch.

Beating women seemed to be a hobby. Ridge, asking questions, especially about his worthless son, would have been like an automatic trigger. Stewart had three tasks Zen-appropriated this day.

His sister

The Galway Advertiser

Brennan.

Did the second by phone, rang, asked for Kernan Andrews.

Said,

“Kernan, am leaving a batch of photos, notes about a number of recent Galway deaths in the office for you.”

Heard,

“What?”

Hung up.

Next, went to Going Dutch, the best florists in the city, bought a dozen white roses.

Walked to the Bohermore cemetery.

A huge monument to a young tinker was visible from the road. Locals wondered how the mega tribute, adorned in Connemara marble, could be affordable to the travelers. At night, it was fluorescent, sending a beacon of dazzling light across the nearby hill. Had converted many heavy drinkers who believed they’d had a portent direct from the Lord Himself.

To reach his sister’s resting place, he had to walk by a long line of young men, who’d committed suicide in the previous few years. Their families had laid

Football sweaters

Football boots

CDs

Little fluffy toys

Intricate scrolled tablets of love.

Making the graves more like the boys’ bedrooms than graves. It appalled and moved Stewart in equal measure. He reached his sister, stood, the tears threatening, bent, tidied the loose clay. A passing old woman, paused, offered,

“Sorry for your trouble.”

He muttered,

“Thank you.”

Not with too much warmth, though he appreciated the words. This was his
sister’s
time
.
Needed to visit in quiet. Sensing something, she asked,

“Your wife?”

“My sister.”

The woman stared at the stone, saw the dates, then said,

“Ah, sure, the bed of heaven,
a leanbh
.”

That pierced his heart anew.

11

Galway: An irony-free zone?

—Stewart

Stewart stood outside the Bridge Mills, lots of people around. A voice in his head telling him,

“Leave it alone, this is not the way to get Brennan.”

Weighed that.

Moved.

He was in the penthouse in five minutes, the burglar kit making entrance easy. He’d taken the precaution of wearing surgical gloves. The place was massive, testament to a guy with too much money and no taste. Gigantic TV, copies of

Autos

Penthouse

Hustler

Loaded

Ikea furniture; heavy cloud of blended weed, nicotine, curries, and empty pizza boxes. The bedroom had a walk-in closet, four Louis Copeland suits, twenty pairs of built-up shoes, tracksuits, and a set of weights. Under the mattress, a sawed-off shotgun, bags of coke. Enough to warrant a major bust. Stewart moved back to the front room, settled to wait.

He let his mind Zen-float, his body at ease, time suspended.

The apartment was dark when he heard keys in the front door. Didn’t move.

Brennan came storming in, lights going on, packages being strewn on the floor. He was making a drink near the window when he realized he wasn’t alone. Spun round, going,

“The fuck?”

Stewart continued to sit, stared at him. Brennan was dressed in a sweaty tracksuit, gym clothes, a white towel round his neck. Stewart stood, did a loosening exercise, asked,

“Why did you attack Ridge?”

Brennan was regaining his composure, his eyes darting to the bedroom, assessing how much of a threat there was. His expression answered,

“Not much.”

He said,

“Sonny, you picked the wrong fucking place to park your sorry arse.”

When Stewart didn’t answer, he pushed,

“And who the fuck is Ridge?”

Stewart said,

“A female Guard, asking about your dumb son stealing the statue.”

Brennan laughed.

A nasty blend of scorn and bile.

He asked,

“You’re not a cop? Was she your girlfriend? I got to tell you, fellah, she was one ugly cunt.”

All reservations, doubts about the value of violence, moral considerations vanished with the mention of the c-word. He shot out his left foot, catching Brennan in the crotch, followed through with a series of lightning kicks to the ribs, kidneys, face.

Finally, drawing breath, he pulled back, looked in almost wonder at the bundle at his feet, muttered,

“Jesus.”

Checked for a pulse. Faint. Got outside the penthouse, left the door open, and called an ambulance. Back on the street, he looked in dismay at his hands, the gloves coated in red, understood for maybe the first time why Jack needed a large Jameson after an event.

He dumped the bloody gloves in the trash.

Zen didn’t quite cut it.

12

The household tax is to Ireland what the poll tax was to the U.K. The beginning of bullying.

—Galway protester

Ridge woke up.

Her head hurt and she emitted a tiny groan. A nurse came, fluffed the pillows. No matter what state you were in, those fucking pillows had to be fluffed.

