by Ken Bruen
“Ah,”
Shake your head a lot,
Take deep breaths before answering a question,
And, most vital,
Scratch yourself
A lot.
Oh, a combat jacket and scuffed Docs add to the portrait.
And be on the dole as you avail yourself of all the arts council grants.
Attend the lit parties.
Network like a frenzied banshee.
*
Stapleton fooled me for a long time, I truly believed he was my mate.
Phew-oh.
Turned out to be one of the most cunning ice psychos I’d ever had the bad karma to meet. When I drowned him, I said with utter conviction,
“Good fuckin’ riddance.”
Meant it then, mean it now.
*
I stood outside Freeney’s, lost in the past. A guy passing said,
“Hey, Taylor, have you been to the new pub in Bohermore called Harry’s, like some Hemingway vibe, you think?”
All this dark remembrance needed some serious drink, so I went into Harry’s off Water Lane, a new boutique pub.
Yeah, God help us.
Translate as,
“Locals not welcome and we have fierce notions.”
In I went, ordered a hot one. The bar guy had a ponytail—clue one to hostility.
He asked in a beat above disdain,
“What will Sir have?”
Sir.
In fuckin’ Bohermore?
Seriously.
I said, in a measured tone,
“Large hot one, Guinness chaser.”
Pause.
Then,
“Will Sir require cloves?”
Fuck.
I snapped,
“If Sir requires cloves, Sir will be quick to mention it.”
Then dialing it back, I tried,
“Bitter out there.”
He near sneered.
“It is February.”
Gotcha.
I said,
“I didn’t know a reprimand was part of the service.”
Took my drinks, moved to a window, and no sooner than that,
A woman passing did a double take, came in.
Uh-oh.
She had been a showstopper in her day, maybe fifty now but a kind of classical beauty lingered as testament to her former glory. Grief or its neighbor had played hard with her features.
She asked,
“Mr. Taylor?”
“No,”
I said.
“But I am often mistaken for that reprobate.”
She asked,
“May I sit?”
Wouldn’t you fucking know it, the surly bar guy then decides to be affable, goes,
“Need a refill?”
’Course, he could just have been mind-fuckin’.
The woman said, “You are Mr. Taylor.”
I looked at the woman, smiled, said,
“Busted.”
She allowed a minute smile but fleeting, said,
“I know it’s rude to bother people when they’re having some quiet time.”
“’Tis,”
I said.
“Rude.”
She wrung her hands, a gesture that pains my very heart, despair writ small. I noticed her nails were bitten to the inflamed quick, so fuck it, I asked,
“What’s the story?”
Thinking, Oasis, “Morning Glory.”
She began,
“My name is Amy Fadden. My daughter, Rachel, is ten.”
Sob.
“Was ten.
She was drowned, deliberately.”
Phew.
I asked,
“Who drowned her?”
Long silence.
Then,
“A boy named Jimmy Tern.”
She looked at me in utter horror, said,
“Jimmy Tern is eleven.”
“Tern?”
I echoed.
She nodded, said,
“The mayor’s son.”
Oh, fuck.
*
I asked, with skepticism leaking all over my tone,
“He drowned your daughter?”
She said that Tern, Rachel, and a girl named Alison were fooling around in a boat on the canal. Rachel fell in and then Tern leaned over the side of the boat and held Rachel’s head below the water until . . . until . . .
God in heaven.
I tried,
“Go to the Guards, get what’s-her-name, Alison? To tell them what occurred.”
“She won’t.”
I shook my head, asked,
“What on earth can I do?”
She raked her nails along the table, a screeching sound, said,
“Make him talk.”
I felt for her. God knows I knew the grief of losing a child, and I also knew the price you pay for cold and ruthless revenge. I had taken such a step and, as hell is my dark witness, I was glad and am still glad I killed the fucker who took my child. But would she be able to carry the burden of revenge and, worse, or rather more to the point, would I be able to carry the extra weight of payback on her behalf?
She had said,
“Make him talk.”
But we both knew she wanted the ice-cold rush of retaliation. I stood up, said,
“I will talk to him. That I can do, but anything else and I can’t promise what will ensue.”
She grasped my hand, kissed it, swore,
“I’ll make you glad you did.”
I left her with a pounding in my blood, my heart hammering, and my hand scorched from where she’d kissed it.
8
“I think that crime writing is quite serious
And has been accepted as such, but it is about crime.
I couldn’t write a poem about kiddy pornography.
Perhaps my vocabulary is closer to the gutter than not
But it doesn’t mean I’m not serious about what I’m writing.”
Andrew Vachss
I was a little over the limit, truth to tell, and asked my own self,
“Who gives a fuck?”
Looked out across Galway Bay, all the way to the desired U.S., and the ocean rolled back a resounding
“Nobody.”
