The Devil (19 page)

from Stewart.

Brief.

But then what was there to say?

I could already hear the brass bands, inevitable police

sirens, ceilidh music, all intermingled as the madness of

St Paddy's D a y got into full w h o o p . We never needed an

excuse, but if it was legit to get pissed, it got my vote.

1 began to clean the Sig.

A clean gun is like prayer - it might not do the job, but

you're en route.

I had me one sharp knife, a throwback to my glory days

of the swans, and it's sharp as a nun on her second sherry.

I carved crosses on to the head of the bullets.

M a k e s them Hke hollow points and it seemed appropriate.

I was all out of silver bullets and gee, guess what, they're

a whore to find.

M o s t l y I needed a bloody miracle.

I lit another cig, and my mobile shrilled.

Answered.

'Jacques,
comment qa vaV

I said, as I jammed the cartridge into the Sig,

'La Feile Padraig:

'Excusez moir

'It's Irish for H a p p y St Patrick's Day.'

A pause, then,

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THE DEVIL

' H o w lovely, and how fitting with my rather excellent news.'

I put the cig in the ashtray, asked,

'What news is that, good buddy.-*'

He gave that viper laugh, I could feel the iciness over the

line, said,

' Y o u are going to the US of A .
Felicitations, mon frere:

I could laugh or puke. Went,

'When.''

He caught the curtness, said,

' M a y the thirteenth. Y o u are happy,
n'est-ce pas}'

'Delirious, but I owe you, bro. Where are you staying? I'd

like to show my real appreciation.'

Again the laugh, but with a somewhat dulled vigour.

'I've been with Anthony and his delightful wife, but as

you know, guests are like fish, they stink after three days.'

The emphasis on
stink
was not lost.

I looked out at the nuns' convent, held the gun up against

the faint light, asked,

'So, you are staying?'

He gave a theatrical sigh, said,

'I have the penthouse at the M e y r i c k . Are you familiar

with it?'

I said,

'So sorry that poor girl was murdered almost on your

doorstep.'

Formerly the Great Southern, the Meyrick overlooked

Eyre Square.

H i s tone n o w in a different arena, he said,

'Quel dommage:

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KEN BRUEN

I pushed, said,

' A n d a dog's head, damn gruesome, don't you think?'

Real granite coming d o w n the phone now.

'I never cared for
les chiens:

I upped my bright tone, asked,

'So C a r l , my benefactor, w o u l d tomorrow at seven be

suitable for a farewell dinner? My treat, of course. I'll wait

for y o u in the lobby.'

H i s blitz was back.

'Bien sur.
We'll have us a good time.'

I nearly added,

'I'll leave the dog at home.'

No need to tip my hand.

I hung up.

Those two damn cigs I'd smoked w i t h Peg, the tinker lady,

you got it, I was hooked again. A d d to the m i x :

X a n a x ,

Jay,

Guinness,

and n o w fucking nicotine.

Even had me a new Z i p p o .

H o w ' d that happen?

I'd had a few over me limit and lit up, so to speak, I'd

gone into Holland's. One of the few remaining old shops

and still holding, despite the recession. M a r y , a dote, had

been there as long as I could remember. N o t once, ever, did

I see the slightest dent in her natural good humour.

Jesus, she had to have her share of troubles, but did she

once take it out on the customers?

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THE DEVIL

N o p e .

A saint.

She'd be mortified if you told her.

I didn't.

I bought a brass Z i p p o with the Claddagh emblem. M a r y

offered to gift-wrap it. I said no, it w o u l d be fine.

She said,

'I fuelled it for you. Jack.'

If only they did M a r y in a patch, you could erase

depression overnight.

N o w I was clicking it, loving that clunk that only a Z i p p o

has. Rang Stewart, asked,

' H o w ' s Aine?'

He laughed, asked,

' Y o u write her name d o w n . Jack?'

Er . . . yes.

' C ' m o n Stewart, she's important to y o u , I k n o w her

name.'

A cynical laugh, then,

'What's up?'

Sounding Hke that old Bud advert.

I said,

'I'm meeting C a r l , he's staying at the M e y r i c k , I'm buying

him dinner.'

'The where?'

'Used to be the Great Southern, Gerry Barrett owns it. He

also owns the Eye cinema and the Benetton outlet, and

E d w a r d Square is named after his d a d . '

He said.

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KEN BRUEN

'I k n o w Gerry, good guy.'

I asked as I used the Z i p to fire up,

'Anyone you don't k n o w ? '

Pause, then,

'Times are. Jack, I don't think I k n o w you at all. Hey,

what was that sound? A r e you smoking again?'

W h a t was he going to do, tell Aine on me? I lied,

' Y o u fucking kidding me? Y o u k n o w h o w hard I found it

to quit.'

He let it slide, then,

'You're meeting w i t h h i m again? W h y ? '

I was a bit pissed about the cig remark so I hit back w i t h

the truth.

'I'm going to k i l l him.'

Silence.

Then,

'Jack, this is a joke, right? Please tell me you're not

serious.'

I told him about Peg, the priest. Father Raphael, South

A f r i c a and, lest he forget, his o w n responses to Mr K.

I flicked the Z i p p o back and forth. Stewart had been a

dope dealer, he knew the sound of addiction.

I don't think I ever heard Stewart plead, not a trait you

use when you've done hard time in M o u n t j o y and you were

a pretty boy going i n .

