Headstone

by Ken Bruen

  “She was on fire with pure hatred.”

  Headstone, I thought.

  Then I’d leave as his old head began to droop and sleep claimed him. A nurse stopped me one evening, said,

  “You’re a grand man to visit the priest like you do. You must love him very much.”

  I had no reply to that, if she only knew.

  She added,

  “Is he related?”

  Now I could answer, said,

  “Only through drink.”

  My black eye was now in the yellow phase, like having jaundice. I had tried so hard not to think of Loyola and his death in the cold water outside the cottage he loved and regarded as a refuge. Time to do something about it. I dressed to intimidate: black jeans, black T-shirt, heavy black scarf, and my Garda coat. The Mossberg fitting snugly in the pocket. I took a Xanax, a wee drop of Jay, muttered,

  “By all that’s holy.”

  And went to the house previously occupied by Father Loyola. I didn’t bring port. Knew the lady would be long gone. Rang the bell, it was answered by a Barbie doll. Cross my heart, a real cutesy pie. Maybe twenty but not anything over. Jesus, at her age, I was security for a Thin Lizzy concert, right before Phil Lynott died.

  She was heartaching gorgeous and as if in deference, she wore a heavy silver cross round her neck. God forgive me but all it served to do was accentuate her wondrous cleavage. Her clothes were the thin side of provocative. She asked, in a cultured voice tinged with the American twang beloved of Irish young people,

  “Help you?”

  Jesus, count the ways.

  She clocked my hearing aid, my bruised eye, the black glove on my right hand. Nothing there to suggest any help…. could help. I said,

  “I’ve an appointment with Father Gabriel.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip and I knew if she had gum, she’d probably have blown a bubble. I said,

  “No need to show me the way.”

  Pushed past her. I didn’t knock on the door of the study, simply barged in. Gabriel was sitting behind a splendid new oak desk, a Galway crystal tumbler of booze at his right hand. The walls were adorned with photos of him with the guys with the juice. Most of whom were now facing indictments on all sorts of fraud, embezzling, theft. I focused on the one with him and Clancy, on the golf course, golden smiles and empty eyes. He managed, “Jack, what a surprise; this is unexpected.”

  I gave him my best smile. Even if my teeth had been real, the sentiment never would be. I sat in the armchair opposite him, lovely soft napa leather that whispered,

  “Relax.”

  He asked,

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I said,

  “Give me a shot of whatever it is you’re having.”

  He had his control back, said,

  “This is not really a good time.”

  I said,

  “Make it good.”

  He glanced at the phone on his desk, one of those fake fucking antique jobs that cost a fortune, then decided to ride it out, reached in a drawer, produced a bottle of Laphroaig, then a glass, poured a smallish measure, pushed it across the desk. I said,

  “Ah, Johnny Depp’s favorite drink.”

  Contempt flowed easily now. He said,

  “I really wouldn’t know. Pop trivia is not my forte.”

  I said,

  “He’s a movie star, but shite, that is one good drink.”

  It was.

  Like the smooth lie of an insincere priest. I said,

  “Though, is it not a bit unpatriotic of you not to support the home side, like a decent bottle of Jameson? God knows, the economy could use all the help it can get.”

  He was tired of me already, asked in a weary tone,

  “Was there something?”

  I made a show of looking around, asked,

  “Where’s the housekeeper?”

  We both knew I didn’t mean Barbie.

  He made a dry sucking sound with his teeth, not an easy feat, but then, who’d want it to be? He said,

  “Not really your concern but she had divided loyalties.”

  I pushed,

  “Where is she now?”

  Exasperation oozed from him. He took a fine nip of the fine booze, patriotism notwithstanding, said,

  “I’ve absolutely no idea.”

  And the thought/sentinel riding point was,

  “And I could give a fuck.”

  Reared in the school of not giving a fuck, I recognized a fellow pilgrim.

  Time to up the ante, get him focused.