A lot.

The nurse asked,

“How are you?”

Took Ridge a moment to figure.

“Who am I?”

Then pieces of it surfaced, knocking on Brennan’s door, anticipating verbal aggression but not an onslaught. After the first blow, she was blank. Put her hands to her face, the nurse bringing some water, she asked,

“Am I . . . damaged?”

Irish nurses, their very directness is refreshing. This one said,

“Ah, you took a fierce hiding.”

Right.

Added,

“But you’re awake, that’s good.”

Argue that.

The doctor came, did some
hmm
ing, a bit of
mmm
, said,

“Nothing serious, really.”

Unless you counted a coma.

She asked,

“Was I . . .
out
. . . for long?”

“Yes. Trust me, you’d prefer not to know.”

Then,

“A day, two, you’ll be going home.”

Ridge, relieved, said,

“Good as new.”

The nurse gave her a look, translated as,

“Don’t be bloody stupid.”

Yuppie, in dump café,

“
Do you perchance have WiFi access?
”

Owner,

“
I don’t have bloody access to me kids
.”

I was sitting in Elaine’s, the newest coffee shop off Shop Street. Kelly was sitting opposite, on her second Marciano. She’d been asking me about my hearing aid, then moved on to the loss of my fingers, said,

“Not enough of you left to even mail, fellah.”

I was developing a deep affection for her. She had a mouth on her, kept my game up, and she was that rarity,

Interesting.

I mean in a world of Lindsay Lohans, who is interesting any more? Romney was fast-tracking toward the Republican nomination, Barack was simply looking tired, and the brief dark glitz of Newt was dissipated. I said,

“I had a night out with Reardon.”

She laughed, went,

“Whoa, now that I would have paid serious wedge to witness.”

I debated, then,

“We ran into a spot of bother.”

And she literally guffawed, echoed,

“A spot of bother. What are you, a freaking Brit suddenly?”

Ignoring that.

“A gang of wannabes tried to take us out.”

Her eyes were lit. She said,

“Right up Reardon’s block. He likes to get down and dirty.”

Her glee set off an alarm.

I asked,

“You mean, Jesus Christ, he fucking staged it?”

She was saved from replying by a large man who, without asking, sat at our table, glared at me. Kelly went,

“Seriously?”

He produced a wallet, his plainclothes ID, said,

“Thought you might prefer an informal chat rather than the barracks again.”

Jesus, did anyone still call the cop station that?

I asked,

“You have a name?”

He showed some very expensive bridgework, allowed,

“Foley.”

I waited.

“Where were you yesterday, late afternoon?”

Kelly said,

“He was with me.”

I wasn’t.

Foley gave her a look of utter disbelief, said,

“And you are?”

Now she smiled, took a sip of her coffee, went,

“I’m what’s known in the trade as an
alibi,
presuming you wouldn’t be asking if something hadn’t happened.”

He looked like walloping her wouldn’t be too much of a reach, said,

“You need to be very sure, miss, of what you’re telling me.”

She was delighted, cooed,

“I love it! You are so rigidly . . .
anal
.”

I asked,

“What happened?”

Like he was going to tell me. He stood up, turned to Kelly, warned,

“You’re a Yank, a visitor to our shores. Be in your interest to not . . .”

He paused.

His big moment.

“Not to
fuck
with the authorities.”

She gave a mock shiver, said,

“Show me your weapon, Foley.”

After he’d left, I said,

“Watch your back. Those guys, they remember.”

She signaled for the bill, said,

“My treat.”

Added,

“Those guys, you can see them. It’s the motherfuckers who hide in plain sight I worry about.”

I had no idea what this meant but it sounded . . . hard-core.

Thanked her for the coffee and she said,

“What do I get in return?”

I had my own question, asked,

“Why did you lie for me? You weren’t with me.”

And she gave me the gift of a full warm-to-warmest smile, said,

“Yeah, but you’re thinking,
Wish she was
.”

Not far off the truth. She said,

“Invite me to your apartment.”

“What, now?”

She sighed.

“Jesus, Jack. Get real, buddy. This evening, so you can prepare a meal, get ready to
party.
”

Had to know, went,

“Are you fucking with me?”

A kiss on the cheek and,

“That’s what you’re hoping for later, big boy.”

An hour later, unable to get Stewart on the mobile, I found out about Brennan and that Ridge had come around. Bought some flowers and headed for the hospital. Was I sorry about Brennan?