Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

15

What Dies in Summer

– Tom Wright

C33 adored books. Everything about them, would mutter an

A-Z

Of terms

Like a mantra.

Thus:

Orihon: A book consisting of a sheet of paper with writing on one side pleated into a concertina fold. From the Japanese art of ori, meaning fold; and hon, meaning book. Considered a halfway point between a scroll and a codex (a set of interleaved folios sewn together).

Or

A favorite

Enallage: Meaning interchange in Greek. The substitution of a different word for another possibly incorrect one, often for emphasis or effect-like the editorial we instead of I.

That one in particular had led, indirectly, so to speak, to the adoption of the nom de plume C33.

The recent killing of the dog whimperer. Named Shaw, a former traveling salesman who bred dogs for the designer market and prided himself on being able to reduce any breed to a whimpering mess. C33 kept a special circle of hell for those who abused dogs. It brought out a biblical savagery that seemed appropriate for a beast who tortured canines, the only simply pure gift God had given.

Shaw had been lured to a warehouse off Grattan Road, believing he was buying six Pomeranians, stolen in Belfast.

C33 had chained Shaw as he’d chained dogs, then attached a spiked dog collar, the spikes turning inward, à la a necklace of thorns. Then taken a baseball bat and proceeded to slowly break every bone in the fucking bastard’s body.

Incanting

“Kenning. .”

Loud

To

Louder

Loudest

Exclaiming

In slow measured tones

“The meaning is, in Old English, a metaphorical phrase.”

Paused

To wipe sweat off and grab a bottle of-of course-Galway sparkling water, then continue

“. . to compound two words that makes a new one, in your case”

. . Laughed hysterically.

Finished with

“Bone-house.”

C33 wondered if maybe this one should be kept off the public radar. C’mon, they’d say,

“To beat someone to death because he mistreated a dog?”

Laughed again, watched the light go out of Shaw’s eyes, knew they were crazy, whoa, yeah.

The shrinks had laid out that psychopath path in so many ways.

1. Ruthless disregard for others.

C33 laid a hand gently on Shaw’s head, said in a Brit accent,

“Surely not?”

2. A truly almost superhuman talent for hiding this from others.

C33 bent down to look into the ruined face of Shaw, shouted,

“Easy? You think it’s fucking easy to act like you give a goddamn, good or otherwise?”

What C33 loved, yes, loved,

Was

You never saw a psychopath coming, as they were the most charismatic personalities on the planet.

Giggled.

Couldn’t help it, an actual giggle and titter.

“Not to mention their love of dogs.”

This did entirely for C33, who had to sit down, the laughter was so strong, leaning against the battered torso of Shaw, wiping the tears of mirth, for all the world like a couple of good ol’ boys whooping it up.

“Man and superman.”

16

He who kills a man kills a reasonable creature; but he who kills a good book kills reason itself.

– John Milton

A new referendum on the fiscal treaty looming and the government was using every bullying tactic to cow the voters into the vote it wanted. The Army of Occupation, on Eyre Square, pledged to be unassailable. Four o’clock in the morning, forty Guards swooped and demolished the camp. They would try to enshrine the date as a new icon of anarchy. The Occupiers pledged they’d be back for Phase 2.

The same week, Robin Gibb, Donna Summer died. A DJ termed it the final death of disco.

A man was found beaten to death in a warehouse off the Grattan Road. He was, according to neighbors,

“A quiet man with a love of dogs.”

Odd the connections the mind makes. I’d been maybe five and my beloved father came home with a pup, a mongrel, with every breed included and love being the glue. An only child, I’d been beyond delighted. My mother, who was the she-wolf from the inner sanctum of hell, disguised in a sickly fuzz-buzz religion, asked,

“Another mouth to feed and who is going to find the money?”

A rhetorical question, as she’d already known the answer. A week later the dog was gone. She blamed my father, said he’d left the front door open. Years later, in a bad pub in a bad part of town, I’d been told by an elderly tinker,

“Your oul wan, she gave us a pup one time.”

I’d finished my pint, said,

“All heart, she was.”

He’d blessed himself, said,

“Lord rest her.”

Yeah.

