Headstone

by Ken Bruen

“See this? They sliced off my fingers. How many days you figure for me to de-stress every time I look at it?”

  He fucked off.

  Next up was the woman who spoke about the wonderful strides in artificial aids. I let her yammer on and she took my silence for interest, finally wound down, asked,

  “Which appendage do you think you might most be interested in?”

  I said,

  “The one that allows me to swing a hurley.”

  Threw her. She said,

  “I don’t follow?”

  But I felt she was truly trying to help, so I went easy.

  Well, easier, said,

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  The nurses liked me.

  Actually that’s a lie.

  One did.

  She enjoyed the runaround I gave the highfalutin consultants, said,

  “You’re a terrible man.”

  I agreed.

  She had some edge so I liked her, anything to get away from the freaking platitudes I’d been listening to. She said,

  “You’re fierce cranky.”

  I said,

  “Give me a few shots of Jameson, I’m a teddy bear.”

  She had a great laugh. I love women who laugh with their whole body, not worried if their mascara will run. She said,

  “From the look of you, I’d say you’ve had your fair share of that devil.”

  Any mention of the devil tended to quiet me: too many bad memories of an individual who might/might not have been the Antichrist in person.

  Any further discussion was deferred when she said,

  “You have a visitor.”

  Caz, a Romanian who managed to avoid the periodic roundup of nonnationals for deportation. Ten years he’d been in Galway and had learned, as Louis MacNeice wrote,

  “…all the sly cunning of our race.”

  And I figure he was no slouch to begin with. He’d even acquired a passable Galway accent and was more native than a Claddagh ring. I never knew if we were friends. He was too elusive but we’d known each other a long time and had an arrangement: I’d give, he’d take.

  But he was one of the most reliable sources of gossip in a city that thrived on stories. Add to that, he worked with the Garda as an interpreter for the Romanian community, so he had the ear of the powers that be, sort of. True, he was as trustworthy as the eels that swam in the canal, but I liked him.

  Mostly.

  He was dressed in a Boss leather jacket. I know that item as my surrogate son had once given me one. Both were gone.

  A white sweatshirt with the logo

  “Don’t Sweat It.”

  He said,

  “I’m sorry about what happened to you Jack.”

  “Thanks.”

  He reached in the fine jacket, said,

  “I brought you something.”

  Now I sat up, this was a first, said,

  “If it’s fucking grapes, I’ll strangle you with the fingers I’ve left.”

  He produced a half bottle of Jay, checked the door, handed it to me, and to my left hand. I said,

  “Take the seal off.”

  He did.

  I drank deep and gratefully, handed the bottle to him. He still had the moves, didn’t wipe the neck; that’s class. He took a fairly decent wallop himself, grimaced, said,

  “Slainte.”

  We waited a few minutes to let the Jay do its biz, warm the stomach, promise false hope, and then he asked,

  “How bad is it?”

  “Two fingers.”

  He nodded. He’d literally escaped from a country that was awash in every atrocity known, so “two fingers” wasn’t as stunning to him as it was to your average citizen. We had another drink like two settled friends, the bottle going back and forth. I gave him a brief outline of the Headstone outfit and he pledged to ask around. The Jay and an earlier shot of morphine were taking their toll and he stood, said,

  “It pains me to see you hurt, my friend.”

  I think he actually meant it.

  I hoped I said thanks.

  I do remember he squeezed my shoulder and said,

  “For now, rest. Later, we’ll extract the vengeance of the Romanian.”

  And I did-rest that is.

  Till I came to, a single night-light burning near my bed. I’d dreamt, of my dad and Laura.

  The kind of awful dream that’s so real you can taste it. Everything is OK till you wake and… it ain’t.

  My dad was holding my hand, looking at my fingers, soothing, saying,

  “They’ll heal son, don’t worry.”

  And Laura, she was in the distance, her hand held out, saying softly,

  “But Jack, you have no fingers I can hold.”

