Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

27

Like most people raised on American movies, I have poor access to my emotions but can banter like a motherfucker.

– Josh Bazell, Wild Thing

Rumor is always more exciting than truth.

I was in Crowe’s pub on Prospect Hill, the borderline between that and Bohermore, probably the only true neighborhoods remaining in the city. Like in the awful theme from Cheers, people here did know your name.

Ollie Crowe was arranging a post party for the crowds attending Eamonn Deacy’s testimonial and a young guy near me was regaling his girl with a line from the new Joan Rivers biography.

Like this:

Joan Rivers’s mother asked the doctor, “Will the baby live?”

Meaning Joan.

“Not unless you take your foot off her throat.”

His girl looked at him, asked,

“Joan who?”

A guy staring at a pint of Guinness, as if he might find some answer, then looked at me, said,

“You hear about the new trend?”

Jesus, kidding or what?

Could be anything from The Rose of Tralee being fixed to Galway losing the minor semifinal.

It wasn’t.

He said,

“Mirror fasting.”

WTF?

I asked,

“What the fuck are you on about?”

He smirked, delighted to have that Irish prized possession, knowledge, especially knowledge you don’t have, said,

“Women are trying not to look in mirrors for certain amounts of time, as it only pressures them if they do it daily.”

I’d have laughed if my spirit wasn’t so overladen.

Ridge arrived looking. . forlorn. . but gorgeous. Dressed in black leather jacket, black jeans, boots, she could have passed for a mild dominatrix. I kept that to myself, asked,

“Get you something?”

Her eyes were on fire. I knew I’d be catching some sparks. She said,

“Your answer to everything, a drink.”

Spurred,

“Not really. I was just trying to inject some civility.”

She gave a bitter smile, said,

“Make a nice change.”

The guy who’d made the Joan Rivers joke leaned over, asked,

“That your wife?”

Shocking the be-Jaysus out of us equally, I said,

“God forbid.”

Said,

“Maybe a bit of mirror fasting, eh?”

Her face was a blend of bile and reined violence.

I did the real smart thing. I began to leave. Ridge in that bitch mode, head for the street, fast. She snapped,

“Where are you going?”

I turned, stared, said,

“The hell away from you, Sergeant.”

“Superintendent Clancy wants to talk to you, and I mean now.”

“Tell him I was doing my usual solving.”

“What?”

“You know, drinking.”

She grabbed my arm. I looked at that, said,

“Bad idea.”

She let go, asked,

“Please?”

Ground it out between her teeth. I smiled, said,

“See, not so hard. Let’s go see the super.”

Clancy and I had such bad history, we nigh forgot most of the reasons he hated me. Dressed in his full True Blues, he cut an impressive figure, at least he thought so. I asked,

“Been watching Tom Selleck, I guess.”

He surveyed me, not much liking a single thing he saw, said,

“This C33 nonsense you’re spreading has got to stop.”

I sighed, then,

“Best tell that to C33 is my shot.”

He shuffled some papers, said,

“You might remember I told you we were investigating some cold cases.”

Let me savor that. He’d threatened to show my beloved dad had stolen funds from the railway pension fund. Destroy any decency our fragmented family weakly held. Now he let me see which way I wanted to jump.

As if I’d a whole load of choice. I asked,

“And for. . the. . um. . railway case not to be a priority, so to speak?”

He smiled, a thing of pure ugliness, said,

“I’m surmising your interest in C33 is. . waning.”

I asked,

“Who’s C33?”

He leaned back in his full leather chair, said,

“Run along, there’s a good lad.”

The Irish shit sandwich, pat your head as they kick your arse.

28

“Wasn’t it an awful thing that we were lost in the woods last night?”

Rudolph Valentino to his manager as he drew his last breath. The manager said something trite and Valentino answered,

“I don’t think you appreciate the humor of that, do you?”

There was a school of thought that felt the world was made up of those who got this and those who didn’t.

And I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word I’m saying.

– Oscar Wilde, “The Remarkable Rocket”

I met with Westbury in his office. If any of the deaths had affected him in any way, he wasn’t showing it. Dressed in a suit that must have cost three fortunes, he asked,

“How exactly can I help you, Mr. Taylor?”

A lawyer calls you mister, lose your wallet as he already owns it. I said,

“Call me Jack.”