I was stopped almost still in the middle of Shop Street by this memory, hated her all over anew. And to add insult to memory, along came the cloud of nicotine, posing as a priest, Father Malachy, my nemesis for most of my bedraggled life. My mother’s tame escort, pious widows collected these bitter, soured bachelors, passing as priests and spreading bile.

“Taylor,”

He boomed.

Hard to believe but I’d not long ago saved his miserable arse, and was he grateful? Was he fuck?

A dedicated smoker, he had a cig between cigs and the attendant gray-yellow complexion. His loathing of me bothered me but little any more, though at odd times I relished the chance to rile the bollix.

Malachy reached into his dandruff-flecked jacket, found a crumpled pack of Carrolls, fired up, amid a shocking fit of coughing. To think I missed this addiction? I said,

“Still smoking?”

Got the look and,

“Bastards are saying I can’t smoke in me own house.”

His face was a picture in held rage. I pushed,

“Bastards. Your house?”

He stared at me like I was thick, said,

“The church, and the house is me home.”

I said,

“I thought the parish owned the house.”

He seemed to be on the verge of a coronary, spat,

“Wouldn’t be in this state if your mother had done the right thing.”

WTF?

So many things wrong with that sentence, I was almost lost for a reply until I got out,

“My mother?. . The right thing?”

He was on his next cigarette though he seemed unaware he was even smoking, said,

“She was supposed to leave me the house.”

My astonishment was equaled only by his sheer blindness. I said, very quietly,

“And her son, you don’t think he had a shout?”

“You? You were a thorn in her side. She had to offer you up for the souls in purgatory.”

I was tired of him, his whining, said,

“You have to laugh, though.”

“What? You pup you, what do you mean?”

“She pissed on your bogus piety and your brown-nosing got you the same result as me in the end.”

I’d turned to leave, he demanded,

“Result?”

“Yeah. . fuck all.”

Go Fish: How to Win Contempt and Influence People by Mr. Fish.

Stewart pushed the book aside, just couldn’t get his focus right. He tried to ground himself. When one in three families was three months behind in mortgage payments, he should be glad he owned his home. This form of tit-for-tat gratitude never worked for him. Decided he needed to bite down, latch on to something.

C33.

The papers had given it some play but their tone was: This wasn’t connected, just a series of random psycho acts and with the country being pulverized by a crazy government, who in truth really gave a fuck if someone was offing bad guys?

“Hey, maybe the killer could take a look at the guys running the bloody country?”

Called Jack, arranged a meeting, see what they could shake loose; they’d done it before. Ridge wasn’t shaping up to be much help but at least they had a Garda source. His car radio was playing and he caught

“. . The Red Hot Chili Peppers are restoring funk and taking the piss out of wankers who hijacked it and then didn’t know what to do with it.”

Stewart stared at the radio, asked,

“The fuck are you whining on about?”

One thing guaranteed to drive him off his Zen game was experts on rock ’n’ roll. He turned in to Merchants Road, paused, thought,

“Not too far from the last killing.”

He maneuvered his car into a space, surprised he’d managed to find a place, was getting out when a tall skinny guy came, galloping, shouting,

“Hey, you can’t park there. Move that car. Now.”

Stewart took a deep breath, drew on his extensive Zen techniques, asked quietly,

“What?”

Mistake.

Dealing with minor authority, never concede an inch, they’ll skin you alive. The guy was dressed in some sort of long yellow coat, like a uniform. He looked at Stewart with derision, said,

“Yellow lines, and what. . What do they tell us, eh?”

Stewart summoned the dregs of his dwindling patience, then gave the guy a slap in the mouth, said,

“They should tell us to mind our own freaking business.”

* * *

Stewart was still rubbing his knuckles when he sat opposite me in Java. I’d ordered him a chamomile tea and a double espresso for myself. I asked,

“Hit someone?”

He grinned, said,

“Yeah.”

Not sure if he was kidding, I let it slide, said,

“Chamomile tea, that’s good, right?”

He was different, not in any noticeable way, but the energy, it was now somewhere else, leading him on a whole alternative dance. I asked,

“How is Ridge doing?”

He sipped at the tea, his face not showing any love for the beverage, said,

“She’s, as you would delicately put it, fucking off to Australia.”

His face had taken on a shadow, blend of anger, sadness, and, I don’t know, loss? I went,

“But why?”

