by Ken Bruen
“You had some dealings with a so-called PI named Taylor?”
Jesus, Sean was shocked, how could he know that?
And that fire of rage that burned in Sean for that man. A few years back, Sean was, he thought, doing good with a babe in a nightclub. Sean ever doing anything with a girl was a nonstarter and so, OK, she was protesting but Sean was flying on dust when this bouncer, an ex-cop, filling in for that one night, grabbed him, said,
“You wanna be a rapist.”
Him? Sean… rape?
And in the middle of the club, he had beaten Sean mercilessly, to the jeers and delight of the clubbers.
And then dragged Sean, literally by his hair, very long then, to the door, put his shoe in his arse, said,
“I see you again, I won’t go so easy.”
Before Sean could ask anything, Bine said,
“He’s on the list.”
Sean was sold.
Later Sean would realize that Bine knew exactly what buttons to press for whomever he needed. It was like a black gift.
Bine ranted on again about Darwin and about the superior races and a lot of stuff that Sean tuned out till Bine said,
“There’s another member of our crew.”
The brothers waited for this revelation.
But Bine was thinking how much these two eejits reminded him of the Menendez brothers. Not that it mattered.
Much.
He never intended them to survive C-Day anyway and if by any chance they did, he’d off the stupid fucks himself. Jimmy he regarded as simply fodder but he didn’t much care for the looks Sean gave him. Time to sweeten the pie. He said,
“There’s a girl-sweet, sweet wee fang.”
Sean nearly groaned. The rants were easier to listen to than the awful American twang.
He let that sink in.
Jimmy simply drooled. Sean waited, so Bine continued,
“Name of Bethany, but don’t let her gorgeous body fool you.
This is a lethal fox and you disher, she’d have your balls for a bracelet.”
He reached in his jacket and Sean thought,
“What, he’s got, like, a photo?”
It was a list.
He said,
“I want that last taken care of ASAP.”
Then threw a shitload of euros on the table.
Jimmy was thinking, takeaway pizza. Sean was thinking, phewoh, large-denomination notes. Bine said,
“Where was I? Oh, right, Beth. She’s my fuck buddy, but you guys do right by me, I’ll give you some of that sweet meat.” Finally, he put a Stanley knife on the battered table, said,
“Use this as much as possible. Call it a sentimental quirk.”
He made to leave, paused, said,
“Keep this in mind.”
He paused for effect, then said,
“More rage, more rage, remember what our guys said: it’s humans I hate.”
He looked at Sean.
“Look it up, you’re a bright kid.”
As he got to the door, he added,
“Here’s a hint, we’re going to kick-start a revolution, I’ve declared war on the human race and war is what it is.”
He withheld the other part of that rant:
“You guys will all die and it will be fucking soon.”
Revenge Tango
– Jerry A. Rodriguez
It’s quite difficult to get beaten up in hospital. I mean, apart from the Saturday night war zone of the A and E. That’s open season as the skels, the drunks, the dopers, the crazies, show up. Plus, I don’t mean the arrogance of the consultants who verbally cut you to shreds at every opportunity. Despite the array of marauding infections, if you actually have a bed, you are reasonably safe.
You’d think.
Right?
I was almost fully recovered from the virus I’d picked up and feeling, if not exactly healthy, at least less battered. Lord in heaven, I’d even managed some nights’ sleep without aids. Day before my discharge, I woke or rather was dragged from my sleep. A burly man had a ferocious grip on my pajamas top and was hauling me upright. It took me a few moments to grasp this was real, not part of the recent fever. I tried to focus and then recognized Liam, the ex-Guard who owned the pub in Ough-terard. I’d phoned him about Father Loyola under the pretext of booking a table at his restaurant and quizzed him as to the fugitive priest’s location. He’d fallen for my story and confirmed that Loyola was staying near Oughterard.
Liam was one of those old-style cops you rarely see much anymore. Big, built like a shithouse, and rough as bejaysus. He’d been a fierce hurler, one of the best, and we’d played together a few times. He took no prisoners, ever. Regular methods of policing held no interest for him; his fists were his investigative technique.
His face was testament to his career: bruised, the nose broken many times, the skin mottled by rosacea and a riot of broken veins. He drank like he played hurling. Like a lunatic. Spittle leaked from his lips as he shouted,
“You lying piece of shite, Taylor.”
As a wake-up call, it sure beats tea and toast. It gets you wide-awake.
Fast.
Before I could speak, he drew back his mighty fist and smashed it to the right side of my face. It bounced me off the bed frame. He was about to follow through when he noticed my emaciated chest through my torn top. He pulled the punch. When my head cleared a bit, I gasped,
“What the hell did I do?”
He considered that second punch, said,
“You phoned me, you treacherous bollix, got me to confirm Loyola’s home.”
I tried to pull together the tattered top, grab, if not dignity, at least a wee modicum of decency, asked,
“So, what’s the big deal?”
Bad, bad mistake.
He punched me in the kidneys and I’d have thrown up the breakfast I hadn’t yet had. He spat,
“You told somebody and guess what? Guess fucking what, Mr. Private Eye. Three days after I talk to you, that lovely man is found floating in the river outside his cottage.”
