by Ken Bruen
And the councillors of the city
Cordially invite you to
The Annual Mayor’s Ball
To be held in City Hall
On Friday, July 6th.
Black tie
RSVP
I tried to digest this then muttered the only thing you could. I muttered,
F
U
C
K
ME.
I was outside my apartment, still sweltering in the nigh monthlong heat wave.
A black BMW was parked before me.
Gerry Dunne appeared beside it, held up a bunch of keys, then, with slow deliberation, made a long deep gash alongside the car, gouged in deep, stepped back, sneered,
“What do you say to that, shithead?”
I said,
“I don’t have a car.”
A very large man came rushing down the street, screamed,
“Who the fuck did that?”
I nodded at Gerry, still brandishing the keys.
I strolled away to the sound of a severe beating and I couldn’t swear to it but it did seem as if Gerry might actually be eating said keys.
*
I had bought the paper in Holland’s, with the English team on the front pages. They beat Sweden to get a place in the World Cup semis, to face Croatia.
Their captain, with the solid name of Kane, was the new English hero.
He scored six goals in the tournament.
A pub in Connemara claimed a connection to his ancestors and the landlady promised a pint free to her customers for every goal he scored.
To her relief, he didn’t score in the quarterfinal, but one Seamas Kane, who admitted to never having heard of the guy, now declared,
“He’s my first cousin.”
Of course he is.
Fourteen young children were trapped in a cave in Thailand for two weeks despite numerous rescue attempts. Finally, on the ninth of July, five were rescued.
A Thai navy diver lost his life as he tried to bring oxygen to the trapped group through the narrow passage, full of water.
Trump declared war on Harley-Davidson, over export taxes.
I was outside Supermac’s, contemplating a bacon burger, when a black BMW pulled up before me. For a moment I thought it was the keyed car but it was mark free. The window rolled down, a young priest in the driver’s seat.
And I mean young.
More altar boy than full-blown cleric and yet he had that air of a wannabe FBI.
Right down to the earpiece. He said,
“Please get in the car, Mr. Taylor.”
I said,
“No.”
That confused him and he was absolutely still for a moment, then,
“You will be well recompensed.”
Mmm.
I asked,
“Will that be in the form of a blessing or something more tangible, because I have to say I’m all done with blessings, in disguise or indeed any form.”
A trace of a smile.
It seemed to almost hurt his face, so alien was it to him.
He confirmed,
“Financial.”
I got into the back, said,
“Let’s bounce, time is money.”
*
As I lay back in the car I thought of the shock, awe, of a TV program I’d watched the night before.
Atlanta.
Brainchild of Donald Glover, it was in its second series and so wickedly off-kilter you just went with the flow.
I’d just finished episode five, “Barbershop,” which in essence was about an almost haircut, droll but nothing too wild, so I went into episode six, “Teddy Perkins,” cold, as in knowing absolutely nothing about it.
Phew.
Blew me to hell and gone.
A forty-five-minute genius horror movie with nods to
Get Out
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
Michael Jackson
Child abuse
And an air of menace from the off that kept you completely off balance.
Creativity at its finest.
When I learned who played Teddy, I was, if possible, even more impressed.
Nice to know that the arts can still totally fuck with your head.
*
The car pulled up in Taylor’s Hill, outside a mini mansion.
The driver explained,
“It’s the residence for the bishop-in-waiting.”
Malachy.
I decided to fuck a bit with the guy, asked,
“And will he be, like, waiting long?”
He took me seriously but, then, I imagined he took most things thus, said,
“We expect the announcement during His Holiness’s visit.”
The pope.
Who was going to cover the country in twenty-four hours, then leg it, much like Harry and Meghan’s visit. These whizzing day visits were all the rage.
Expensive too.
Forty million for the pope.
I asked,
“What is your gig?”
“Excuse me?”
He let a whine into that.
I said,
“It’s not a difficult question. Are you
Driver? Messenger?
Hatchet man?
Arm candy?
He had to bite down his anger, said,
“His preeminence is waiting.”
I got out, said,
“So, so fuck off, then.”
*
I was greeted at the front door by a housekeeper who seemed familiar but not in a good way.
One of those women who seem to have been born fifty, bitter, and vicious.
She snarled,
“You.”
I mustered my best fake pleasant tone, said,
“Terribly sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“I remember you, Taylor, you’re nothing but trouble.”
Thing is, I mostly agreed with her, said,
“The good father is, I believe, expecting me.”
See, nice note of piety and servitude.
She moved aside to let me in, said,
“More’s the Irish pity.”
Added,
“Wipe your feet.”