And now he held my gaze, said,

“You read the papers, watch the news, and you have to ask that?”

I’d finished my coffee without even tasting the bitter bite I relished, the empty cup was. . empty and I asked,

“What will we do?”

He gave me a radiant smile, lit with insincerity, said,

“Have to catch C33 before she goes, you think?”

17

Any library is a good library that does not contain a volume by Jane Austen. Even if it contains no other book.

– Mark Twain

C33 fucking hated Jane Austen.

With ferocity. Even Hollywood was in on the act. How many fucking times and in how many fucking ways could you

Adapt

Pride and Prejudice?

Standing in the living room of the next victim, C33 wondered,

“Hey, what happened to the fun gig?”

The target was what once used to be termed slum landlord.

But in Ireland? Believe it, the recession had brought all kinds of nasty shite and this twist was just part of the rabid package. Dolan, an apparently gentle, slightly built landlord, was cleared of intentional killing when one of his houses burned to the ground, taking a mother and two children with it. All fire safety features were glaringly absent but during the investigation, money slid its lethal way to an investigative committee, vital papers were lost. Benefit of the doubt?

Until

The second fire and the death of an elderly teacher. And this time, blamed the teacher, and a candle! So was Dolan now out of the real estate biz?

Nope.

But he was about to be retired.

Permanently.

C33 had settled in an armchair, fixed a gin and tonic, might as well get comfortable. Had gone to a lot of grief to find the old model.45. Almost like a western one. Took the six bullets, which C33 had modified to a DIY hollow point. The barrel spun nicely, almost cinematically, and, better, had a resounding click. The drink was sliding down nicely when Dolan arrived home.

A shot just past his left shoulder convinced him this was no joke. C33 asked,

“Any idea why I’m here?”

Dolan, shaken to his core, shook his head, and C33 offered,

“Want a drink? Chill?”

No.

C33 waved the gun toward the bookshelves, frowned, asked,

“The Jane Austen shit. I mean, seriously?”

Dolan looked around his own room, seeing his bookshelves as if they were a recent addition, he muttered,

“You’re pointing a gun at me because of my taste in books?”

C33 loved this, might even have felt a pang about having to waste the dude. Said,

“Excuse my misquoting Plath, but,

Paused,

“I kill because it because it makes me thrill

I kill because it fits.”

Laughed.

“Indeed, it does truly make me feel real.”

Dolan tried to get a handle on the complete lunatic in his home, wondered if there was a window to do something, heard,

“No, bad idea. I’d shoot you in the gut, belly shot. The torment of the fucking ferociously damned as the Celts might put it.”

Dolan veered, tried,

“That drink?”

C33 was up, displaying an agility, lightness of foot, that showed a vibrant fitness, said,

“Let me do the honors.”

Did.

Handed the drink to Dolan, the.45 loosely dangling like the ultimate lethal tease, then, too late, C33 was back in the chair, said,

“Here’s the game, fellah.”

And in one swift moment raised the barrel of the gun, put it against the right side of the temple.

And

Pulled the trigger.

Hammer hit on empty, and

C33

Blew

“Phew.”

Dolan’s mind careened from fear through shock to disbelief and he whispered,

“The fuck are you doing?”

C33 smiled, even managed to feign sheepishness, said,

“Thought I might lighten the load and act like you’re not the scum you are.”

Dolan, again speechless, then tried,

“Scum?”

C33 drained the gin, burped, said,

“Whoops, excuse me, where were we? Oh, yeah, you being an arsonist who rents firetraps to those who’ve no choice, I figured you’d enjoy Russian roulette, seeing as you’ve been doing it to your tenants for years so, in the light of fair play, I went first and now it’s your turn.”

Handed over the gun but Dolan, wary, didn’t take it. C33 made a sad face, said,

“Ah, c’mon, here. .”

Spun the chamber.

“Now, you’ve an even better. . shall we say. . shot?”

Dolan lunged for the gun, grasped it in both hands, leveled it at C33, said,

“You psycho bollix, play this.”

Squeezed.

And squeezed.

Nothing

Nada

Zilch.

C33 said,

“I lied.”

Unity,

Thought Stewart.