I muttered,
“Sweet Jesus.”
He moved back from the bed, having caught sight of my mutilated hand, said,
“They say your fingers were sliced off.”
Delicately put.
He was spent. I guess kicking the living shit out of a half-dead guy in a hospital bed has its drawbacks. He said,
“You know, Jack, I used to like you. You were always as odd as two left feet but I thought you had some principles.”
I tried,
“What a terrible accident for that poor man.”
Jesus, he nearly blew again, roared,
“Accident! Accident my arse.”
I didn’t know what to say, my right cheek was already swelling and I knew, from past experience, I’d have one beauty of a black eye. I mumbled,
“I’m sorry.”
He was at the door, said,
“I’m sorry too, sorry they didn’t cut your balls off.
Two days later, finally, I was released. Ireland was coming to the end of the freakish three-week period of freezing ice and snow. People had broken hips, bones, on footpaths deadly with black ice. The government had imported salt from Spain.
Fuck, I knew we were short of most everything, especially irony, but salt?
Come on.
The salt was to cover the roads.
Schools were closed, water was rationed, pipes were burst or frozen, we’d already entered the Apocalypse. You don’t get to leave hospital without stern diatribes from a doctor. Mine warned me about the phantom feelings I’d have in my lost fingers. I nearly said,
“Rubbing salt in the wounds?”
Went with,
“All my feelings are ghosts anyway.”
He stared at my now impressive black eye. I said,
“I fell out of bed and, no, I won’t sue.”
He, God bless him, prescribed some heavy painkillers, cautioned,
“Avoi
d alcohol while taking them.”
I’d have winked but my eye still hurt.
They insist on wheeling you to the door in a wheelchair till you are safely off the premises. Break your arse on the ice outside, they could give a fuck. Stewart was waiting outside, dressed in a fetching Gore-Tex coat and a Trinity scarf wrapped round his neck. He didn’t go there but, then, who did? I was so glad to see him but did I show it? Did I fuck.
He said,
“I asked the hospital to notify me on your release.”
My legs were unsteady from disuse and my limp had roared back with a vengeance. First thing, I lit a cig, Stewart frowned and I snapped,
“Don’t fucking start.”
He sighed, said,
“The car is over here, I’ll swing it round.”
I began to walk, slowly, badly, but doing it. Dizziness from nicotine, the cold, freedom, jostled to land me on my arse but I stayed, if not steady, at least moving. I said,
“I’ll be in the River Inn, and who knows, I might even buy you lunch.”
The ice was even worse than I expected and it took me twenty minutes to maneuver the short distance. Getting in there-ah, bliss. The waitress who’d served Gabriel and me like what seemed a lifetime ago, certainly Loyola’s life, exclaimed,
“By all that’s holy, Jack, what on earth happened to you?”
I said,
“I got religion.”
She was well used to not understanding a word I said but she liked me anyway. Led me to a corner table and I ordered a large toddy. She said,
“And why wouldn’t you? And this is on me.”
Such people kill me. Give me the arseholes, the head fucking bangers, the predators, and I can function, but a truly nice person. .. it makes me want to weep.
I was settled in a comfortable chair, watching the wind rage outside, the hot Jay before me, trying to prise the top off the painkiller tube, when Stewart arrived. He took it all in but said nothing. On the good side of the hot spirit, the pills doing their alchemy, I let out my breath. Stewart watching me, like a dejected Siamese cat, asked,
“How’d you get the black eye?”
“The nurses didn’t like me.”
He nearly smiled, then told me, without emotion, of Ridge receiving my fingers in the mail and the continual apparently random attacks on the frail and vulnerable. I said,
“Let me guess, the victims are all different from the so-called ordinary citizens?”
Those Zen eyes allowed a small surprise. He asked,
“Go on.”
I told him of the speech the bastard had given me before he used the knife. He stared at me, asked,
“Close your eyes for a second, visualize the scene.”
I finished my drink, my stomach already warm and fuzzy, asked,
“Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m trying like a banker to blank out the whole thing.”
He persisted,
“Do you trust me Jack?”
Jesus, what a question.
I didn’t trust me own self, never mind anybody else.
Fuck.
Before I could utter some lame shite like
“Sure….but…” he held up his index finger, said,
“This will be brief, I promise. Focus on my finger and then hear me count from ten.”
I thought,
“Bollocks.”
And then-whiteout.
Literally.
Where did I go?
What happened?
To this bloody day, I’ve no idea. One of those terrible ironies of alcoholism, striving for numbness and terrified of losing control.
What the Brits call a conundrum.
Great word and I might actually understand what it means someday.
Stewart was tapping my shoulder, saying,
“You did great; it’s done.”
Took me a moment to refocus. I wasn’t in hospital, unless they’d installed a bar on the wards and don’t rule out the possibility. I wasn’t being tortured, I think, and I felt pretty OK. I asked,
“What did you do?”
He shrugged, no biggie, said,
“Just a mild hypnosis.”
I asked,
“Did I give up my ATM number?”
He nearly smiled, said,
“You remembered a name, the name of the guy who gave the ethnic cleansing speech.”