Got an enigmatic smile that gave away precisely zero. He didn’t extend the courtesy so I figured we were still definitely not on first-name territory. I said,

“Just a strange coincidence. Five of the people you represented are dead. Worse, murdered.”

He looked at me, then,

“Is there a question in there. . Jack?”

Leaning, oh so slightly, on my name. No fucking with this guy. I said,

“I wondered if you’d an opinion on that?”

His smile spread, a joke he’d written the punch line for many times. He said,

“Jack, my opinion is very, very measured. You can read that as expensive.”

Before I could answer, he asked,

“You are here in any, how shall I put it, legal capacity?”

Like he didn’t know. I said,

“Stewart was my best friend. I don’t know what legal weight that carries.”

He shot back,

“Well, I can answer that easily and, better, not charge you. Its weight is zilch, nada, and, as they say in our native tongue,

Níl rud ar bith agat.”

That last bit nicely translates as,

“You’ve fuck all, Jack.”

Kelly was sipping a Bloody Mary in the bar at Jury’s, bottom of Quay Street. I hadn’t arranged to meet her. It was one of those bars where you could see the interior from the street. I’d been fuming along, simmering after leaving Westbury, when I glanced to my right, saw her. Turned and went in. If she was glad to see me, she was hiding it well. Lunch hour was looming and I asked,

“Getting an early start?”

She was wearing a dazzling white tracksuit, her hair tied up in that no nonsense bun that women do effortlessly. A hardcover of The Importance of Being Oscar was open before her. She stared at me, mused,

“Taylor or Wilde?”

Then, deciding, shut the book. A waitress approached and I ordered a Galway sparkling water. Kelly said,

“Another of those.”

Indicating her own now-finished drink, the girl asked,

“Tomato juice?”

Kelly sighed, said,

“Yeah, with a shipload of Grey Goose.”

Kelly asked,

“And how are you, Jacques?”

Like a damn fool I began to tell her. During the telling, her drink arrived and finally she did that

. . wind it up fellah motion.

Said,

“Jesus, Taylor, when I asked you, I didn’t really care and guess what? I care even fucking less now.”

I physically moved back, said,

“Phew, you really are not in a good place.”

She looked at her empty glass, like,

“How’d that happen?”

Said,

“I’m sorry, Jack, it’s just Stewart.”

And trailed off.

WTF?

I echoed,

“Stewart?”

She seemed to be tearing up, said,

“We’d become close. Well, Zen proximity.”

Christ, she sounded like him. I asked,

“You and Stewart?”

She said,

“Not sure you were the friend to him you could have been.”

And, with that blow, stood, touched my face with her hand, said,

“I need to grieve.”

And was gone.

Leaving me the bill and the Wilde book.

Trust me,

1. Bloody Marys and, yeah, a sparkling water

2. Are not cheap.

I left the book as a cheap tip and got out of there before I had to face the waitress. I was out of cash and definitely out of options.

I went after her, determined to ask about her husband, Reardon, the new drug named C33. But, on Quay Street, there was no sign.

Back at my flat, I cracked a beer, sat down to watch the last four episodes of Life (Season 2) with Damian Lewis. And you guessed it, another canceled show. A crime. The final episode had writing and drama the equal of anything on HBO.

All of this to distract my mind, the reeling conflicting notions:

Stewart and Kelly?

Reardon and C33.

Ridge and extreme annoyance.

The brew was good, a batch of Sam Adams I found in McCambridge’s. All I needed was an NFL game, shout,

“Go Giants. .”

And I’d have the U.S. to me.

Without leaning on the metaphor too much, but a drink-fucked PI, with mutilated fingers, bad hearing, watching shows that got canceled, yeah, that’s about right.

My phone shrilled. It had that whine that cautioned,

“This is nothing good.”

Said,

“Better be good.”

Got,

“Taylor, Reardon here.”

I took a breath, spat,

“You son of a bitch, you’ve been Mickey Finning me.”

Pause.

“Mickey what the fuck?”

“Doping me, with some untested shite that could kill me or worse.”

He laughed, asked,

“You’ve been free from hangovers, am I right?”

“At what price, can you tell me that, you bollix?”

More snickering, then,

“It’s life, Jack. We’re all fucked.”

