Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

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19

Rock ’n’ Roll:

The Velvet Underground

Has a line in there about rock ’n’ roll saving her life. This may well be the ultimate Irish version of Irish irony, meaning the added sting of pure vindictiveness, posing as coincidence.

John Patrick Sheridan was thirteen years old. Ridge was thirty-nine. A bright fine Tuesday, John was rushing to school and crashed into Ridge, who was en route to collect her new car. He mumbled,

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Ma’am?

She hissed,

“Little bastard.”

And they should never really have met again, but their paths had crossed and one more time, they would, as it were. . collide.

Neither would ever know the other, yet they would influence each other more than anything else in either of their lives. A brief footnote of interest to those of a macabre, not to say lunatic, bent is that John’s dad, back in the chemical day, had been a huge “Underground head.”

Some events are writ in water.

This chance encounter was danced lightly across the Claddagh basin, its recognizance already reaching out toward what was an unremarkable bridge just outside Oranmore. But such concepts are rooted in mumbo jumbo, signifying little but a deep longing for connection.

Meaning ultimately little but cheap coincidence and fanciful shite talk.

Stewart was sitting in my flat, looking demented. He had laid out his theory on Westbury, his unity certainty on the C33 victims. I’d listened as if I cared, as if I were interested. When he wound up, he asked,

“So, Jack, what do you think?”

I considered carefully, said,

“Cobblers.”

Before he could argue, I said,

“Too, Westbury is a friend of mine.”

Enraged him, spat,

“You have a lawyer friend?”

Now I was spitting iron, said,

“Oh, I get it. The drunk nonuniversity bollix can’t have. .” I paused to raise sufficient venom, bitter bile “. . an educated friend, that it?”

He was on his feet, our friendship spiraling away, leaking all the good points like worthless euros, as close to physical confrontation as we’d ever come. He said,

“Oh, don’t play the fucking working-class hero bullshite, Jack Taylor, man of the people.”

My mind clicked, Stewart’s martial arts, his skill in kickboxing, and figured a fast kick in the balls was the route. He asked,

“When you beat a stalker senseless a few years back. .”

I stopped, asked,

“Yeah?”

The fierceness seemed to have drained away and his eyes were turned in. I wondered what was going on that I’d missed.

He continued,

“Did you feel any guilt after?”

“Sure.”

He seemed relieved.

Until

I added,

“Guilt I hadn’t killed the fucker when I had the chance.”

He shook his head, went,

“Always the hard arse.”

Times I’d been called this, called worse in truth and did, a bit, anyway, ask my own self if there was validity? I like that.

Validity.

Makes me sound American and a solid guest on Dr. Phil. Truth being, I warranted an appearance more on Jeremy Kyle, who was Jerry Springer light. Such a self-examination usually rode point with a few Jamesons under my conscience and the answer was mostly

“Not hard enough.”

Stewart asked,

“How about this? If I find a bit more evidence on Westbury, something else connecting him to the victims, will you reconsider?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” my mind on the Euro Qualifiers, Ireland against Croatia. The country needed this championship so badly. Stewart followed soccer but in that academic way that annoys the shit out of a true believer. He analyzed games, played like you would snooker, never the shot before him but the ones to come, and sure enough, had said,

“It’s Spain I worry about, then Italy.”

I said,

“They’d love you in Croatia.”

“Why?”

“You have us already beaten.”

The ferocious vibe between us had stepped down a notch. It was there, simmering but blunted. He grabbed his jacket, said,

“Always good to chat with you, Jack.”

Did I have to have the last word?

Yeah, said,

“A friend in need is God’s version of The Apprentice.”

20

No more things should be presumed to exist than are absolutely necessary.

– Occam’s razor

The serial number on the bike that C33 found all those years ago?

PT290.

It would be years later when, by a series of odd coincidences, C33 was listening to the tapes of Bob Keppel with Ted Bundy, hours before they fried Bundy. Bundy had been confessing for hours, hoping to buy another reprieve. Down to the wire, he confessed to the death of a little girl. He padded out his confession with saying he’d abandoned her ten-speed yellow bike in Seattle, right after he’d brutally killed her. The bike was never found.