  Yeah, like that.

  Jesus wept and then some. I think, I don’t know, but there were tears on my face. Loss is sometimes so palpable. You can almost touch it.

  Almost.

  The single night-light threw an eerie glow across the room. I struggled to sit up, still half caught in the wish desire of the dream, phantom pain in my destroyed hand, and my heart did a jig as I saw a dark figure rise from the chair in the corner. Maybe the light-bringer was back to claim his own. He stood, moved into the dim radiance, and I thought,

  “Yeah, the devil all right.”

  Being afraid is natural.

  Being afraid to do something about it is an insult to life.

  – C

  Father Gabriel.

  Looking immaculate as usual. If the pope can wear Gucci slippers, then no reason why Gabe shouldn’t have his clerical suit made by Armani; it had that cut. His white collar seemed to gleam in the half-light, matching his perfect teeth and discreet tan. He moved like an athlete. He leaned over me, asked,

  “How are you, Jack?”

  Like he gave a good fuck.

  I said,

  “Been better.”

  He made the sign of the cross over me. I wish I could say it was a comfort but, from him, it was like a curse. He smelled of some great aftershave. Man, this guy was a player.

  But at what?

  He said,

  “The Brethren have been praying for you.”

  What? That I’d croak?

  I nodded, trying to appear appreciative. He reached in his elegant jacket, produced a fat envelope, left it on the bed, said,

  “Your bonus, and I think you’ll find it more than generous.”

  I asked,

  “You found Loyola then?”

  He gave a radiant smile, gave more illumination than the measly night-light, said,

  “Your information was spot on. A job well done. Your church will remember the great service you performed on its behalf.”

  I pushed,

  “So, what happens to Loyola now?”

  The smile was still in place but it had eased. He said,

  “Back in the flock. All is well in God’s world.”

  Fucking guy didn’t get out much it seemed.

  He added,

  “Now Jack, don’t concern yourself anymore with that. You must focus on recovery and bask in the task you did so admirably for Mother Church.”

  He was so slick, so polished, you could almost believe him. I kept at it, though,

  “The money that Loyola nicked, got it back, I guess?”

  He touched my shoulder, said,

  “Jack, you fret too much. Be assured, all is restored.”

  His touch was like brushing against a cobra, the venom just waiting to be released, and his eyes had hardened. I asked,

  “You ever read Tim McLaurin?”

  The tolerant smile. He said,

  “Oh, Jack, if only we all had the time to read as much as you, but no, I haven’t.”

  I figured accounts sheets were more his forte. I said,

  “Esse Quam Videm.”

  He finally took his hand off my shoulder, leaned back, said,

  “Latin? I should really know the meaning but one’s memory is not what it was.”


  This fuck remembered how much he got on his First Holy Communion and who gave what. I smiled, said,

  “Don’t fret! It means, to be, rather than to be seen.”

  He considered that, then,

  “Meaning?”

  “My doctor, Dr. Boxer, told me that and my meaning is, do I get to see Loyola? Let’s call it a vested interest?”

  I nodded at the fat envelope, continued,

  “Be nice to actually meet the dude who got me such a fine payday.”

  He looked at his watch-yeah, you guessed it: not a freaking Timex, a fine slim gold job-said,

  “I must run Jack, I’ll try and visit soon.”

  And he was gone.

  He made no sound as he slipped from the room. A clerical stealth bomber and, no doubt, this guy was incendiary. I glanced uneasily at the envelope. I should be delighted. Few things give me the blast like counting money, especially if it belongs to me. But the term tainted was rooted in my head. Something was off center and I knew in my heart that, whatever else, I hadn’t, as he said, performed a great service for Mother Church. Betrayal touched my tongue like blood in my mouth.

  My favorite nurse came in to settle me, said,

  “Isn’t that a lovely aftershave? What is it?”

  “Treachery.”

  She looked at me, said,

  “The names they give these new fragrances these days. Men are getting better aromas than women.”