Maybe we’d been watching the same TV series.

“Jack, you need to rein it in. You’ll be suitably rewarded.”

“Not in heaven, I hope.”

“You’re a funny guy, Jack.”

“So assholes keep telling me.”

“I’ll drop by this evening. We can. . chat.”

When I didn’t answer, he said,

“One more thing, buddy.”

“Yeah?”

“That sense of humor. Keep it honed. You’re goanna fucking need it.”

He rang off. I cracked another Sam, idled on shooting the bastard the minute he walked in the door. No prelim, no chat.

Just blow his shit away.

Made the beer taste even better than it had, gave it an edge.

I was half in the bag when he eventually showed. He was still sporting the grunge look, like a reanimated Cobain.

A pair of combat pants that had designer stains or not. A T-shirt with the logo I’d kill for a hit.

Cute.

He said,

“Yo, bro.”

Jesus.

Flopped in the sofa, asked,

“I could go a brew, my man.”

Went to the fridge, lobbed a Sam, and he caught it expertly. Looked at the label, said,

“Class.”

My desire to wallop him had waned as I’d downed enough booze. Normally it fueled my murderous compulsion but not this time. I asked,

“This dope you’re feeding me, the name, is it, like, C. . for chemical?”

He drained the bottle, belched, said,

“C33?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t know?”

He seemed genuinely surprised. I said,

“Like I’d be fucking asking?”

He stood, danced to the fridge, grabbed a brew, flicked the top off, said,

“But, correct me if I’m wrong, you were in the bookstore together, right?”

I was lost, gestured with my shoulders. He said,

“Kelly. She got the Wilde book that day, I think. Shit, you paid for it, she said.”

I stood in front of him, said,

“For fuck’s sake, just tell me and quit the fucking riddles.”

Unfazed, he said,

“Kelly had a thing for Wilde, so, C33, the number of his cell in Reading Gaol.”

Part 2

Purgatory Looms

29

He wanted to be a priest and, at the same time, he was prepared to beat people up and shoot them and kill them. That’s not about conflicting goals; that’s about The Three Faces of Eve.

– Edward Dolnick, The Rescue Artist

Scepticism is the beginning of faith.

– Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Philip Larkin in the last year of his life would start the morning with three glasses of cheap wine, bought in bulk from the supermarket, said, “You’ve got to have some fucking reason for getting up in the morning.”

Ridge was reeling between ferocious grief over Stewart and anger at Jack. Somehow, it had to be Jack’s fault, then at least it made some sort of bewildering sense. Jack was nearly always to blame. The whole C33 scenario of Jack’s made her boil. Jesus, if there was a conspiracy to be hatched, Jack would be right there, fueling it. She raged at the cosmic unfairness of it all.

Stewart, who lived so carefully. Barely drank, didn’t smoke, practiced Zen, worked out furiously, and he dies. Jack, with his mutilated fingers, near deafness, limp, crazed drinking, intermittent chain-smoking, cocaine binges, diet of every carb known to man, many beatings, flagrant breaking of the law, bad temper, he. .

He

Somehow

Limped on.

She wanted to kill him her own self. Stewart, who supported her difficulties with being openly gay, his nonjudgmental acceptance of her dead marriage, he was such a blessing. Jack, who fought her tooth and freaking nail over every damn thing, just smirked his way along.

And she was back dwelling on the C33 gig. Was Stewart’s murder connected to that? The Guards had his killing down as simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In conversation with one of the detectives, she’d been told,

“We’ll solve that murder if we get lucky.”

Meaning,

“We’re not putting a whole lot of time and effort there.”

The implication,

Stewart had been a dope dealer,

So. .

So fuck him.

And was told,

“Leave it alone, won’t do your career any good to root around in the dumb death of a dumb fuck.”

The tears on her face as she muttered,

“Get a grip, girl.”

This stern reprimand brought her father vividly to life. He’d been dead nigh ten years now.

Drink.

Cirrhosis of the liver, not helped by two packs of Major daily. He’d been such a Connemara man, he was almost the fake Irish ideal. Living in the Gaeltacht, he never spoke a word of English and rarely needed to as he refused to venture into what he termed

“Tír na Sasanach.”