*
Malachy came at me almost in a gallop.
I thought he was going to assault me but, worse, a hug.
He gushed,
“You hero, Jack.”
He was dressed in white sweatpants, jet black T-shirt with the logo
V.A.T.I.C.A.N.
Into my head came the words of Tammy Wynette’s
“D.I.V.O.R.C.E.”
You could do a lot with the alteration of Tammy’s lyrics:
. . . the V.A.T.I.C.A.N.
Took my child away.
Releasing me from the hug, he said,
“You are a wonder. I asked you to solve the problem of the girl leeching off my sister and what did you do?”
In truth, not a whole lot, but he near shouted,
“You had her arrested. Just genius.”
I tried to look suitably modest but that usually translates as slightly deranged. Malachy reached behind him, grabbed an envelope, a thick one, handed it over, said,
“You’ll find we’ve been more than generous.”
Would it be, as I once heard on BBC4, churlish to count it?
Fuck, I can do churlish.
It was a lot.
Malachy continued to beam at me and, in truth, it was getting a tiny bit creepy.
A priest smiles that much at you, run.
Malachy asked,
“Did you get your invitation?”
“What?”
His delight was now edged with a wee touch of impatience. He snapped,
“To the mayor’s gala.”
“Uh-huh.”
Took him a minute, then he emitted a mocking laugh.
“Sweet Lord, you thought you were invited.”
Paused,
Searching for th
e most ludicrous term he could land on, took
“On your own, what? Merit?”
I thought it was only in books that people rocked with laughter.
Malachy rocked with laughter.
I took a deep breath, asked,
“What’s the deal?”
He was still suffused with delight, said,
“You’ll be my sister’s escort. We have a tux ordered for you and a car will pick you up. Your job is to try to look dignified but stay fucking silent and sober.”
I asked,
“What’s not to love?”
27
“Whether it’s true or not, who cares?
The truth is for teenagers and hippies.
We’re too old and ugly for that crap.
Wake me up, make me think, or buy me a drink.
Otherwise, fuck off.”
Michael Rutger, The Anomaly
The heat wave subsided.
An old woman had said,
“If there is a yes to the abortion referendum, Ireland will be visited by a tsunami of grief.”
Is a forty-degree heat wave in that category?
I was sitting on Eyre Square, soaking up the remnants of the sunshine. The grass was scorched dark brown and little did I know a tiny tsunami was within a few yards of me.
I noticed a young woman—in her early twenties I’d guess but she was dressed like a woman caught in a fifties warp—wearing a tweed two-piece suit, like you might have glimpsed on Mad Men.
Her face could have been pretty save for a slight twist to her features that suggested she was elsewhere.
She approached me, said,
“Mr. Jack Taylor.”
As if she were presenting me.
She immediately gave me a very uneasy feeling.
I nodded, asked,
“Was there something?”
She asked,
“May I sit down?”
Produced a dainty handkerchief (people use them anymore?), wiped the seat, then very delicately eased herself down, said,
“I’m Alice.”
Then she gave a nervous laugh, added,
“My mum said,
‘Alice doesn’t live here anymore.’ ”
I thought,
“Bitch.”
She had a bag, more satchel really, that, like the hankies, you never see, opened it, and threw back the flap, said,
“See, Jack, I have all your requirements.”
So okay, I looked.
I saw,
Bottle of Jameson
Zippo
Pack of Camels
Shot glass
Packet of Rich tea.
Rich tea?
She giggled, said,
“The biccies are for me.”
I took a deep breath, said,
“Very impressive but what do you want?”
She gave a heartaching smile, said,
“Why, Jack, I want you to find me.”
The very air seemed to hold a pause in time.
I wondered if there was a neon sign above my head that proclaimed,
“All ye crazies
Lunatics
Dispossessed
Neurotics
Gather here.”
I decided to momentarily swim in the insanity, asked,
“Where would I look for you?”
She said,
“I have a room with sheltered accommodation.”
I said,
“That’s great, Alison.”
Her face became a riot of anger. She screamed,
“Alison? Are you fucking kidding me? My name is Alice! How hard is it to just remember my name? I mean what kind of detective are you going to be if the basics are beyond you.”
Okay.
I stood, said,
“I’ll let you know if I find you.”
I heard her shout that I had forgotten the satchel.
I muttered,
“Find a gift horse to throw it on.”
*
The mayor’s ball.
A resounding success . . .
Not.
Began in a semi-okay mode. The car collected me and we managed to pick up Jess without too much drama.
Insofar as she barked at the driver to
“Get the goddamn door for me.”