  I stood up and he was about to smile, thinking I was leaving. Used my left hand to free the Mossberg, pumped a shell into the chamber. The sound was awesome; you could have heard a nun drop. Momentarily startled, he managed to rein it in, said, “Such theatrics Taylor. You’re going to shoot a priest?”

  Now he laughed, at the sheer absurdity of the thought. The bollix hadn’t been out much, it seemed. The laugh galvanized me, I was across the desk like I actually had the energy, the barrel jammed into his tanned cheek. I said,

  “Great movie, available on DVD, Mesrine, classic French cinema. In it, Mesrine said, There are no rules, like me. I live without rules. You get my drift I’d hazard. Here’s the gig: you find the housekeeper and give her the money you ‘recovered’ from poor old Loyola. Sound fair?”

  He was shaken, it’s hard not to be when a Mossberg is jammed into your face, but fair dues, he did rally, managed,

  “Or what?”

  I admire spirit, truly appreciate cojones in the face of a barrel but, truth to tell, I didn’t like this slimy bastard, simple as that. I pulled the trigger an inch from his ear, blowing a hole in the wall almost the size of the Greek national deficit. Then the sound of running feet and the babe-slash-housekeeper burst in. I said, “Fuck off, and if I hear the phone, you’ll be joining this dude.”

  She took off.

  I felt reasonably certain, not for the phone.

  Gabriel was meanwhile whining,

  “My ear, my ear, I can’t hear.”

  Fucking tell me about it.

  I stepped back from the desk, adjusted my hearing aid, said,

  “I can suggest a good ear man.”

  He grabbed his glass, hands trembling, said,

  “Taylor, you’ve no idea of what you’re getting into. The Brethren have a very severe code of punishment.”

  I moved back to my seat, facing him, asked,

  “Like, say, drowning a helpless old man. Are you actually threatening me?”

  The smirk was creeping back, not only to his face but to his very tone. He said,

  “You can take it as a guarantee.”

  He was either very drunk or very stupid. I grabbed the bottle, asked,

  “May I?”

  Even added a drop to his glass, I’m not vindictive… much. Asked,

  “An actual threat from a man of the cloth, this is really something. You are serious, right?”

  He lifted his glass, assured he’d regained the higher ground, back in control, the peasant in his place. I took a swig of the drink. It was smooth, smooth as false hope. I sat back, lit up a cigarette, just to see the flicker of annoyance on his movie star face, clicked the Zippo, twice, asked,

  “You hear that?”

  He was all done with my idiocy, began to reach for a file, said,

  “I can hear fine now…”

  I held up my damaged hand, said,

  “Sh… ussh.”

  God forgive me, it’s a rush to do that to a priest. They’d been trying for bloody centuries to keep us quiet, so throwing it back was a blast, if not indeed blasphemy. I put the Mossberg on the oak desk, would love if he tried for it, reached in my jacket, took out a slim silver recorder. Bought it earlier in the day from the Army and Navy Shop. They even sold grenades, collector’s items. Asked,

  “Ready?”

  Hit the play button.

  His face took a serious drop as he heard his rich, clear voice.
/>   I let it play, then pressed stop.

  Put it back in my jacket, said,

  “There will be two copies of this. One goes to Garda headquarters in Dublin, unless your golfing buddy Clancy really wants a copy? And the second to my friend Kosta.”

  He was speechless. Maybe he could join a Silent Disorder.

  I continued,

  “Kosta I don’t think you’d like much. He hates priests and for some odd reason has a real hard-on for you. He got me the Mossberg and, cross my bedraggled heart, I love him dearly but it has to be said, he’s a nutter, your out-and-out psycho. The kind of guy who’d cut your balls off and shove them in your mouth. Or so they say. I haven’t actually seen it but I think it’s probably true. And here’s the best bit. You ready? He regards me as his great friend. Go figure, huh? Anyway, sorry for rambling on like a priest on a Sunday sermon, the point is, if anything… anything happens to me, I were you, I’d hope the Guards came before Kosta. So you see, I don’t like to be crude but I have you by the… nuts.”