Land of the English, and that included Galway! He made his living fishing from the legendary Galway hooker and, like the men of his area, poitín. Irish moonshine, brewed from generation to generation until

Ridge.

Yeah, she fucked it up.

And worse, in his eyes, joined the enemy, the bloody Garda Síochána. The Guards. Insult to simmering injury. As he lay dying, he’d lashed her with his worst weapon. He refused to speak his native tongue to her, addressed her in halting English, acting like she wouldn’t understand her native language. His last words to her, gasped out in an agonized, strangled voice,

“May God forgive thee. I can’t and won’t.”

And

Died.

Live with that. Perhaps the most enduring curse, the parental one. Of her sexual orientation, he’d rasped to her mother,

“What man would have a turncoat?”

She stood, tried to stem the flow of ferocious memories, all fierce and wounding. Ran her hand along the one shelf of books she’d collected. Jack had been educating her in crime fiction and, so far, she had seven of the James Lee Burke titles.

And, oh horror, she’d told Jack,

“I’m thinking of getting a Kindle.”

See him explode.

Like this,

“Yah dumb bitch, you’ve read what? Six books, total? And what, you’re going to have storage for thousands of books? Get fucking real, lady. You think I’ll come round your house, ask, ‘Hey, can I browse through your. . Kindle?’”

Stewart had given her Scott Peck’s People of the Lie and The Dummy’s Guide to Zen, which, when she opened the book, had nothing but blank pages. Even now, she could clearly see Stewart’s smile at his Zen joke.

The Kindle was on. . hold.

A call from the station, Sharkey, the super’s newest hatchet. Clancy, the boss, liked to take a cop who was a thug to begin and fine-hone him to effortless viciousness. Sharkey was proving to be the best of the bunch to date, a reptile who’d have shopped his own mother if Clancy asked. He had a quiet voice that held a whiplash of loaded threat. He liked to see the troops dance, dance to a tune they usually didn’t understand and didn’t dare contest. Sharkey had, it was said, a long-ago run-in with Jack and lost more than a few teeth. He made it his mission to destroy anyone he saw as Taylor-connected.

Meaning Ridge, big-time.

He near whispered,

“Not disturbing anything, I pray.”

The slither of his voice like a slow crawl of creepiness. Ridge, to her dismay, stammered, thought. . Fuck.

Said,

“No. . sir.”

A beat,

Then,

“No ladies interrupted en flagrante, I trust.”

The fuck.

She said,

“Can I be of service. . sir?”

He gave a snort, then,

“We’re rounding up all the deadbeats.”

First she thought he meant the public, then realized he meant the cops he despised. Let that stew, then,

“Be here at midnight, we’ll tool up.”

She wanted to ask,

“What?

Tool, as in wanker?”

No.

He said,

“Body armor and, trust me, darlin’, you’re goanna need it.”

The sneer he injected into darlin’ was almost artful.

Ice.

. . What’s in a name, the power of TV to shape reality?

To break bad. . slang for changing from being a citizen to being an outlaw.

Crystal meth has the names

Nazi crank

Glass

Ice

Crystal

. . or the highly popular trailer blow.

It resembles, in its rock form, shards of ice. But comes, too, in

Pills

Powder

And can be

Smoked

Injected

Eaten

Snorted.

Supposedly, as in you hope to fuck,

It

Bumps

Alertness, energy, self-esteem,

Libido.

Any skel can make it.

Get yourself

Fertilizer, bleach, a nasal decongestant or three, a tube, and, oh, yeah, a gas stove, and if you don’t blow the sweet fuck out of your own self, you’re in biz. Welcome to the dope trade. Now, apart from selling the shit, you’ve only two things to focus on:

Staying out of jail

Staying alive.

. . Hear the sound track

Loud

A Town Called Malice.

The Jam.

Underwrit always by

The Clash.

Ridge putting on the body armor and helmet with the visor shield. Combat pants and the side pocket holding pepper spray. The modern version of mother’s little helper. Not quite in the range of the warmth of a Glock but, fuck, take what you get.

Sharkey stood before the assembled crew, snapped,

“Listen up.”

Like they’d a choice. He ranted,

“The Brennans fancy themselves as the new kids on the block. The old man, well, someone took a bat to the geezer so he’s out of the picture and we have the young blood figuring to play Game of Thrones. He is the wee bollix who may have, allegedly, beat the living shite out of our cherished Sergeant Ridge.”