C33 had that moment of transcendence when the letter on the bike matched.

No one could ever say C33 hadn’t researched the condition/malady that drove the Galway set of reprisals. Gacy, Dahmer, DKK, Green River Killer, all had been researched and discarded. C33 was

. . something else,

. . something more.

Believe.

A Dexter with an Irish lilt. In C33’s wallet, behind the American driving licence, was a Gothic-script wedge of John Burroughs.

Nature teaches more than she preaches. There are no sermons in stones. It is easier to get a spark out of a stone than a moral.

C33 had honed the art of reprisal in the States, an equal killer land of opportunity. Get a car and a sound track of Hank Williams and you were good to go; it was rich pickings.

But

. . There is an unknown land full of strange flowers and subtle perfumes, a land of which it is joy of all joys to dream, a land where all things

Are perfect

And. . poisonous.

And so Ireland, with a race of people termed, by Louis MacNeice, full of low cunning.

Where better to ply one’s trade and breathe the air that nourished and ultimately betrayed its greatest writer?

Sweet vicious irony.

* * *

Reardon had summoned me to a formal meeting, meaning, he’d stressed, I wear a tie.

Fuck that.

His new official headquarters were at the Docks, in what had been earmarked for luxury apartments until the economy spat on that. Reardon’s people bought it for a song and change, had converted it to state-of-the-art silicon tech efficiency. Modeled on the gig of Microsoft, Google, lots of young nerds, breaking off from their consoles to whirl Frisbees, chug decaffeinated frappés, do lots of high fives.

This would be nausea all of itself but some of these kids were Irish.

Jesus.

Rob Cox, a leading American technology writer, said,

. . Under the hoodies and the moral language lurk rapacious business people, robber barons with the same profit motive that drives all businesses and a ruthlessness that rivals history’s greatest industrial bullies.

I was in Reardon’s office, pennants of the Yankees, so the guy couldn’t be all rotten, a pair of crass crossed hurleys to show he was of the people, a hoops basket that said,

Yo, I’m down homes.

He was dressed in cargo shorts, a T that yelled

Ashes to Ashes

And flip-flops.

Me, in my strangulation tie, sports jacket, Farah creased pants, like some latter-day consigliere to these precocious kids. Reardon was slurping on a slush, I kid thee fucking not at all, and very loudly.

Teeth clenched, I asked,

“The fuck am I wearing a tie and generally coming off like a horse’s arse?”

He flipped the drink container at the basket and to my delight, missed, said,

“Cos, dude, like, you’re, you know, old.”

Crossed my mind to finally say,

“Fuck it.”

Stride out of there, dignity walking point.

But in truth, I don’t really do dignity. Not in any way anyone ever noticed. Something about Reardon rubbed a primeval urge, a desire to wipe that smug smirk in the plush carpets of his state-of-the-art office. He’d reiterated over and over his wish to use me, to employ me in some capacity, so I could swallow some humiliation, asked,

“You want to get to the point or just waffle your hippie bullshite?”

Got him.

In the face, for one brief moment, I saw the empty man, the ego that can never be stroked, the fallow ground that is forever barren and that power sheens but briefly. He rallied.

“We’re developing an app that will wipe the floor with

iPads

iPhones

i. . what the fuck ever. But there is a leak. Someone in this here office, my man, is leaking to either Google or Amazon.”

I laughed, said,

“I love it. You want me to catch a techie, a nerd? I wouldn’t even know how to talk to them, let alone know if they were stealing the family silver.”

He stood up, stretched, looked out at his crew with what could only be pride and loathing, said,

“It’s Skylar or Stan, my two best people. You, my errant private eye, are going to take them for drinks, show them some of unknown Galway, and, in your wily way, tell which of the. .”

He paused, a look of affection, certainly as close to love as a megalomaniac might ever get, then,

“Cunts

. . is betraying me.”

Then he turned to me, his face a frozen mask, said,

“And you’ll do this, not only because I’ll pay you to the point of orgasmic ridicule but, if you don’t, I’ll burn Stewart.”

I was lost, groped for an answer. He smiled, brittle spite leaking from the corners of his mouth, said,

“People of interest

You

The dyke Guard

Stewie

I have shadowed from day one. How I get to own cities and the likes of you can barely rent.”