One of the few lights in my befuddled life was living in an apartment that was opposite the bay. I never ceased to stare and yearn.
I got home after a few fumbled drunken attempts with my key, and was immediately alert.
Somebody had been in again.
My nine-mm was hung in a pea jacket near the door. I slipped it out and ratcheted a round, then, holding it two-fisted like the movie guys, I entered the living room.
What I saw spooked me fast and hard.
In the center of the coffee table a gleaming crystal skull.
I scanned the room. Moonlight cast its beam and gave an eerie glow to the skull. I let the nine rest in one hand, headed for the drinks table, uncorked a bottle of Laphroaig, a present from Johnny Depp.
Kidding.
I got it from the manager of McCambridge’s at Christmas.
It takes a practiced dipso to get the cap off, splash a shot or two into the tumbler, knock it back. It’s a finely tuned act with one hand and even more impressive without taking my eyes off the skull.
Fortified, I approached the table and, fuck me, was I seeing things?
Embedded in the center of the skull was an insignia—
Of the Garda Síochána.
*
Scott had inherited his father’s house, a rambling mess of overgrown garden, built from old Galway granite, and it had an Edgar Allan Poe vibe.
Suited Scott to a maniac T.
His mother, Valiumed to the hilt, asked.
“Is it okay if I stay in the west wing?”
Scott laughed, a malicious, glee-free sound. He said,
“West wing! How very fucking Anglo-Irish.”
His mother tut-tutted, scolded,
“La
nguage.”
Scott glared at her. She didn’t have her husband to back her passive-aggressive taunts. He moved right in her face, asked,
“How polite is this? Get the fuck out of the house by close of business, meaning this evening.”
A mournful dirge she began was interrupted by a special delivery package
Addressed to:
Scott,
Son of prominent dead Garda,
Taylor’s Hill,
Galway.
The courier remarked,
“Odd form of address.”
And lingered on the doorstep
For a tip/explanation?
Scott hit his head in mock exaggeration, said,
“Oh, silly me, you’re waiting for a tip.”
The courier gave an attempt at a modest grin. Scott said,
“Here’s a tip: mind your own fucking business.”
Scott bounced the package in his hand, puzzled.
Opened it carefully.
A disc fell out with play me inscribed.
He did.
A shaky video that showed him crossing the street, shooting Nora McEntee, then hurrying away. The camera panned to reveal a man in a top-floor apartment with a shocked expression. There was a short music track to accompany the shooting.
“Galway Girl.”
By Steve Earle.
Scott then noticed a sheet of paper, read,
Scotty,
Yah mad bastard.
The face in the window is an ex-cop, Jack Taylor.
You need to exercise due care.
You my bitch now.
xxxxxx
Jericho
9
February 2018
The Beast from the East.
Brutal storms, blizzards, snow coming from eastern Europe
Nigh paralyze Europe.
Ireland goes into panic mode.
Three days of utter chaos as the shops empty of food
And a sense of Armageddon prevails.
Sales of toboggans are staggering.
Who knew we even knew what a toboggan was?
Most things we can make an effort at,
But snow?
We don’t do snow.
Ireland stayed in lockdown for five days.
Heavy snow altered the city landscape in a sort of beautiful, flawed fashion.
Supermarkets ran out of all supplies and for two days there was an actual curfew because of the velocity of the winds.
Horror of all, even the pubs shut.
Grim days.
TV news rolled out weather experts who doled out increasingly dour doom-ridden forecasts. I holed up in my apartment, watching the ocean at its fiercest, at its finest.
Had to ration my booze lest the storm continued longer.
Eerie to see the streets so deserted.
On the Saturday, knock on my door, opened it to a young man. Took me a moment to recognize him.
Stapleton’s son.
Fuck.
I asked,
“How did you know where I live?”
He gave an odd smile, asked,
“May I come in? I brought supplies.”
He did indeed have many bags, bulging with food, booze, so
I let him in.
Asked,
“How’d you get all this when the town is literally shut?”
He said,
“My job.”
“Yeah, what do you do?”
“I burgle.”
Not many sane replies to this, so I went with,
“Oh.”
He grabbed a bottle from one of the many bags, said,
“Let’s brew up some hot ones.”
I held up my hand, said,
“Whoa, I don’t even know your name.”
He looked at me, went with,
“The fuck does that matter?”
Said,
“Terry. Mundane, eh?”
I took the bottle from him, shoved it back into the bag, said,
“Okay, Terry, thanks for the thought.”
I gathered up the bags, pushed them at him, opened the door, said,
“You take care now.”
His face turned in an instant, the laid-back guy gone and now a hard stone chill. He said,
“You fucking owe me, Taylor.”
I nearly laughed, said,
“Don’t think so, pal, now on your way.”