  Like I’d know.

  She had gotten me a sleeper and I said,

  “You’re an angel.”

  “Ah, go away with that. You wouldn’t know an angel if it flapped its wings in your face.”

  But I did know their opposite number-and all too fucking well.

  She fluffed my pillows, saw the envelope, said,

  “You got a card?”

  I didn’t answer and she asked,

  “Are you all right Jack? You seem down in yourself?”

  “I’m good, honest, just a bit weary.”

  And wary.

  After she’d gone, I did count the money; it was a lot, an awful lot.

  I was due to be discharged in a few days but I caught an infection, it developed into a fever, and I was semi-comatose for another two weeks. I dreamt a lot of Laura and my surrogate son, and would come to, bathed in sweat, my heart hopping in my bedraggled chest. Sorrow was like a constant cloud over me and lashed me in every way it could. Times, too, I woke to an irritating itch in my hand, no fingers to do the necessary, and despair loomed larger than at almost any time in my banjaxed existence.

  I do remember a patient strolling into my room a few times. I think his name was Anthony but I wouldn’t swear to it. He liked to sit and read the papers, aloud, saying,

  “Keep you up to date with what you’re missing.”

  What, like my fingers, my fucking life, Laura?

  I’d drift in and out of fever as he read on.

  One particular morning, as the fever was finally abating, he read.

  I’d missed the first few lines but caught… Medals to the families of captain Dave O’Flaherty, Sergeant Paddy Mooney, and Corporal Niall Byrne. The Minister said, despite adverse conditions, the crew had responded with the Air Corps search and service motto…GO MAIRIDIS BEO (that others may live). The Minister deeply regretted the shameful length of time it had taken to acknowledge their sacrifice. The Bakers said, “We don’t wish for a medal for our son. It won’t compensate for the cover-up and the mishandling of the affair.”

  I really believe that piece moved my recovery onwards, the cover-up lingered in my mind and if heroes, as those amazing men were, could be doubted, it was time for me to get my act together and get out of there.

  The Brothers

  …Grimm

  Jimmy and Sean Bennet, the worker bees of the Headstone crew, were born to wealth-not quite in the same league as Bine, but definitely in the neighborhood. They’d gone to the same flash boarding school as he had but he was a few years ahead and he shone, in sports, grades, popularity. The golden boy. The brothers, alas, didn’t shine in one single area, save surliness. To their amazement, the senior boy, the wunderkind, took an interest in them.

  Approached them one day as yet again they sat miserably on the football field, unchosen. He said,

  “Guys, you wanna go smoke some weed?”

  His accent was quasi-American and as likely to change as his mood. They didn’t know that then. He led them back behind the locker rooms, produced some serious spliff s, offered them over, said,

  “Fire ’em up; let’s get wasted.”

  They did.

  He spouted a lot of shite about superior races, Darwin, and making your mark. They agreed with everything. He told them he had a nice supply of dope available and needed people he could trust.

  Sean, stoned but still aware, thought,

  “Runners.”

  But, what the hell, they’d do anything he asked; he was the guy. Time came, they got busted-rather, Bine did and laid it off on them. They took the rap and he promised he’d one day repay in history.

  History they were.

  Expelled.

  Bine went on to college and some dark sun continued to light his way.

  The brothers, failures at just about everything, were given a trust fund and basically told to

  “Fend for your miserable selves.”

  They had the money so they got an apartment and spent their time eating junk food, doing dope, watching slash movies. They’d almost forgotten Bine when he came to their apartment one day. Ignoring the squalor of the place, empty takeaway cartons, sink afloat in unwashed dishes, he said,

  “See, I told you guys I’d be back and your day would come.”

  He was dressed in black: combats, sweatshirt, Doc Martens. He embraced them both-it was a long time since any person had touched them in any form-and said,

  “The day has come, my crew.”