I was so angry I could spit, asked,

“What did Stewart do?”

He was now twisting a rubber band, doing that irritating thing as if he had gum in his hands, extending and letting it blow. I wanted to kill him with the freaking band. He said,

“Ask him. I mean, you guys, tight, right? No secrets, am I right, dawg?”

I looked out at the office, asked,

“These kids, I bring them out, show them the sights, and they’ll just fess up?”

He shrugged.

“Those two are my token Americans, naive is their genetic code, they’re in a foreign country, you’re like a legend, a Waylon Jennings, not that they ever the fuck heard of him, but you get my drift. Get ’em wasted, they’ll want to impress you.”

I moved to go, stopped, asked,

“Saying it plays like you figure, one of those kids gives it up, what will you do?”

He seemed to be actually considering his answer, then,

“I’ll fucking butcher him.”

On the way out, the girl, looking like an escapee from The Brady Bunch, said to me,

“Mr. Taylor, I’m Skylar, I’m so buzzed.”

A guy appeared alongside, looking like he was maybe twelve. I guessed Stan. He joined the chorus, blew,

“We’ll have us a blast, way cool.”

I thought,

“Fucking shoot me now.”

21

“The comic spirit is a necessity of life, as a purge to all human vanity.”

– Oscar Wilde

Stewart had gotten an appointment with Westbury. Dressed to legal impress: the Armani suit, muted tie, Italian shoes. It sure impressed the receptionist, who asked,

“And where have you been, ducks?”

That she was close to seventy seemed not to have dented her spirit. The office managed to combine the old school aura of dusty desks without the desks and a bright bay window that gave a miraculous view of Lough Corrib.

As Stewart waited, she asked,

“Like a whiskey and soda while you’re waiting?”

He half-thought she might be serious and was sure she’d done two of said number her own self. The magazines on the table continued the dual theme. There were

Galway Now

Loaded

Horse amp; Hound.

All species covered there. Stewart was working on his story, if indeed story he decided he’d go with. Maybe just flush with,

“Why have four of your clients been targeted by a lunatic vigilante?”

And get turfed out on his arse. The old dear was still staring at him, asked,

“Know how long I’ve been working here?”

Like he gave a shit?

Said,

“No.”

“Have a guess, go on, go on.”

Sounding like Pauline McLynn in Father Ted. He demurred with,

“Really, I have no idea.”

His tone suggesting he had zero to zilch interest. She sniffed, said,

“You’re gorgeous but, God, you’re boring.”

A beat,

“You lovely people, you don’t have to work at personality, just sit and be admired, you ungrateful. . pricks.”

Stewart had done as much research on Westbury as he could and, after Google, Wikipedia, both U.K. and Irish entries, had amassed a picture of a blend of Brit Atticus Finch and the total headbanger of a counsel in Breaking Bad. The receptionist, whose name he saw was Ms. Davis, said,

“You can go in now. Roy is expecting you.”

Roy!

Roy’s office was a Hollywood lawyer’s space as envisaged by Kenneth Anger. Chaos fueled by adrenaline. Westbury was a barrel of a man, in his fifties, all the years compressed into a tight ball of ferocious energy. Wearing a striped shirt, loud tie, and-get this-braces, like Gekko had never gone to prison. Bald, brute head, and a face that was not lived in but downright occupied. By very bad events.

He emerged from behind a desk laden with documents, hand extended, greeted,

“Mr. Sandler”

“It’s Stewart.”

Westbury’s grip was one of those duels but Stewart from years of martial arts could hand-fuck all day. Westbury said,

“Ms. Davis said you were Sandler.”

Feeling like Jack, he said,

“She was wrong.”

Let it hang there, their play. Westbury cleared a mess of files off a chair, said,

“Grab a pew, lad. Anything to drink?”

Stewart said,

“I’m not a lad and Mrs. Davis already gave me a whiskey and soda.”

Got him.

Then he laughed, said,

“Touché, a sense of humor never goes astray. What can I do for you?”

Stewart debated for all of a minute, then,

“I beat a man half to death, might need representation if the Guards trace the beating.”