I was impressed, asked,
“Who is he?”
“Bine.”
I nearly choked, spluttered,
“Bine, that’s it? The fuck kind of name is that?”
He was deep in thought, held up a hand, the equivalent of “Sh-issh.”
Which I love.
He said,
“It triggers something. I’m not quite there yet but I’m so close.”
My waitress brought us over two toasted sandwiches, said,
“You’re skin and bone Jack.”
Looked at Stewart, with a blend of interest and amusement, said,
“Don’t worry-yours is vegan.”
He gave her his rare smile and when he did, smile that is, he looked like a kid, a nice one, and it lit her up. He said,
“Thank you so very much.”
I swear to God, I knew her a long time and now she… blushed.
She said,
“Ah, ’tis nothing.”
The winning smile again from my Zen maestro and “Generosity without expectation of recompense is true spirit.” I could tell, like meself, she wasn’t entirely sure what the hell he meant but she loved it; me, not so much. Seeing him revealed, at least a bit, prompted me to tell him about Laura, or maybe I was simply maudlin. He seemed truly sorry, said,
“Isn’t there any way you can fix it? I’ll go to bat for you, tell her what happened.”
I shook my head. Some things you can’t fix. I switched channels, asked about Malachy, he said,
“Still comatose.”
For all his Zen masks, I knew him-knew there was something.
I pushed,
“What else, Stewart?”
He tried a bite of the sandwich, liked it, wiped his mouth, then took a deep breath, told me about Ridge receiving the fingers. I had no answer. None that didn’t involve deep obscenities, profound insanity. I desperately wanted to have another drink but in deference to him, I didn’t. He described the attack on Ridge, too, then he suddenly sat bolt upright, asked,
“The girl. The girl who asked you to find her brother,… what’s his name?”
“Ronan Wall.”
He was cruising into it, asked,
“Describe her.”
I did.
He digested that and whatever wheels were turning in that eerie head of his were at full speed. He said, almost to himself, the sandwich forgotten,
“Bine….abbreviation for…?”
I took a bite of mine; it was good, hint of garlic on the meat and my favorite, mayo, and I told myself, soaks up the booze, so got to be good.
He said,
“When they made the attempt on Ridge, there was a girl, a Goth type, and she sounds a whole lot like the girl you just described under hypnosis.”
Time for me to add something. I said,
“This group, I figure, four core members. Worse, these attacks, I think they are only a foretaste of the main event.”
“Like what?”
I didn’t know, said,
“I don’t know. They could easily have killed me when they had the chance. But, let me think, OK, it’s like they’re holding me for the main event. That make any sense to you?”
It didn’t.
So I blundered on,
“The girl, always the girl. I have a gut feeling, we find her, we bust this maelstrom wide open.”
The pills, the booze, the food, being out of hospital, suddenly ganged up on me. I gasped,
“Jaysus, enough.”
And I couldn’t stifle a huge yawn. Stewart stood, said,
“C’mon Jack, let’s get you h
ome, back to your apartment.”
We left a large tip for our waitress and I could be wrong but did she slip Stewart her phone number and fuck, God forgive me, worse, was I jealous?
Headstones signify a lot of profound thoughts but a drunk on Quay Street said they meant,
You’re beyond fucked.
At Nun’s Island, as we got out of the car, Stewart said,
“Just a second.”
Opened the trunk and took out three large grocery bags. I asked,
“You’re moving in with me?”
He sighed, said,
“Felt you might need some provisions.”
It was such a decent thing to do; you’d be delighted at someone’s care.
Right?
I was wondering if there was booze in there. Fuck the other crap. He carried them up the three flights of stairs, too. Opening the door took a time, as we had to literally push it due to the stack-up of mail. The usual free offers, pizza vouchers, notification of winning millions of euros, and a letter from Laura; I could recognize her handwriting. I stared at it for a few minutes until Stewart asked,
“You going to open it?”
I told the truth, said,
“Maybe later.”
I turned the heat on full and Stewart marveled,
“The place is spotless. I’d have thought, and sorry Jack, but it would be like a… you know, a bachelor pad.”
Translate… filthy.
I didn’t tell him about the professional cleaners. I reached in my jacket, got the envelope Gabriel had given me, and let the contents spill onto the coffee table. A turmoil of large-denomination notes littered the surface, swirled to the carpet, a whirlwind of blood cash. A treasure trove of treachery.
Stewart gasped, muttered,
“They paid you for being in hospital?”
I could have laughed. He asked,
“How much is it?”
I said,
“A lot.”
Stewart began unpacking the goods, asking if there was a special place for things.
I gave him the look, he figured, no. I went to the overhead cupboard, pulled down the Jameson, and said,
“I’m fresh out of herbal tea, unless you bought some.”
Fuck, he did.
And brewed it up. It smelt like vinegar gone south. He’d bought cookies, the healthy ones, the ones they manage to remove everything from, especially the taste. We imbibed our separate feasts and Stewart asked if I’d like him to cook up something?
I said I was good, the sandwich had been plenty. As the latent control freak he was, he began to pick up the money and I near shouted,
