Galway Girl
Page 15
I buried Jones, then went back inside, got Keefer into bed.
I checked on the falcon, and then went back outside to round up the horses.
Stopped to grab a breath at the place where Keefer had lain, said,
“The countryside is losing its appeal.”
Keefer wasn’t doing so well. I said,
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
He shook his head, pointed to his journal, made of well-worn leather, the Stones’ logo on the front, said,
“On the back page there’s a number. Call, tell him I’m hurt.”
I called the number, waited, then it was answered, heard a guarded,
“Yeah?”
I said,
“Keefer is hurt.”
“Twenty minutes.”
Click.
Okay. Fuckit, I could do curt.
*
Sure as shooting, a van showed up on the twenty. A man in his fifties, dressed in a beaten wax coat, not Barbour, flat cap, Wellingtons.
He walked towards me.
I said,
“He’s inside.”
He threw me a look of contempt, as if I thought he thought the man could be anywhere else. He was carrying a black case, went in.
I followed.
He examined Keefer, snapped at me,
“Get a bowl of hot water, clean towels.”
Paused, looked around, amended,
“As clean as possible”
*
Two hours later, he emerged from the room, his hands swathed in blood.
I pointed to the bathroom, he went in, and—what?—he was whistling.
Emerged, ready to roll, handed me a bottle of pills, said,
“He had a serious cut across his eye, so leave the eye patch there for a day or two. I’ve made a splint to support his busted leg. Try to dissuade him from walking.”
He paused, concerned, then,
“The knife wounds, they are a worry.”
What?
I asked,
“Knife wounds?”
He looked at me like I was an ejit, said,
“I counted seven wounds. Where the hell were you when they were knifing your mate?”
I was well tired of this prick and his condescension. I said,
“Hurling.”
His head snapped round, reevaluating me, then,
“Is that even a sport?”
I could play, said,
“Depends which county you support.”
I looked at the pills, said,
“Jeez, these seem very big.”
He sighed, said,
“Of course. They’re horse tranquilizers.”
Took me a minute, then the penny dropped. I said,
“You’re a veterinarian.”
He pulled on his wax coat, sneered,
“Well detected, Sherlock.”
*
The next few days I tended to Keefer, changed the dressings, fed him, slowly at first; my specialty:
Irish stew
Real gravy
Carrots
Shitload of good veg
Spuds
And a wee taste of Jameson.
He was able to move to the couch in the front room, give me pointers on the falcon. I was getting better, the falcon finally responding to me and, no shit, but I felt a glow of achievement.
To see it soar, so high it was nigh invisible, then shaping itself like a missile, it dived at 200 mph to hit prey. I was chilled and filled with awe—awe in the biblical sense.
Keefer was recovering rapidly and I said so. He went,
“You tour with the Stones, you become bulletproof or roadkill.”
He lit a spliff, drew deep, said,
“Before the awful events at Altamont, Jagger was about to launch into ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’ ” he said.
“Strange shit happens whenever we do this song and, sure enough, all hell—Hell’s Angel–style—ensued.”
I said nothing. What was there to say?
He continued,
“The other day, first time in over twenty years, I played that cursed song.”
I laughed nervously, said,
“Come on, there’s no connection.”
A knock at the door.
Keefer said,
“See? I mentioned that bloody song.”
I grabbed the hurley, opened the door.
Now, of all the specters I might have anticipated, I never foresaw a
“Priest.”
Keefer roared,
“Jeez, how bad am I, you sent for the priest?”
Malachy,
Who breezed past me, stared at Keefer, demanded,
“Who are you?”
Keefer sat up, laughed, said,
“I think you have that assways, Padre. Who the fuck are you?”
Christ, the whole scene was so insane I wanted to laugh. I said,
“This is Father Malachy, bishop-elect of Galway.”
Malachy turned when he heard a sound from the falcon. He sneered,
“A bloody parrot. Who has a parrot?”
Keefer managed to stand, using my hurley as a crutch. I asked Malachy,
“How’d you find me?”
He looked at me with disdain, said,
“No one can hide from the Church.”
Keefer said,
“And no one can hide people better.”
Malachy sized up Keefer, summarized,
“I don’t much like your tone, laddie.”
Then he turned to me, snapped,
“Where’s your manners? Don’t you offer a guest a drink?”
Keefer said,
“Our last guests were lucky to get away alive.”
This might have increased in hostility save for a poster.
On the wall was Jagger, looking ethereal in what appeared to be a floaty white blouse. He looked very young. Malachy gasped, went
“Is that the Hyde Park concert for Brian Jones?”
Keefer was astonished, nodded yes, asked,
“You were there?”
Malachy, lost in happy recall, mumbled,
“Oh, yeah.”
I butted in,
“But you’re a priest—were/are.”