What is the one unifying factor tying the four C33 killings? Had to be something, if they were random, then fookit. He had converted his living room into, almost, an incident room. And he was thus immersed when Ridge called around. She’d brought old-fashioned lemonade and handmade scones from Griffin’s Bakery. She also brought a hangover and a book.

Handed it to Stewart.

Days and Nights at Garavan’s.

He looked at her face, asked,

“You were on the razz?”

She gave a bleak smile, said,

“If you mean, did I down some vodkas and slim-line tonic, then, yes.”

Then a memory surfaced, she said,

“Oh, and I was talking to the young Garavan heir and he introduced me to Morgan O’Doherty, who wrote said book.”

Stewart wanted to roar.

“And I give a fuck, why?”

Way too close to a Taylor line. She stared at the walls, lined with names, photos, the three victims accusing her from the frame. She said,

“Either you should have been a Guard or this is, like, seriously creepy.”

She swayed, said,

“Shite.”

Sank into a chair, said,

“Forgot to eat.”

He couldn’t help it, spat,

“You were drinking on an empty stomach?”

Heard the prissiness leaking all over it. She said,

“Jesus, Mom, sorry, I did have a bag of Tayto, cheese and onion.”

He offered,

“I’ll make some herbal tea.”

She snarled,

“Christ sake, Stew, grow a pair and get me a cure.”

Fighting all his instincts, he made her a Seven and Seven, seeing as it was all the booze he had, owing to a reference to that drink on an episode of Sons of Tucson.

She took a healthy/unhealthy sip, growled,

“Mother of God.”

Appreciation or horror, he didn’t push. She sat back, said,

“So, what has all this research turned up?”

He forgot his pique, sat opposite her, gushed,

“Had to be a connection, right? And I found it.”

Waited.

Nothing.

Had to ask,

“Well, don’t you have a question?”

She said,

“You wouldn’t have a stray cigarette?”

And before he could lose it, added,

“Kidding. Come on, tell me. The thread?”

He wanted to sulk. He was after all, an Irish male, conceded,

“Westbury.”

Took her a minute, then she asked,

“The lawyer?”

She meant Gerald “Roy” Westbury, the hotshot famous for defending the foregone guilty. A media star. The camera loved him and he was pretty fond of the lens his own self. Stewart took a deep breath, said,

“I know, it sounds insane, but he’s the only one who knew all four. He was their legal counsel and who would better be able to get close to them, know their habits, routines, get right up close?”

Ridge laughed, not any relation to mirth or warmth but something from a time of darkness. She said,

“Well, that’s new, instead of defending them, he offs them. It’s, um. . a killer closer.”

Stewart gathered up a batch of printouts, shoved them at Ridge, said,

“He was brought up in London, excelled at college, could have been King’s Inns but married an Irishwoman, moved over here, set up as the guy who defends the indefensible.”

Ridge’s face had regained its color, albeit a vodka hue-but like a slanted health blush. She was animated, said,

“Sounds like the guy should be running for president, not prime suspect.”

Stewart delivered his coup, said,

“His wife, yeah? He adored her. She was raped and murdered by persons unknown.”

Ridge grimaced, said,

“Jesus, hasn’t the poor bastard suffered enough? Now you want to put him in the frame.”

The wind went out of Stewart. He’d been so sure she would leap at his theory. He tried,

“You have always gone with my instincts before.”

She stood up, said,

“But they were reasoned, possible. This. . this is just. . bollix.”

The harshness hung between them like a truth that should have kept its head down. She headed for the door.

No hug.

Stewart said,

“I’m telling you, I have a gut feeling.”

She nodded, said,

“Me, too. It means I need to throw up.”

18

When you’re told, “I kid thee not”

You are about to be seriously fucked.

– Jack Taylor

Regrets, phew-oh, they are a recurrent killer. I’ve been tormented, tortured, and roasted to rosary degree by my own history. I was heading down to Feeney’s in Quay Street, still that rarity, an unchanged pub with real Irish barmen. Not a Polish guy attempting, Jesus wept. I admire the hell out of the Polish, but shoot me, a pint of Guinness, I want it crafted. A woman in her thirties sashaying along on those crazed Louboutins but, worse, in skinny jeans.

Christ.

Then as if out of the ether, the memory, grounding me to the spot, outside the Four Corners. I had a reasonably good friend, we’d once played hurling together, we shared more than a few pints and that easy camaraderie of long friendship.