Be a perpetrator, like the dead four, and if Westbury was taking out his own clients, in some perverted guise of bent justice, then bring it on. Westbury, displaying why he got the big bucks, countered instantly with

“Alleged. Allegedly beat.”

Stewart nodded, liked it a lot.

Westbury handed over a sheet of paper, said,

“Fill out the personal stuff, keep it vague, paper trails have a tendency to bite you in the arse.”

He then quoted his fees and truly shocked Stewart.

Stewart had been reasonably successful in various enterprises, made some serious wedge along the way, but this, this was a revelation. Westbury smiled, said,

“Hey kid, you wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t afford it and, let’s face it, sounds like you can’t afford not to be here.”

Laughed at his own line, added,

“Lighten up, sonny, this is legal humor.”

Stewart fixed him with his eyes, said,

“Let’s get on the same page. I’m not

Lad

Sonny

Kid

Any of those condescending terms. You charge like serious freaking weight, then I get some serious respect.”

Westbury considered, his legal eyes betraying little save assessment, then,

“Okay, you’re a player. Tell me, where did you do your jail time?”

Got Stewart, hard. He managed,

“You Googled me?”

Westbury shrugged that off, said,

“Nope. Your whole vocabulary, attitude, the don’t diss me, homes rap, screams of the Joy, and I’m not talking the Rapture, I mean Mountjoy, where, alas, some of my less successful cases rest.”

Stewart wrote out a check, asked,

“What now?”

Westbury stretched, one of those all-encompassing stretches that brook neither finesse nor restraint, said,

“I get on to my guy in the Guards, see if you’re a person of interest.”

Stewart stood, shook his hand, said,

“Um, thank you, I think.”

Was at the door when he heard,

“Yo, Stewie.”

Stewart, a covert fan of Family Guy, didn’t turn, simply raised his index finger, heard a hearty laugh.

22

I don’t see it as any fucking tragedy, my life. Everyone thought I’d be a failure and a liability.

– Shane MacGowan, in reflective mode

The table was a riot of pints, shots, bowls of nuts, and the ubiquitous iPhones, iPads. Skylar, Stan, and me own self were in the Quays, two of the Saw Doctors giving an impromptu gig of

Reels

Jigs, and, of course,

Downtown, in that slanted Tuam fashion. Skylar was ecstatic, gushed,

“Those dudes were like on Letterman and Jodie Foster bought them a burger.”

If the two events were related, I was past caring. I was having me a time, having been convinced my spy/industrial espionage gig was as low as I can sometimes go. But, hey, go figure. I was rolling, getting with the flow, enjoying me own self. The planet of geekdom was surprisingly interesting. Maybe as Stan and I had bonded over

Breaking Bad, Season 4

Detour through the British The Thick of It

And

Back stateside,

Veep.

Doing that drink-fueled dance of quoting our favorite lines to each other. Stan was ahead on Veep with,

“I’ve met some people, real people, and a lot of them are fucking idiots.”

Selina Meyer, the fictional VP.

He thought I’d concede there but I had Malcolm Tucker, Gothic spin from The Thickof It, with

“Please could you take this note, ram it up his hairy inbox, and pin it to his fucking prostate?”

And saw Skylar’s face drop. I offered,

“You want to talk, um, Desperate Housewives, The Real Housewives of Orange County?”

My smile defused the insult and she said,

“What’s a black ’n’ tan?”

I presumed she meant the drink, else I’d be there a week foulmouthing the band of thugs and scum sent to terrorize the Irish. I took the chance and ordered the drink. I was about to go for it when Stan said,

“Man, I’d kill for a Saw Doctors T-shirt.”

Sometimes, rare to rarest in truth, you get the stars in line and I spotted Ollie Jennings, their manager, one of life’s real gentlemen, in nature and personality. Called him, said to Stan,

“Ask their manager.”

Headed for the bar.

Got the drinks, headed back to see Stan joining Ollie and the Saw Doctors. Skylar said,

“Oh, Lordy, he’ll be unbearable now.”

Drink or two in and she was weeping on my shoulder, her love for Stan, but how he seemed to have no interest. His sole focus, with music, was work, and then she said,

“He’d murder someone for the chance I have.”

Jesus.