Malachy, still rapturous, said,
“I was a novice, visiting my aunt and my uncle. He was a Stones superfan.”
Keefer, delighted, asked,
“After that, you still went ahead and became a priest?”
A hint of stubborn admiration leaked over his tone.
Malachy, suddenly sad, said,
“I couldn’t disappoint my mam.”
Fuck, that mam was heartwrenching, from a grown man about to be a bishop.
Malachy soon dispelled that feeling by rounding on me.
“Not all of us bitterly disappointed their mothers.”
Keefer got a bottle of Maker’s Mark, poured liberal amounts, asked,
“A toast?”
Malachy said,
“To rock ’n’ roll.”
They drank.
I was feeling very much the odd man out at this Stones reunion. Malachy asked,
“What is Keith really like?”
Jesus.
I thought,
Enough already.
Keefer, in mighty form, disclosed,
“A bit of a pagan.”
Malachy was delighted, said,
“Sure, that’s what keeps my crowd in business.”
Even the falcon seemed to be cooing.
Keefer hobbled over to the bookcase, carefully slid out an album from his cherished vinyl collection, the Stones one with the cover of a pair of jeans, an actual zipper on the front—designed by Warhol.
Keefer, with reverence, intoned,
“One of the very few albums the entire band signed. Mick was tight on keeping merchandise closed down.”
He handed it to Malachy like the keys to a city. Malachy, full of devilment due to the booze and an actual good t
ime, asked,
“What would happen if I pulled that zipper down?”
He was like a child shocking his own self.
I decided to rain heavily on this fucking parade, said,
“Ye’d cover it up, as usual.”
Keefer said,
“Phew, downer.”
I stared at Malachy, demanded,
“Why are you here?”
His face was that of a spoiled child whose ice cream has been swiped from him. He said,
“I’ve a good mind not to tell you.”
“Good,”
I said.
“So fuck off or out with it.”
A tense silence, then Keefer said, in his gee shucks voice,
“Man, come on, dude, what’s the gig?”
Malachy, still smarting, said,
“There’s a bounty on Taylor’s head.”
I asked,
“How much?”
“A thousand euros.”
Keefer was taken aback, said,
“That’s all? Fuck, that’s like . . .”
Groped for a derogatory term, found,
“Insulting.”
Malachy explained,
“There’s a mad bitch who first leeched off my sister, then had her killed.
“She is some sort of she-devil. I’d say she’s Protestant.
“She blames Taylor for all the woes of her life so she set the bounty for word on his whereabouts.”
He added,
“I’m tempted to tell her my own self now.”
Before I could comment, he added,
“She has a sidekick, name of Stapleton, out on bail.
“Who imagines this? Hates Taylor, too.”
Keefer lit up a spliff, said,
“Guess I’ll go and collect that bounty my own self.”
Malachy prepared to leave, said to me,
“You better stay in the country.”
Then grudgingly added,
“I’ll pray for you.”
He shook Keefer’s hand, said,
“ ’Twas a joy to meet you.”
Keefer, equally delighted, said,
“I’ll vote for you as bishop.”
Malachy looked crestfallen, said,
“The people don’t get a vote.”
Keefer could have said,
“See, that’s the problem right there.”
But he let it slide.
After Malachy’s departure, Keefer gave me the look, asked,
“How much do you think Jericho will like the country?”
I nearly smiled, said,
“Not a whole lot, I’m thinking.”
38
The annals
Of human wisdom
Fall silent
When faced
With the feral
In us.
William Giraldi, Hold the Dark
Keefer’s face was still in ruinous shape, which aided the mission he was on.
He was dressed in a blend of intimidation and unknowability.
Meaning, a bank manager would not turn him away, nor would a first-class hotel refuse him accommodation.
But all would be on edge, very careful in their response, because of not just his attire, his brutalized appearance, but the vibe, the one that implied,
“Do not fuck with me.”
He wore a long duster, very battered cowboy boots, a Willie Nelson swirl of bandannas, and his hands were gnarled, mangled, like he’d wrangled steers and very recently.
To add confusion to apprehension, he spoke in a soft, dulcet tone that was in the neighborhood of sarcasm and irony.
He found Jericho without any bother, just searched for a dive where bottom-feeders fed.
It was in an alley running parallel to the old docks and, incredibly enough, had a bouncer on the door. Keefer smiled.
The guy was built and eyed Keefer carefully, went
“Haven’t seen you before.”
Keefer reached into his duster and the guy flinched. Keefer took out a cig, fired up, asked,
“There a smoking ban in there?”
The guy wondered if this might be some sort of health inspection sting, so said,
“’Tis against the law.”
Keefer ground the cig beneath his boot, said,
“We wouldn’t want to fuck with that.”
Went inside.
