Headstone

by Ken Bruen

  Or

  Those awful days when she’d been terrorized by a stalker, who’d she call?

  Jack.

  And he….took care of business.

  Or

  His stricken face when his surrogate son took the bullets meant for him.

  Jesus.

  How was he still getting out of bed in the morning?

  Or

  When Serena-May went out the window on Jack’s watch, he’d gone to bits, even ended up in a mental hospital. And, God knew, he was a hopeless drunk, and, she suspected, addicted to every illegal substance available but no matter, your back was to the wall, it was this aging, hearing-aid, limping wreck that you called.

  And…he showed up, always.

  Anthony despised him, not only because he’d been reared in the wrong side of town but because of his total lack of respect for his betters. Anthony had described him once, in a fit of pique, as an alkie vigilante with notions above his station. To her eternal shame, she’d said nothing.

  Silent affirmation.

  In an effort to understand Jack, she’d borrowed some of his mystery novels. Jack was always on about mystery being the literature of the street. No Booker literature shite for him. Whatever else, Ridge was a cop of the streets. He’d given her James Lee Burke, commenting in that way he had,

  “We’ll start you at the top, work yer way down.”

  Pegasus Descending.

  A line in that book pierced her soul.

  “…Marry up, screw down.”

  And the titles, like poetry in their own selves:

  In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead,

  The Tin Roof Blowdown, and her absolute favorite,

  A Stained White Radiance.

  Pushed by an almost irascible need, she got out of the car. So, OK, maybe Jen had a new lover or would simply slam the door in her face. But she had to try. When she reached the path, two guys in hoodies seemed to materialize from the shadows. She saw the glint of a very large knife in the nearest one’s hands.

  She cautioned,

  “Whoa lads, back up a bit, I’m a Ban Garda.”

  The second hissed,

  “You’re a fucking dike is what you are.”

  The nearest one lunged, fast. She sidestepped easily, swung around, almost balletic, rammed her right foot in his balls. The second one whined,

  “Jesus, no need for that.”

  And launched at her. She did a twirl, enjoying her own self, used a high left kick to smash his nose, followed with a right kick to his gut. Then she was pinned to the ground by the fucking dog walkers! She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A girl appeared from, like, nowhere, helping the hoodies to their feet, saying to the local heroes, the dog guys,

  “She tried to attack those young men, I think she had a knife.” She could hear a siren in the distance-coming for her?

  Ah, for fooks sake.

  A bank is a place that will lend you money if… you can prove you don’t need it.

  I needed to visit me money. So many banks were going down the toilet and, like the clergy, being exposed for every abuse possible. With Laura arriving soon, I wanted to be able to show her I was, am, viable, at least financially.

  I went to my local branch on Eyre Square. I managed to secure a face-to-face with one of the asssistant managers. He had a small walled-in space and a very harried look. I put out me hand, said,

  “Jack Taylor.”

  He was in his mid-thirties, with a posture that suggested a hundred. He took my hand, one of those dead fish shakes. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, just one of us working stiffs. He said,

  “I’m Mr. Drennan.”

  Mr.!

  You have to be at least seventy and somewhat affable for me to call you Mister. But I rolled with the play, asked,

  “How is my account?”

  He had my file before him, peered through it, said,

  “You have a very healthy balance, Mr. Taylor.”

  I said,

  “Show me.”

  Threw him.

  He asked,

  “You want to see it?”

  “My money, my call.”

  He pushed it over reluctantly.

  It was looking good. I was very relieved. He said,

  “You are earning very little interest in that savings account.

  Might I suggest some shares you could buy?”

  “No.”

  He was confused, asked,

  “You don’t want to make some money?”

  I looked him straight in the eye, said,

  “If I wanted to make more money, you think I might have mentioned it? I want to see my money. The newspapers, they seem to think you guys have stolen every euro in the land.”

  He looked around but help was not to hand, tried,

  “You’d like a printout of your account?”

  Unheard of in banking circles it seemed, so no wonder they were getting away with frigging wholesale larceny.

  I sat back, relaxed. You get to fuck with the banks, enjoy.

  I said,

  “Unless you want to bring me the actual cash-and I have no problem with that, believe me. Put it in a bin liner and I’ll stroll out of here as happy as a Galway oyster.”

  He rose, said,

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  I don’t think he meant the bin liner.

  I got the readout and said,

  “You need to chill mate, get out, have a few brews and tell yer own self, tis only money.”

  He didn’t wish me God bless.

  No wonder the fucks are in trouble.

  It was pissing like a bastard, rain that is.

  My dad was a lot on my mind those days. Probably the only hero I still had. I’d given up on wanting to be him. But it was a comfort while living in a new land of vultures and predators to think of him. He’d worked on the railways and to my surprise taken early retirement. I never asked him about it but I knew it weighed heavily on his mind.

  He’d said to me one time, when per usual the banks were threatening the wrath of God as our mortgage fell behind,

  “Jack, if you owed the bank fifty quid, they’d take the house from under you.”