Just dropped it in my lap and, worse, tomorrow, she wouldn’t even remember. I could have done the decent thing, steered the conversation in another direction. I liked her, a lot. She could have been the daughter I’d never have. She had a sweetness, almost an innocence, that held resonances of Serena but I couldn’t go there. Drained my Jay, shook the memory of that little girl’s death. Skylar, concerned, asked,

“Mr. Taylor, you okay? You seemed like you saw a ghost.”

“Fucking Black ’n’ Tans.”

I hesitated, then,

“So, you have a shot at something big?”

She did.

Spilled it all, between drinks, a crying jag, a hint of pride, and an awful shitload of indiscretion. Sometime later, Stan came back, big dopey grin, as happy as it Guinness gets, asked,

“How you guys doing?”

I gave him my best smile, the one that has as much ice as sparkle, said,

“We’re having us one of them memorable chats.”

Skylar blubbered, threw an arm around me, sobbed,

“I’ll never forget this night, Mr. Taylor.”

I said,

“I can guarantee that, hon.”

Next morning, my hangover had been curtailed by the gallon of water I drank the night before. In a bizarre way, the cold manipulation of the girl had prevented me from getting wasted. Jesus, I’d downed enough booze to fell the Irish rugby team, but one of those evenings, the more I put away, the clearer my mind became.

A line of poetry unreeling in my head,

. . your first betrayal was the coldest one.

I had a mug of black coffee, sat in my armchair, looking out at nothing save the nasty act I danced along. Reardon had been clear about what he’d do.

“Destroy the fucker.”

Being one of the mildest terms he’d employed about the kid who was selling him out. And true, the deal Skylar had been offered by Rogue Tech was a showstopper. She’d indeed be set for life, and all she had to do was score a sizable hit on Reardon’s research. It would, she’d said,

“Put Reardon back at least eighteen months. In the tech world, that’s like a death blow.”

I had no doubt of my own capabilities. I’d done worse, with little aforethought.

I phoned Kelly, asked,

“How are you on moral dilemmas?”

She laughed, said,

“Shaky. You need help?”

Did I?

I said,

“Be nice to buy you a late morning breakfast.”

She said,

“We call it brunch.”

“Yeah, well, here we call it a cheap lunch.”

23

Hysteroid: term describing the tendency to exaggerate the emotional component. To an ordinary person, what is sorrow would, to a hysteric, be grief; or again, to an ordinary person, what is agitation would, to a hysteric, be interpreted as a major trauma.

She always stole what had been freely offered.

– Kelly’s doctor

A new hotel had opened off Eyre Square just as the boom died; the hotel died soon after. Kelly asked if I’d meet her in the lobby there. I said,

“That hotel has been sold.”

She laughed, said,

“Yeah, to Reardon, like most of the town, sooner than later.”

I’d some time before our meeting so caught up on the football. Bad to saddest worst. Irish style. Out, after three games. All the hopes, aspirations, the Trapattoni worship, ashes now.

1. Croatia beat us three-one.

2. Spain beat us four-nil.

3. Italy beat us two-nil.

Jesus.

And the rugby, somehow, we’d pull consolation out of the European fiasco with them but, against the Kiwis, we had an all-time record-breaking defeat.

Sixty. . nil.

Dazed, I’d watched England against Italy go to a penalty shoot-out and, argh, the Brits lost. My sympathies had been with Hart, the English goalie. To have to watch the ferocious Balotelli bear down on goal was to see Armageddon in a blue shirt.

But, hey, you take comfort where any crumb is available. Right?

The European bridge championships were being held with considerably less fanfare and we were in the quarterfinals.

That mattered, didn’t it?

Preparations for the Volvo Ocean Race were in full pace, the race terminating in Galway in a few short weeks. As I waited in the hotel lobby for Kelly, I read through the city preparations to receive the yachts. Meant a sizable payday to the city. No wonder Clancy and the city hotshots refused to entertain the concept of C33, a vigilante running loose, with world media lurking. No, had to keep that bogey under wraps.

Heard,

“Yo, sailor.”