She was wearing a gold dress that was way too small, so all the bits of her you might not wish to see gushed forth, plus she’d had a bath in some perfume that had you instantly open all the windows.
I handed her a single red rose.
Nice move, I thought.
She snarled,
“One fucking flower. You couldn’t rise to a bunch?”
I bit down, hard.
She examined my tux and, in truth, it was not a perfect fit, like one of those scarecrows that have been neglected. She asked,
“You rent that?”
I told the truth, said,
“The Church provided it.”
She scoffed,
“A freaking charity case, this is who I have as an escort.”
She leaned over, tapped the driver, not gently, barked,
“This might be a good time to break out the liquid refreshments.”
Turned to me, said,
“When they pick me up for my role in the new Dynasty the limo has a wet bar.”
The driver, not missing a beat, handed back a flask. I took it, uncapped it, used the top as a cup, poured freely, and handed it to her.
She smelled it, muttered,
“Cheap shite.”
Drained it.
She glared at me, demanded,
“Tell me one interesting thing about you.”
Sneer leaked all over her tone. I said,
“I went to jail for the murder of the mayor’s son.”
The driver almost crashed.
Admiration colored her face. She looked as if she might embrace me.
Shudder at the thought.
The driver, to maybe lighten the tone, asked her,
“Might I have seen you in anything?”
She sighed, turned to him, said,
“Google me.”
Managed to inject it with unsettling suggestiveness.
Back to me, she asked,
“You, you ever see me in anything?”
I said,
“Yes.”
Absolute delight, and,
“Pray tell.”
“When the psycho was staying at your house?”
“Yes?”
“I saw you in jeopardy.”
*
The ball was packed, the mighty and the wannabes.
The mayor ignored me but was all over Jess.
I found a relatively quiet corner and mostly was mistaken for the help.
Fairly surly help, in truth.
I vaguely heard introductions as the egos clashed with the alcohol.
One intro registered, a woman who was name checked as being “responsible for sheltered accommodation.”
She was in her fifties, face well flushed from champagne.
I headed toward her with two drinks, handed her one, she asked,
“You are?”
“An admirer.”
Sufficient.
And she was sufficiently drunk that she wouldn’t hit my queries with the new Irish “get out of jail free card.”
Data protection.
No matter whom you asked.
Where,
Why.
The catchall reply was DP.
A classic case of bolt the door when the horse had galloped into oblivion.
The banks, health gang, gov, all let info leak like a screaming wind, then shut down when things got hot and produced this new blank answer.
I decided to try a tactic I was in short supply of:
Charm.
I sleazed,
“Your husband must be crazy to leave you alone.”
Fuck.
She tittered, a horrible sound, said,
�
��I don’t have a hubband.”
We both laughed at the attempt to pronounce the word. What’s a slurred word when you’re having a bit of a time?
Now for the hook. I said,
“Alice sings your praises.”
She peered at me, asked,
“Alice Bennet?”
I sure hope so, pushed,
“Just awful what happened to the poor girl.”
She bit.
Said,
“That animal that attacked her, he got off scot-free.”
I waited.
She was into it, continued,
“Sean Garret, his family’s money kept him out of jail.”
Jess came flouncing up and I do mean flounce, as if she were fifteen, at her first hop, and I’m not even going to mention the giggling.
She said,
“Your services are no longer required. A member of the Rotary Club will be escorting me further.”
I looked at her, asked,
“As in further afield?”
She looked at me, then at the woman, sneered,
“You can have him.”
The woman, actually gasping, asked,
“Was that Fionnula Flanagan?”
I nodded,
She shook her head, said,
“What a bitch.”
*
As you left the ball there was a table with the Irish version of the goodies bag, said to contain
A signed photo of the mayor,
A sliothar (the ball used in hurling),
And a free pass to the plowing championships.
I lined up for my mala, Irish for bag, and was refused.
I asked,
“Why not?”
The answer,
“Only for the significant invited.”
I slouched out to the car, was about to climb into the front, when the driver said,
“No can do, Jack.”
Aw, for fuck’s sake.
I said,
“’Tis the night that keeps on giving.”
I gave the tux jacket to a homeless guy, who used it as a bed for his dog, said,
“Didn’t suit you anyway.”
Quite.
28
Galway
Girls
Gomorrah
It would be the summer of the Galway girls.
Summer of dead girls.
The Galway Races began and the rain returned
With a vengeance.
I was summoned by Malachy.
I don’t really do summoned.
The same young priest from before at my door.
I had a ferocious hangover.
One of those, I’ll kill someone.
I snarled,
“You have a name?”
He caught the tone, said meekly,
“Pat.”