  If he noticed the shithole they were living in, he didn’t comment. No one else did either as no one else ever came. He produced a bottle of Wild Turkey and a nice bundle of nose candy. Said,

  “Mi amigos, get wasted and then we’ll talk.”

  They did, did some serious lines, washed down with the bourbon in heavy dollops. They were sitting at the battered remains of what had once been a valuable antique table: not no more. The brothers had seen to that. Bine sat back, said,

  “Kay, here’s the gig. Firstly, my name is now Bine and I want to ask you guys a question.”

  The brothers looked at each other, then nodded.

  He asked,

  “Your miserable lives going anywhere?”

  Jimmy took the insult easily, he was used to it, but Sean didn’t much care for it. He answered, said,

  “We have some plans.”

  Bine threw back his head, laughed loudly, scoffed,

  “Right, like watching Tarantino, Rodriguez movies, eating fast food, and doing weed.”

  All true.

  Bine added,

  “Like to be in your own real-life movie, make a real name for yerselves, get splashed on the front pages of every paper in the country?”

  Sure.

  Who wouldn’t?

  He said,

  “But the thing is, it takes cojones to make that kind of impact and I wonder if you guys have what it takes.”

  Sean said,

  “Bring it on.”

  Bine gave a glorious smile, said,

  “Simple test.”

  Jimmy, wanting to keep current, said,

  “Yeah, what you got?”

  Bine had a battered holdall, reached in and pulled out a gun, said, “See this? It’s your real Colt. 45. My old man paid a fortune for it. Take a look.”

  It was black, shiny, and for all the world like the one Clint used in his westerns. Jimmy said,

  “Fucking beauty.”

  Bine produced one single bullet, inserted it and spun the barrel, said,

  “Here’s where we see what you go
t?”

  He put the gun to his head, pulled the trigger.

  Click… nada.

  He inverted the gun, handed it to Sean, barrel first, asked,

  “Wanna play?”

  Sean didn’t even think, analyse or swirl the barrel. He put it to his head, pulled the trigger.

  Click… nada.

  Then grabbed the Turkey, drank straight from the bottle.

  Bine said,

  “My kind of guy, like Clooney said in From Dusk Till Dawn, you are in my cool book.”

  They turned to Jimmy, whose whole life was a movie; he just wished he had a bandanna so he could be Chris Walken in The Deer Hunter. He took the Colt, made a dramatic show of spinning the chamber, and then put it to his head.

  For one lucid moment, Sean nearly cried,

  “Fuck’s sake, stop.”

  He didn’t rate much in the world of bile and hatred he inhabited. But Jimmy, Jesus, Jimmy was all he had, and…without him? The gun cocked and, almost in slow motion, the hammer came down.

  Click….not this day.

  Sean realized he was sweating and Jimmy whooped,

  “Fucking A, way cool, dude.”

  Bine smiled, he had the two stupid bollixes in the palm of his brilliant hand.

  He said,

  “Group hug guys, you passed.”

  Sean wasn’t wild about this shite but went with it. Bine laid out some celebratory lines, said,

  “The family that cokes together croaks together.”

  Jimmy thought that was hilarious.

  Bine straightened up, the coke hitting him fast, said,

  “Here’s the plan.”

  Laid it out.

  Jimmy would have agreed to anything but Sean thought it was way out there. Bine said,

  “Now we begin. Jimmy, your first job is to go to a graveyard and get us a headstone.”

  Sean was beginning to think he was in a movie by Sam Raimi, asked, “A headstone?”

  Bine moved to his feet in an easy almost elegant way, said,

  “From now on, we have to have certain rules:

  One, you don’t question my orders.

  Two, I say jump, you ask, how high?”

  Sean was thinking, like fuck.

  Bine tossed the Colt to Sean, said,

  “My gift to you and Headstone. It’s our name and it’s where we are going… to lay every fuckhead this side of the Shannon.” He then went off on a rant about the losers, the scum, the parasites, and how they personally would make a statement to rid the country of all the flotsam.

  What snared Sean was when Bine asked,