Ripple of smirks and near laughter quelled as Sharkey says,

“But that ain’t gonna happen this fine evening, am I right?”

Damn straight.

“Young Brennan got himself a college boy [sneer enclosed]who fancies himself a chemist. They’ve been brewing up a type of crystal, laced with cough medicine, floor cleaner. .”

Let this sink in,

“And, word is, rat poison.”

He paused to swig from a flask. The flask had the crest of Galway United on it, and as he swallowed, his face flushed, and, Ridge figured, uisce bheatha, maybe even from her own father’s batch. Supplying the Guards had been one of the mainstays of his business.

He continued, fortified,

“Young Brennan got a hard-on with the amount of product they’ve got, and got a warehouse off the canal, named his version of this lethal crap Tribe. A true Galwegian, you might say, save we are going to go fucking Cromwell on his arse, right?”

He was expecting cries of the Marine type,

“Huh! Huh!”

But they were Irish cops, so he got,

“Okay.”

Not exactly gung ho, but there it was. Including Sharkey, they numbered seven. Less the magnificent than the mediocre. Sharkey added as they piled into the Black Maria,

“These shitheads have been buying up replica guns, makes them feel like gangstas, and we’ve had a whisper that a guy in Shantalla adapts those to real firepower. You’ve been warned.”

A young guy, wannabe jarhead with the mandatory buzz cut, Iraq-style pants, and desert boots, asked,

“Sarge, how many of these cunts are there?”

Ridge dug him hard in the ribs, said,

“Watch your mouth.”

The sergeant said,

“Perhaps six, but who knows? If they’re having a rave” (Jesus, no one told him how redundant that was), “could be a full deck.”

Arriving at the canal, they parked a few yards down from the said warehouse. The top floor of the building was lit up, presumably like the occupants.

They were out of the van, shields ready, a battering ram held by the cess mouth. Up the stairs, and they could hear consternation as the alarm hit. Ridge tried the door. Locked. The ram took it down in two goes.

They were in, pulled on gas masks as three canisters hit the floor, the sarge shouting,

“Everyone down, this is a raid.”

Like, what, they thought it was a gate-crasher?

Ridge could see lines of table with scientific gear assembled and cauldrons brewing; the cook was in full swing. Guys were attempting to climb out windows. Batons out, the cops were taking no chances, dropping the party like good uns. A young woman, her face streaming from the gas, stood in front of Ridge and leveled a sawed-off. Ridge shouted,

“Don’t be freaking daft.”

Behind the mask, it sounded like,

“You’re flaking gas.”

The girl, eyes streaming, muttered,

“Fucking bitch.”

And fired.

Ridge had a frozen moment, registered that the girl had braces on her teeth. Like that was relevant? Heard, as if in echo,

The Cocteau Twins

and, for fucksake, she hated their music.

Go figure.

And the ice white clarity of what Stewart must have felt as he faced those lethal barrels.

The gun jammed.

And Ridge’s baton was coming up, lashing into the girl’s mouth, smashing the braces and the ultraexpensive dental work. A guy beside her yelling,

“Yah stupid cow, this is Mr. Westbury’s daughter.”

Sharkey, beside her, pulling her back, then turning to the guy, kicked him in the balls, said,

“You are nicked, mate.”

Back at the station, debriefing done, Ridge was summoned to the superintendent’s office. She was coming off the surge of adrenaline, fear, euphoria, and the realization she could have been killed. Heady stuff as the posh papers would have it. Clancy’s office was packed with cops and a slew of booze lining the desk. A cheer went up as she entered. Clancy moved to her, took her arm, raised it, declared,

“Now this is a Guard!”

She was handed a mug full of Jameson and took a lethal swipe for her nerves. Her eyes watered. Clancy was beaming, his eyes bright with cunning and glee. He said,

“Not only have we brought down a major drug gang but the shotgun murders are solved.

And”

Long pause

“We get to nail the daughter of that fucking showboat Westbury. Girl, you have made us fucking golden.”

She wanted to go back at least two sentences, and go,

“What?”

. . The shotgun murders. But the gun was never found. Was he saying Westbury’s daughter killed Stewart?

. . It didn’t add.

No.

No way.