“You murdered my old man.”
I near stammered,
“That is ridiculous.”
He smirked, said,
“Not according to the people I talked to.”
I tried to stay cool, asked,
“Any of them offer proof, evidence, even motive?”
He weighed his words, then,
“Apparently you believed he was responsible for the death of a friend of yours.”
I shook my head, said,
“This is Galway. What they don’t know, they invent. Go live your life, leave the past be.”
He gave me a long look, said,
“Keep looking over your shoulder, Taylor, I’ll be around.”
I shut the door in his face.
Did I consider him a threat?
These days, just about everything seemed threatening. He was just one more dark line in a story embedded in darkness.
10
“If his view of life would scare the bejesus out of you,
Nevertheless, he had the courage of his convictions,
And that’s more than the rest of them had.”
George V. Higgins on G. Gordon Liddy,
Watergate burglar
I thought a lot about Amy Fadden and the alleged murder of her daughter.
If, and major if, she had been drowned by the mayor’s son, then a full-scale clusterfuck was in the cards.
Mayor Sean Tern, not a popular guy and very much of the old school type of politics, the
Nod and wink,
Slap your back,
Don’t tell and never show gig.
But he had the juice, meaning money and friends of influence.
What the hell, I felt in the mood for a scrap.
Dressed in white shirt, loose tie, my Garda coat, 501s, Doc Martens. Very much a mixed metaphor, a blend of tough and yet one of the guys.
Headed for town, checking over my shoulder for Stapleton’s son. No doubt he was off preparing a new burglary.
The ferocious beast of a storm had ended after a week of dire conditions and now came the burst pipes, power cuts, and the government assuring us that we’d be back in business soon.
Really.
*
The receptionist at City Hall was ice in clipped speech.
Like this,
“His lordship doesn’t see walk-ins.”
Fine.
I asked,
“He’s a lord now?”
Didn’t merit her reply, so I said,
“It’s regarding an allegation about his son.”
Still no move, so I pushed.
“Guess it’s the newspapers, then.”
Immediate reaction and a hurried,
“Wait here.”
She fucked off down a long corridor, all bristling anger.
Five minutes and she returned with a thin guy, wispy hair, tight suit, tighter face, and an air of
“I deal with assholes, fast.”
I said,
“You’re not the mayor.”
He allowed a thin smile to leak sideways from his curled lip. He was going to enjoy this.
Or so he thought.
He said in a withering tone,
“I deal with the more trivial of the mayor’s businesses.”
I asked,
“They allow you a name?”
He sighed, said,
“Mr. Cahill.”
I said,
“You have lovely manners.”
He made a show of checking his watch, important business waiting, demanded,
“Who are
you?”
I held out my hand, which I knew he’d ignore, said,
“Jack Taylor.”
A dim light ran across his eyes, then,
“Oh, Lord, yes. Some kind of raggedy-arsed private eye.”
I said,
“A serious allegation has been made against the mayor’s son.”
He chuckled, made a face of deep annoyance, said,
“The alleged accuser has withdrawn her ridiculous charge.”
Fuck.
I waited.
He turned on his heel, not even a word of dismissal. I shouted,
“God bless.”
*
I found Jimmy Tern at the canal, the last place you’d think he’d be.
Accused of drowning a girl, why would he return there of all places?
I knew him from Instagram. He was all over social media, and if his posts were any indication he was a cocky little bollix.
Tall for his age, dark hair in what was once a Beatle cut, dressed in an expensive navy tracksuit, and the latest trainers—the ones that went for upwards of 250 euros.
How would I know that?
Mainly from utter astonishment for what we in our naïveté still called sand shoes.
Jimmy was obviously leader of the pack, and a motley bunch they were: two boys who were the followers and three girls drawn to the bad boy vibe.
Jimmy was in his element, uttering directives to the gang.
He spotted me and a vague hostile bravado drew him near. He demanded,
“Wotcha want, pedo?”
I liked him already.
I said,
“I’m here to make you famous.”
The new irresistible lure for the young.
Fame.
Didn’t matter how and talent wasn’t even in the neighborhood, just be a YouTube viral star.
He moved closer, asked,
“How?”
No question as to why.
Just get me there, fast.
I said,
“Child killers are hot now.”
Rocked the little bastard.
He faltered for a moment, looked to his gang who, as one, were staring at their feet, then,
“Fuck you, my dad will have you for slander.”
I said,
“But then we’ll get you to a court and, who knows, a lot can happen there. Least the world will see your face.”
He spat at me.
I said,
“You really are a nasty little prick, aren’t you?”
Truth to tell, I wanted to wallop him, a lot, went with,
“Can you swim?”
The gang were slowly slithering away. He snarled,
“Of course I can swim, you moron.”