Kelly, dressed in tight white jeans, tight black T-shirt, her face radiant. I felt the stir, if not of echoes, then yearning. She leaned over to do that ridiculous air kiss, then suddenly veered to a kiss, her tongue deep in my mouth, then withdrew, said,

“Suck that.”

Jesus.

A waitress appeared, looking all of sixteen and suddenly making Kelly seem. . extreme? Kelly snapped,

“Lolita, get us a pot of coffee before the yachts arrive.”

I said, recovering some tarnished dignity,

“You have the essentials of leadership down.”

She gave me a mischievous grin, asked,

“What would they be, mon amour?”

“Rudeness and hostility.”

She laughed as the coffee came, said to the girl,

“Put it on Reardon’s tab.”

The girl was confused, waited,

I said,

“He owns the hotel.”

She lit up, went,

“Oh, Mr. Reardon.”

Kelly sat back, said,

“Take a hike.”

I asked,

“Are you working on being a bitch, or is it, you know, natural?”

Gave me a long look, asked,

“Long as the bitch is in your corner, what do you care?”

I told her about my dilemma, Skylar being headhunted and her selling out Reardon. She gave me an odd look, asked,

“What’s the dilemma?”

Truth to tell, I wanted to look like I was at least having a struggle with this, that somewhere in me was a streak of decency. I said,

“Well, she’s a nice kid. Seems like she confided in me and to just sell her seems cold.”

She laughed out loud. Said,

“How the fuck do you know what’s she like? She didn’t confide in you, she got wasted, shot her mouth off.”

Jesus, was I sorry I’d asked, said,

“Betrayal is not only a shitty thing to do, it’s. . it’s. . un-Irish.”

She loved that, tapped my head, said,

“Fess up, buddy, you want to look noble while being a cunt.”

The sun had come out, maybe in anticipation of the Volvo Ocean Race. Kelly said,

“Walk with me.”

We headed down toward the Corn Market. Kelly said,

“I love this city. It’s so walker-friendly.”

I sniffed,

“Tell it to Lonely Planet.”

She stopped, said,

“You have the weirdest thought processes. I mean, whammo, you’re off on some side trip, like a Seth MacFarlane with Irish sensibility.”

Fuck, Family Guy I wasn’t. I said,

“Lonely Planet stuck it to the city, big-time.”

She gave that enigmatic smile, signifying little, said,

“Those dudes handed you your ass, right.”

In a word, yes.

We were outside Charlie Byrne’s, a display of noir crime novels in the window, including

El Niño

Absolute Zero

The Twelve

The Cold Cold Ground

Vinny was just heading in, laden with books, shouted,

“Yo, Jack, a hand, eh?”

Kelly glanced at my mutilated fingers, nodded, and I went to help Vinny. He looked at Kelly, raised his left eyebrow. I said,

“She’s American.”

And he maneuvered the door, got the box in, said,

“Course she is, Jack. She’s with you.”

Go figure!

Kelly bought The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde. It was in beautiful condition, leather binding, gilt-edged pages.

The price?

Vinny said,

“Five euros.”

Kelly went,

“You’re kidding. It’s worth ten times that.”

He gave that Vinny smile, the one that says,

“You love books, we love you.”

I found a copy of John Lahr’s New Yorker profiles. We’d just gotten outside, her mobile shrilled and sounded like,

Home of the Brave.

I could hear a raised voice. She grimaced, then passed the phone to me, said,

“Your master’s voice.”

Reardon, snarling,

“I expected a report this morning.”

I said,

“Here’s a report. Fuck you.”

Clicked off. Then asked her,

“Oh, sorry, were you finished?”

She sighed,

“You certainly are.”

Then she offered the Wilde book, said,

“For you.”

“No thanks. Such learning would only foul the genetic pool.”

She asked,

“You know what happens to people who refuse gifts?”

“No.”

Her departing smile,

“Ah. . the not knowing. . that’s the beauty of it. Dinner this evening, my treat.”

I watched her walk away, that assured strut, a woman who owned her space and, if you wanted to invade, you’d better bring your very best game.

Later, I watched the semifinal, Italy versus Germany, Balotelli, like a gift from the God of Football, until my doorbell went.

Reardon.

A riled Reardon, with a hulking guy behind him. He said,

“That’s Leo, my protection.”