  I stood up, drained my glass, put the gun back in my jacket, said, “Keep it in your pants, padre.”

  The housekeeper was standing by the door, her face ablaze with anger and fury. She glared at me. I said,

  “Alanna, I’m not the enemy. Your boss in there, he had the previous occupant of this house put in the river.”

  She spat in my face.

  I let the spittle dribble down my cheek, no attempt to stop it, stared at her. She began to move back. I pulled off the glove, put my stumped fingers right in her face, lied,

  “Your precious employer, the saintly Gabriel in there, he did that to me because he suspected I knew some things. I have one question for you.”

  She was transfixed by the ugly remains of my hand, muttered,

  “What?”

  I pulled the glove back, asked,

  “What does he think you know?”

  Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there.

  – Miles Davis

  The call from Kosta was unexpected. He began,

  “Jack, you extended me the hospitality of your home. I’d like to repay the courtesy.”

  It occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about him, and yet we had a deep, almost ferocious, bond. I said,

  “Of course.”

  He gave me the address, in Taylor’s Hill, our own upper-class part of the city, home to doctors and other professionals. He asked if I could be there by five and I said, sure. Then he added,

  “I need your help, my friend.”

  “You have it.”

  A pause, then,

  “Thank you. Please bring the Mossberg.”

  Jesus.

  Was I being invited to dinner or murder?

  Taylor’s Hill still retains those glorious houses, set well back from the road, with large carefully tended gardens. Kosta’s was midway, huge hedges almost shielding it but you could glimpse the majesty of the building. Built when money was used lavishly on homes. I opened a heavy wrought iron gate, and, instantly, two heavies were on me. Front and back. I said,

  “Whoa, easy guys, I’m Taylor, and expected.”

  The one facing me, all hard mean muscle, gave me a cold calculating look, then spoke into a lapel microphone, waited. Everybody wanted to be an FBI clone. He motioned,

  “Pass.”

  Not big on chat those guys. I moved up to the house, three stories of Connemara granite and kept scrupulously clean. I rang the bell and wondered if a maid would answer the door. Did people have them anymore? Apart from the clergy, of course. Kosta answered. He was dressed in a navy blue tracksuit, not unlike Ridge’s, trainers, a white towel round his neck. He greeted, “Welcome to my home, Jack Taylor.”

  Waved me in. A long hallway was lined with paintings. I know shite about art but I do know about cash and here was serious dough in frames. The only painting I had was of Tad’s Steak-house in New York. He led me to a book-lined study. Not the books-for-show variety; you could see they’d been well used. Comfortable armchairs in front of a roaring log fire. Few things as reassuring as that. When I looked closer, I could see it was turf. A man who knew the country. He indicated I sit after I shucked off my coat. Left it close by. He offered a drink and I said,

  “Whatever you’re having yourself.”

  “Gin and tonic?”

  “Great.”

  He didn’t ask about on the rocks. Serious drinkers don’t do ice. I settled in the chair, putting the Mossberg on the carpet. Maybe he wanted it back. Got my drink, and he sat, reflected for a moment as he gazed into the fire, the flames throwing what seemed like a halo on his bald skull. Like Michael Chiklis in The Shield.

  The Mossberg rested-a lethal snake-near his feet. He said,

  “To good friends.”

  “Amen.”

  He liked that answer. Took a large wallop of his drink, savored, then swallowed, said,

  “Genever.”

  Dutch?

  I’ve found nodding sagely stands you in good stead when you don’t have a fucking clue.

  I nodded sagely.

  He let out a deep….Ah.

  I knew we were now at the main event. He said,

  “Jack, like you, I live my life to the minimum.”

  He was kidding, right?

  Bodyguards, a huge house… not really Zen. He continued, “I have few friends, and you I regard as one. My history is violent but we don’t need to dwell on that. I have one daughter, her name is Irini

  … means peace.”

  Stopped.

  Fuck, I hoped we weren’t in sharing mode. No way was I reliving Serena-May and the tragedy.