He pleaded now.

'Jack, listen to me, this is all conjecture. I'll admit there's

some weird stuff going on, and sure, you can see a pattern

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THE DEVIL

of some very bad karma, but you've been doing a lot of

dope, and I k n o w it's been a very bad time with not getting

into America and all, b u t . . .'

Pause.

'To cap a guy on speculation?'

Cap?

W h a t were we? Boyz in the f u c k i n ' hood?

I reined in a whole range of anger, assumed a patient tone,

not easy for me, said,

'It has to end, Stewart.'

He took a deep breath, Zenning no doubt, and said,

'What if you're way off base? You're going to kill a man

on . . . on what is probably a terrible set of coincidences,

and I hate to say this. Jack, your o w n peculiar paranoia.'

L o n g silence as we both measured what we should say. I

went w i t h ,

'I'm guessing you won't be available as back-up?'

Deep distress in his voice, he said,

'Aine is a very fine lawyer. You're going to need one.'

I asked,

'What makes you think I'll be caught?'

Total resignation as he said,

'Cos, Jack, you fuck up everything.'

H u n g up.

He was the closest to a real male friend I had, so I figured

I'd at least consider his point.

I remembered a time, after I'd been thrown out of the

Guards, I was drinking like Behan in his last days and not

giving a fuck. I met an American in a pub on Forster Street.

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J

KEN BRUEN

In publishing, if I remember, and we got to chatting about

the nature of evil.

It was a pub, so what'd you expect.'

He was editing a book on the supernatural and told me:

'It's k n o w n as horror. Occult fiction. I call it the Further-

O u t genre, like in D a v i d Lynch movies. You're in the middle

of a crime story. But then the camera finds, say, a painting.

Pushes into it. Turns a corner into the realm of the meta-

physical. W h i c h , in the sense of the real origins of suspense,

might actually take us closer than men with guns ever could.

Consider.

Everyone sees things out of the corner of their eye.

Everyone has feelings that can't be explained. Everyone, to

a certain extent, is afraid of the dark. The Further-Out genre

speaks to this condition. Reminds us that maybe, at essence,

if a gun is pointed at you, it's not the bullet you're afraid of.

You're afraid for your soul.'

H i s name was John something or other. I remember his

words so clearly, as I was stunned a young guy could k n o w

so much.

Over the years, I kept a vague track of his career and

wasn't surprised he'd become an editor w i t h some major

American pubhsher.

I wish I'd kept in touch.

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I

22

'What ivarehouse of the soul awaits me now?'

K B

H o w to dress for murder?

Neatly.

I put on me finest suit. That it is me only suit is a minor

quibble.

Nice clean shirt (charity shop) and a M a s o n i c tie I'd . . .

er . . . acquired.

C l o u d the issue.

Some gel in me hair. Slicked.

The Sig in me waistband.

Dropped two X , muttered,

'Time to k i l l . '

John G r i s h a m needed the promo.

Bought a bottle of M o e t .

See, you can teach an old dog new tricks, albeit expensive

ones.

I entered the hotel, asked for C a r l and was told,

'Penthouse, top floor, you are expected.'

The M a s o n i c tie?

I wasn't sure if he'd meet me as the elevator opened.

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Me experience of penthouses is a Httle Hmited.

He didn't.

L o n g as I Hve, and that's always up for grabs, I was

surprised the penthouse had a number.

M o s t hotels - forget the stuff about not having a

thirteenth floor - never have a room w i t h that number

because of Orwell's
1984.
That r o o m is where you find the

thing you are most afraid of. There is even a TV show based

on it, where celebrities get to dump their pet hates.

The door to the penthouse was open, so I went i n .

I had no fixed plan as to h o w this was going to go d o w n .

Basically, shoot the bollix and run.

Company.

N o t in me plan.

T w o gorgeous girls.

Snorting coke, lines of it on a beautiful glass table.

Washing it d o w n with bubbly.

C a r l appeared, in a silk dressing gown that the H e f w o u l d

have been proud of. Beaming, he said,

'Jack, meet the girls.'

Ingrida and . . . yes, Tricia.

Hookers.

East Europe's best.

I handed over the M o e t , he slapped my shoulder, said,

'You kill me.'

The guy had style - repellent, but fuck it, he had the

moves. He said,

' R o o m service is about to provide us with a veritable feast.'

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THE DEVIL

D i d I do the decent thing?

As in leave?

N o .

I did the coke, had the amazing food, the more amazing

hooker, and come two in the morning,

sated,

drunk,

doped,

the girls left.

Carl/Kurt, sprawled on the white leather sofa, his legs

spread, eyes afire, said,

' Une nuit excellente:

I took out the Sig, levelled it.

He smiled, said,

' A h Jacques, you disappoint. Is this the gratitude y o u

express to your
bon ami, votre frereV

I said,

'I was going to ask you to do the trick with the blond

locks, but you know? W h o the fuck cares.'

He gave that w i l d laugh, was m i d sentence,

' A h , the hair that i s — '

I shot h i m in the balls.

First.

Then, moving over, I shot h i m in the guts, said,

'Sorry, all out of dogs' heads.'

I swear to Christ, he was smiling, so I ended that by open-

ing his mouth, shot h i m right in those terrific teeth.

I checked his pulse, none.

Then moved to his bedroom, took

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KEN BRUEN

the Rolex,

the M o n t Blanc,

a damn nigh mountain of coke,