I said,

“Leo gets to protect the space outside my flat.”

Leo growled and Reardon didn’t like it much better but agreed, came in, glanced at the screen, said,

“Fucking wops need niggers to win a game.”

I said,

“Yo, shithead, you want to do redneck crap, do it outside, with your gorilla.”

He laughed, said.

“Leo doesn’t like you.”

I went to the fridge, cracked open a couple of cold ones, handed him one, said,

“Leo’s likes are way down on my current concern list.”

Reardon was dressed in the Galway hurling jersey, combat shorts, and I think they call his footwear espadrilles? They looked comfortable and, best, worn. He flopped down on my second-best chair, said,

“So, Taylor, spill.”

Meaning, the goods on Skylar.

I clinked his bottle, said,

“Sláinte.”

Never meant it less. If you could lightly wish

“Roast in hell”

It would have been closer.

I asked,

“So what have you got on Stewart?”

Reardon was scanning the apartment, missing nothing, said,

“Enough to send his supercilious ass to the slammer.”

I sipped from the beer, continued,

“So, the deal is, I drop the dime on your employee, you let Stewart slide?”

Reardon looked at me, said,

“Jesus H. How many times you want me to say it? Yes.”

I was working my way up to divulging Skylar’s name when he muttered,

“Fucking Skylar. I thought that kid would have more savvy. If it was Stan, I’d get it. He’s just a doper geek.”

What?

I said,

“Skylar! You know. How the fuck do you know?”

He flipped the empty bottle high. It hovered dangerously for a moment, then expertly landed in the wastebasket, with a heavy thud. He said,

“Gotcha.”

Smiled, then,

“Oh, Kelly told me.”

Jesus, these fucking people. I near shouted,

“Why would she tell you?”

He laughed, got to his feet in one fluid click, said,

“We used to be married.”

She’d told me she’d never been married.

Relishing my stunned dumb expression, he said,

“Lesson one, pal, wherever you think you’ve been, us rich guys, we’ve already had that and-guess what? – discarded it.”

Len Waters was from a very good home; best background, in fact. Family lived in Taylor’s Hill, father a surgeon, mother a hypocrite, best schools, almost university, trust fund, reasonably good looking, twenty years of age, and a psychopath.

He was a run-of-the-mill nut job, possessing none of the attributed charm these fucks could exercise. His kick was to barge in on old women, beat them to a pulp-and do any other vile act his cesspool mind could conjure. Maybe owing to chance, he hadn’t yet murdered anyone, at least anyone that somebody missed.

Now in custody, he was facing three charges. Westbury was his lawyer and in jig time had the skel out on bail. Stewart had followed all this diligently, convinced that Waters was the perfect victim for C33 and, if Westbury was one and the same, Stewart would be there to witness. After Waters had been released amid a flurry of indignation, near riot, and press reportage, Stewart arranged an appointment with Westbury, claiming it was urgent and managing to get Westbury to meet him in a pub. This is not so difficult if you agree that pub hours, too, are on their clock.

They get drinks, get paid, who’s hurting?

Westbury arrived in McSwiggan’s, dressed in victory and Armani, his face flushed from trumping the legal system again. Stewart had grabbed a table at the back, offered,

“Champagne?”

Westbury was tempted, then,

“No, maybe a little early for celebration, so large gin and tonic.”

No ice. A serious drinker.

Stewart had a large glass of lime and water, could pass for the real thing. He touched Westbury’s glass, said,

“Congrats. You’re good.”

Westbury, who’d obviously had a few at the office, slight beads of perspiration on his brow, scoffed,

“Good? I’m the freaking best, sonny.”

Okay.

Ego checked.

Stewart said,

“I wanted to check on my own status, but also buy you a drink to show my appreciation of you taking an interest when you are. .”

Paused

“So brilliantly busy.”

Almost overdid it.

Westbury paused, reassessed Stewart, then, mollified, said,

“There is a simple secret to even the darkest allegation.”

Stewart was fascinated by Westbury’s bulletproof confidence, wondered if it had to do with the fact, if he was indeed the C33 vigilante, that the outcome of any case was irrelevant, as he administered the final justice and got paid, too. Win-win.