Yet I’d recently heard he’d been found dead in his flat, alone and unwanted. He’d been dead eight months. His flat was bang in the center of the city. This to happen in New York, you’d think.

“Yeah, how the shit goes down in large cities.”

But Galway.

I realized,

“This is who I am, the guy who didn’t check on his mate.”

Not all the fucking poetry in the world was going to write that line.

A limo pulled up.

Swear to God, a goddamn limo. The window rolls down and Reardon, looking like a bewildered hippie, says,

“Get in.”

I didn’t.

He waited, then snapped,

“You deaf?”

I said,

“Actually yes, that’s why I have a fucking hearing aid, you pompous bollix.”

He laughed, said,

“Ah, Taylor, no wonder you amuse me.”

Said,

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks to get in.”

Fuck on a bike or a limo. I said,

“I can’t be bought.”

“Two hundred?”

I got in.

He said,

“Can’t be bought, huh?”

I sighed,

“Not easily.”

He was wearing beat-up 501s, a white worn T that proclaimed,

Grateful Dead, SA, 1977.

I thought,

“Yeah, as if. The fucker wasn’t even born.”

A large oxygen cylinder was on the seat beside him. He said,

“A guy who thinks two hundred bucks is not being bought easy, now there’s a schmuck.”

He nodded at the canister, said,

“Best hangover cure in the biz.”

“Where’s the money?”

He seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Money?”

“The two hundred.”

“You want it NOW?”

Yeah, I did.

He tapped the glass partition, got the cash from the driver, handed it to me. I didn’t say thanks, asked,

“What do you want?”

He intoned,

“I am not a man, I am a people.”

Fuck.

He explained,

“That was said by Jorge Eliécer Gaitán, a Colombian politician, back in 1948, when my old man knew him.”

He gave a lopsided grin, a sight I’d believed belonged purely to caper novels, added,

“My old man claimed to have been in the crowd when Roa put a barrage into every part of Jorge’s body.”

Surprising me, he reached into a pouch, produced a perfect spliff, lit it, drew deep, then,

“The crowd beat Roa to death, tore him to pieces, said my old man.”

Offered me a toke. I declined, asked,

“Fascinating as this history ramble is, it’s of the slightest fucking interest to me, why?”

He loved it, slapped my knee.

Our neighborhood, you did that, you lost the hand. He said,

“Ah, dude, you’re just so freaking wild, rude as a rattler. I’m giving you a picture of my dear old dad so you can see where. . I’m coming from.”

It was probably then I reckoned Reardon was truly mad, so out there he could pass for sane, and he had the wealth for sanity to be moot. He flicked the roach out the window, said,

“Let them smoke weed.”

Then he began to play with a heavy gold Claddagh ring on his right hand, finally took it off, said,

“My daddy left me this and a shitload of major stock, especially in Bogotá. When we buried him, back in Oakland, you know what I said at his grave?”

“Thanks, Dad?”

He gave me the look, to see how much I was shitting him.

A lot.

Said,

“Now, Daddy-o, you can think inside the box.”

Save for the serious money part, most of this was horseshit. I asked again,

“What did you want to see me for?”

The limo had stopped near Blackrock, the end of the Salthill Promenade. A storm was building across from the Aran Islands, waves beginning their brute intensity to lash the front. He said,

“I wanted to warn you off Kelly. She’s my trusted employee and all that good crap but she’s nuttier than a pack of festering Church of Latter-day Saints. Apologies to Romney, etc.”

For some reason I wanted to goad him, did, asked,

“Buying Galway, how’s that going for you?”

He smiled. With the dope, it teetered on the brink of warmth, said,

“To date, three new factories, pledges of a school, a truck full of cold cash to the Council, and, hey, I’m nearly there.”

I asked the obvious.

“Why?”

He opened the door, let the beginning wind swirl across our legs, said,

“Jesus, Jack, apart from the answer, because I can, I thought you’d have figured out what I’m going to do.”

I’d no idea, said so, and he sighed, said,

“Jesus H, you are a dumb fuck. I’m buying it so I can squander it.”

Squander a town?

He laughed full, said,

“Don’t you just fucking love it?”