Metallica were on full blast, the crowd in a small smoky room, one long bar and scattered tables. Keefer spotted Jericho in a corner. She was as both Malachy and Taylor had described. She looked like deep trouble.
She was engrossed in conversation with a guy.
Keefer went to the bar. The woman behind the counter, a woman who’d seen too many mornings, all of them blank, snarled,
“Yeah?”
Keefer gave her a full smile, which, with his battered face, made him look downright sinister. He said,
“Let me compliment you on the warmth of your welcome. Are you by any chance related to the charmer on the door?”
Now she actually hissed, went
“He’s my husband.”
Keefer rocked back on his heels, said,
“A keeper. Now, what do you suggest?”
As he eyed the beer selection, which seemed to be Bud and, surprise, Bud, she suggested,
“Get your ugly face to somewhere else.”
He leaned over, pinched her cheek before she could move, said,
“You minx, let’s be having a Bud.”
In shock, she automatically gave him the brew. He said,
“I’ll be back.”
Strolled over to Jericho. Stapleton eyed him with undisguised malice.
Keefer stood a foot from them, gauging the vibe.
Stapleton he dismissed as a bigmouthed petty thief cliché, but Jericho . . . now here was swirling dark energy, a girl destined for destruction. She had a pretty face but decay of the soul threw a shadow over her.
Keefer grabbed a stool and in one fluid motion sat. Stapleton immediately spat,
“Bad idea, asshole.”
Keefer never looked at him, locked eyes with Jericho, and, as Stapleton reached to his jeans, lashed out, grabbed his arm in a crushing grip, said very quietly,
“I wasn’t talking to you. Now, that excuse of a knife you have, do not reach for it or I’ll make you eat it.”
Jericho was amused; she lived for chaos, asked,
“Who might you be?”
Keefer said,
“The guy who knows where to find Jack Taylor.”
There was a beat as Jericho assessed Keefer, then,
“He do that to you?”
Keefer nodded, waited.
Stapleton asked,
“So where is he?”
Keefer reached into his coat, took out a piece of paper, said,
“This is the location of where he goes on a Thursday, same time, same place.”
Jericho was suspicious, asked,
“Why?”
Keefer let out a lengthy sigh as if it pained him to tell, then,
“He is training some kind of bird. It’s the only time he is full preoccupied. If you want to take him by surprise, then that’s the time, the place.”
The mention of the bird gave Jericho a slight shudder but she shrugged it off.
Jericho reached for the paper. Keefer smiled, said,
“Uh-oh, the small matter of a thousand euros.”
Jericho looked at Stapleton, said,
“Give him four hundred.”
Stapleton didn’t move.
Keefer stood up, said,
“See yah.”
Jericho tried,
“Half now, half when we, um, see him.”
Keefer shook his head.
Stapleton snapped,
“How do we know you’re not some bullshit artist?”
Keefer didn’t answer, just held Jericho’s stare. She blinked first, said,
“Okay, but you drive us there, that’s the deal.”
“Be here tomorrow, two sharp, and have the money.”
*
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, so to speak.
I practiced for hours every day with the falcon and a scarecrow.
I’d stand at the edge of the field, having covered the scarecrow with chunks of meat, and then release the falcon.
Took a while but, finally, I barely had the hood off the bird when it flew high, turned, and zoomed on the scarecrow.
Filled with a grim satisfaction, I said,
“Good bird.”
39
And you will never
Know the depth of your heart
Until you are presented with
The opportunity for revenge.
Only then will you know
What you are capable of.
Cormac McCarthy, The Counselor
The
Day
of
the
Falcon
The law relating to falconry:
The falconer must have knowledge of
And
Comply with
The legislation concerning quarry.
In simple terms,
The species which a falcon can be flown at
Are divided into three groups:
1. Game
2. Species not under wildlife protection
3. Vermin
I paid special attention to the meaning of vermin.
Keefer picked up the deadly duo at two o’clock as arranged.
He said,
“The smart-ass rides in the back and you, dear, you ride shotgun.”
A look passed between Stapleton and Jericho but they complied.
They drove in silence until Keefer asked Stapleton,
“You bring your knife, boy?”
Stapleton sneered, said,
“You’ll see soon enough, shithead.”
Keefer hit the sound system and “Street Fighting Man” filled the jeep.
Jericho was in a zone and seemed utterly focused. Stapleton fidgeted and seemed set to rumble. Keefer said,
“Try to keep it in your pants, boy.”
They arrived at a country road. The time was ten to three. Keefer pointed to a field, said,
“Three on the button, Taylor enters the field.”
Jericho got out, took a long blade from her tote, slipped it up her sleeve. Stapleton made to move but Keefer suddenly turned, a sawed-off magically in his hands, said,
“Sit tight, boy.”