  I never forget that.

  I never forget him.

  Stewart was sitting in one of the very few authentic vegan cafes in the city. Situated but a lovely grilled T-bone steak from the Augustine Church, it was fundamental in its strict no-meat policy. Word was, a guy was turned away for wearing a leather jacket. Urban myth.

  And footwear: canvas was, dare I utter, kosher. Stewart was wearing his winter crocs, differed from the summer style in that you wore socks.

  A guy telling me about the Irish wardrobe during the summer, said,

  “Roll up the sleeves on your sweater.”

  Stewart was intent on his new venture. Investing in the growing boom of head shops. Legal highs in the High Street. He had a wedge of cash invested in one and was fretting about the government threats to close down the loopholes that allowed the shops to sell dope in all varieties. But clouds were gathering. Two students had died as a result of the products and the public was becoming volatile about the virus of new outlets.

  One had even been burned out in Dublin.

  Plus, the dope gangs were mightily pissed off about the loss in revenue this was costing them. He was seriously considering cashing out before the axe fell. That was his main gig, getting out before the shite hit the fan.

  A shadow fell across his notes. He looked up, a heavily built man in his fifties was staring at him. The man had a face of sheer granite, with old acne spots across his upper jaw. Heavy tissue around his eyes testified to some time as a boxer. The broken nose confirmed it. He was wearing a very smart Crumby coat, collar turned up, with a fedora perched rakishly on his head. He asked,

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Pause.

  “Stewart.”

  Stewart nodded and the man sat, his heavy bulk straining the chair. A w
aitress appeared, asked,

  “May I get you something sir?”

  He gave her a lazy look, full of total uninterest, said,

  “Yeah, coffee, black.”

  He unbuttoned his heavy coat to reveal an ill-fitting brown suit with a puke green waistcoat, said,

  “I’m Mason. Been looking for your boss, Taylor, but he seems to have disappeared. Probably sleeping off his latest piss-up?” Took Stewart a moment to grasp the cadence of the accent, British but muted. He answered,

  “He’s not my boss.”

  Mason actually raised an eyebrow, then said,

  “You seriously believe that?”

  The coffee arrived, Mason took a sip, spat, asked,

  “The fuck is that swill?”

  The waitress beat a fast and faster retreat.

  Mason pushed the cup aside, said,

  “Trust me sonny, I’ve done my research; you’re the gofer.”

  Stewart applied all his Zen mastery, tried to envisage a sunlit meadow, but the sheer bulk of Mason blotted out the light. He asked,

  “Who are you?”

  Mason gave a deep smoker’s laugh, full of phlegm and venom, reached in his jacket, produced a wallet with a gold badge, said,

  “I’m a private investigator. The real deal. Not like your employer’s half-arsed attempt. I used to be with the Met and after retirement took full accreditation as the real deal.”

  Stewart was tired of the guy, tried,

  “And you want to see Jack, why?”

  He fixed his flat eyes on Stewart, steel glinting on the rims, said, “I’ve no fucking interest in that has-been. I’ve been employed by the family of Ronan Wall to look into his disappearance. You’re a messenger boy so deliver this to the alkie. This is my case and he’s to keep well clear of it. You got that, son?”

  Stewart was still grabbing for some serenity.

  Working it wasn’t, but he managed,

  “Jack has no involvement in that case.”

  Mason snapped his wallet shut. You could see the slick movement had been practiced before the mirror a lot. He said,

  “Good, keep it that way. There’s a world of hurt for those who fall foul of me.”

  He stood up, buttoned the coat, asked,

  “Ex-con, right?”

  Stewart didn’t feel it warranted a reply and Mason smiled. No warmth had ever touched that smile and it certainly didn’t now.

  He said,

  “Good lad, you sniff around my case, I’ll have you back behind bars in coke time.”

  Stewart had finally found a place, deep within, where he could trust his mouth, asked,

  “Your intimidating manner get you a lot of results?”

  Mason had been on the point of leaving but turned back, leant right across the table, into Stewart’s face, his breath an acrid blend of nicotine and belligerence, hissed,

  “Dipshit, I eat the likes of you for breakfast. I can stitch you up in ways you’d never imagine.”

  Then he patted Stewart on the head, said,

  “Now run along, there’s a good lad.”

  He was done, set to head for the door, when Stewart said,

  “I did learn a thing or two in prison. The louder the mouth, the bigger the target.”

  Mason laughed, said,

  “Next time we chat, I won’t be so cordial.”

  And was gone.

  Stewart tried to imagine such an encounter between Mason and Jack.

  Phew-oh.

  The Dylan album came to mind, he’d been listening to these old guys at Jack’s probing. The album was

  Blood on the Tracks.

  You say to me that there is more to life than hurling. But if you want to carry on like a fella who is not interested, then there will be lots more than hurling.

  But there won’t be hurling!

  That’s the reality of it.