  Pain ran across his eyes, took hold as he said,

  “She is… otherworldly. Very beautiful, with a true purity of spirit. I have always, siempre, always protected her.”

  I believed him.

  He said, slowly,

  “But I was detained for nearly two years. She met a man named Edward Barton.”

  He spat into the fire, continued,

  “A Londoner, he smelled money, married her, and by the time I was

  … undetained, they had a daughter. This precious girl is five years of age now.”

  Something had entered the room. Apart from the dark evening full set and the foul weather, it was a pervading sense of impending doom. Blame the genever, I guess. He suddenly was on his feet, grabbed a bottle, refuelled us. Then put the bottle back, sat again, all his body language reeking of rage and spittle. The line of his jaw was a study in controlled ferocity. He said,

  “I despise this Edward. A lowlife, a rodent, rank in every way. I put such shit under my heel every week but Irini pleaded with me to be …”

  He paused again as he searched for a word that wouldn’t blow a hole through his face, said,

  “Lenient. This man has spent all the money I had put aside for her. OK. I can deal with that. Money is not the issue, but then she comes to me, tells me this… man, is… abusing their daughter.” He let out a torrent of bile and obscenities that were nearly impressive in their range-if you weren’t sitting a few feet from the source, realizing he was close to losing it. And a loaded weapon at his feet, serious booze in his hand and system. You get the picture. He looked into the fire as a large piece of turf fell, and I’d swear I saw tears. A woman crying is always a man’s undoing. But to see a man cry, fuck, especially a man like him, it was a knife in the soul that would forever leave its imprint. I stayed with the sage gig, i.e., I said fuck all. He reined it in, took a deep breath, said,

  “I am meeting this Edward soon, this evening. He needs more money. As he is not so stupid to be unaware of my reputation, he insisted on a public place. Nimmo’s Pier? You know this?”

  Oh, shite, did I ever. Bad, bad history there.

  He checked his watch, a slim Philippe Patek. I know of what I can never afford. He said,

  “I’m to meet him in one hour.”

  I knew where this was going so I volunteered for my own lynchi
ng, despite the fact he had thugs in the garden and God knows where else. I said,

  “Would you like me to come along?”

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  His gratitude was embarrassing. We both knew why I was here.

  He said,

  “My regular employees, you met two on your arrival-they are as loyal as money.”

  I nodded, said with a sinking heart,

  “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  We stood and he didn’t thank me. If gratitude was a condition of our friendship, I wouldn’t be there. He took me out to a large garage with a line of cars, selected a beat-up Volvo. Cops use them for one reason: below the radar. Before he put the car in gear, he flipped the glove department, expertly caught the Glock that tumbled out. He checked to be sure it was primed, said, “Jack, my terrible dilemma is this: I can’t harm the man. He knows that, my promise to my daughter, so he feels… invincible.”

  We sat there as he waited for my answer, which could be nothing other than,

  “I haven’t promised.”

  He smiled, put the car in first, said,

  “Acrivos.” (Greek for exactly.)

  We got there early, and to fill the time, I told him about Father Gabriel and the drowning of Loyola. He produced a silver flask, drank from it, handed it to me, and I didn’t wipe the top, took a swig. He said,

  “Stoli.”

  Strong is what I thought, thank God.

  From where we were parked, we could see across the bay, the lights of Quay Street, beckoning to come party. He moved to get his back comfortable, said,

  “One more thing, Jack. He has a driver, a new one, some Romanian trash named Caz.”

  Oh, shite.

  Christ on a bike, no. My decade-long, sometimes friend. He’d done the thing that counts in my narrow book: he’d come to see me in hospital-brought booze, too. In those ten years he’d been around a lot of, let’s say, under-the-gun stuff I did. He worked with the Guards as a translator for the Romanian refugees, and he could not only have scored major brownie points with Clancy by selling me out but got paid as well and secured his always precarious position as a nonnational. Superintendent Clancy was, yes, that keen to see me go down.

  And, simply, deep down, I just liked him. Doesn’t need any more analysis.