  – Kilkenny hurling manager

  Ridge was standing before Superintendent Clancy. His main hatchet man, O’Brien, was standing point, smirk in place. Ridge marveled that Clancy once had been Jack’s best friend and now was his sworn enemy. She’d tried to probe Jack on it, he said, “Shite happens.”

  Her alliance with Jack was a permanent black mark in her file. Clancy kept her waiting, poring over papers, making odd grunts of assent.

  Who knew?

  He was uttering,

  “Hmphh.

  Mm…”

  By the holy!

  Finally, he removed his reading glasses, gold rimmed, of course, sat back, surveyed her. His eyes were slabs of pure slate. He said,

  “You were arrested by two citizens.”

  She started to say,

  “Sir, it was a…”

  “Shut the fuck up. Did I ask you to speak?”

  O’Brien gave a wide grin. She took some solace in knowing that Jack had once beaten the living daylights out of him. Clancy continued,

  “If the media got hold of this, we’d have a cluster fuck on our hands.”

  She longed to say something but bit down.

  Hard.

  Clancy said,

  “As a favor to your husband, I’m not going to launch an official investigation.”

  He stared at her.

  What?

  Was she, like, to say, “Golly gee, thank you so much yah prick?”

  He continued,

  “You’re suspended without pay for a month, confined to desk duty, you can handle a phone, I presume, without aggravation?” He returned his reading glasses to his burst-veined nose, said,

  “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

  As she slunk out, she began to better understand Jack’s loathing of the man.

  Anthony was waiting outside, dressed like the country squire, all pomp and damn little circumstance, and was that a cravat… with the emblem of the Galway Hunt? He barked,

  “Get in the car.”

  Ridge, never the most tolerant of individuals, already way past her simmer date, asked,

  “What?”

  To her horror, she noticed he was wearing his riding breeches as he strode to the BMW. He stopped, said,

  “We’ll discuss this at home. I had to pull a lot of strings to save your pathetic career.”

  She almost ran up to him, got right in his aristocratic face, said,

  “Pull this.”

  Instead yanked the cravat from his neck.

  He was about to protest when she said,

  “One fucking word, just one, and I’ll make you eat this piece of rubbish.”

  Turned on her heel and walked towards the city center.

  She had to stop at the Wolfe Tone Bridge as she realized her whole world was going down the toilet.

  She fumbled for her mobile, her hands shaking, called Stewart.

  No frills, she begged,

  “Can I stay with you for a few days?”

  If he was fazed, he didn’t sound it. Then, nothing ever seemed to get to him. He said,

  “A Garda in my house, fantastic.”

  One of the reasons she loved him, he never, never asked,

  “Why?”

  You find a friend like that, you’re freaking gold.

  That a convicted drug dealer and a Garda were tight was a conundrum neither analyzed. Jack had brought them together but even he never expected they would form a separate peace. They did share one quality, an indefinable regard for the train wreck he was. Both, in their separate ways, felt they might yet save him. When Ridge had begun her martial arts program, Stewart had encouraged her, offering Zen wisdom to beat the wall of pain. Jack, of course, true to form, on hearing of her enterprise, muttered,

  “I’ll rely on my hurley.”

  When Ridge arrived at Stewart’s house, he already had a room prepared. His home was on the edge of Cooke’s Corner. But a postmortem away from the fish shop where a body had been found in the freezer, and had been there for many years. Of course, the local wits had a field day, the very least of which was, “…Ah, he was alway
s a cold fish.”

  Mafia jokes too, of course, not so much sleeping with the fishes as being on ice with them.

  Stewart was dressed in a silk kimono, black with gold dragons. It should have looked ridiculous, like Hefner on ludes. But his smooth, lithe movements, his air of total calm, carried it off. He hugged her and she nearly broke down. How long since anyone had done that and truly meant it. She could feel the easy strength of his body. He released her, said,

  “Tea’s on the pot, toast ready to pop, and my special omelet is just the right tone of crisp and delicious.”

  He ordered her to sit, served them both breakfast, commanding,

  “Eat first, talk after.”

  She asked,

  “Is that Zen?”

  He smiled, said,

  “No, that’s hunger.”

  The omelet was heaven, laced with a hint of a spice. She gasped,

  “God, this is good.”

  He said,

  “And not a magic mushroom in the mix.”

  Finished, they sat back, sipped the Darjeeling tea, and he told her about the new player, Mason, the official PI. She said she would run a background check, adding ruefully,

  “If I’m still allowed to use the computer at work.”

  Stewart wasn’t big on self-pity and asked about the attack on her.

  He considered, moved into a lotus position on the chair, said, “First Malachy, then a handicapped man murdered, and now you. And one of your attackers referring to your sexual orientation.”

  She asked,

  “You think they’re connected?”

  He wasn’t sure, said,

  “Sometimes, you need Jack’s crazy view on things. He sees weird patterns that a normal person would miss.”

  Ridge nearly smiled. Whatever else, Jack would never be condemned as normal. She asked,