Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

30

There’d been a recent rift between academics who lined up on opposing sides. The first, who affirmed Wilde as more relevant now than Joyce. The rivals, who believed, as always, that Joyce was golden, beyond criticism.

Then there were those who thought that, in an age of Fifty Shades of Grey, it was all just so much fucking literary roadkill and who gave a fuck?

Kelly had tried to replicate the meal as laid out in Joyce’s “The Dead.”

Like this.

Red and yellow jelly

Floury spuds

Figs

And

Christmas cake.

Some guy had played The Lass of Aughrim, on, she tried to recall, a harpsichord? Like where the fuck would she get one of those babes. So?

So she hummed it.

The meal had taken place at

15 Usher’s Island

in a house described as gaunt.

Well, fucking gaunt she could do. Ask her ex-husbands. She was doing Joyce as she was just a tad peeved at her man Oscar.

Because.

Taylor now knew what C33 meant and worse, who used it. Looked at the time: seven after seven in the evening. Said aloud,

“Presto.”

And poured a large Seven and Seven, because she could, and added,

“Because I’m nuts.”

She knew that beyond a shadow, had known for years and had no problem with that. In fact, if she was pissed about anything, it was that nuts was too simplistic. Bundy had told a shrink,

“I’m something new.”

As she was.

The books didn’t cover her and, God knows, she’d searched, out of a fine sense of interest. When you had a father who was seriously bat shit and he, a certifiable lunatic, was afraid of her, well, come on, you’ve got to be a wee bit curious. By one of those odd quirks, her old man had been confined in the hospital they held Robert Lowell in. It’s not the ideal start to a literary obsession but, hey, it’s far more interesting than your Ivy League gig. Lowell, heavily sedated, had seen something off in this child, she of the golden locks, enigmatic and fixed smile, whispered to her,

“Study Wilde.”

For years, she thought, maybe he’d meant, simply,

“Wild.”

As in free and unfettered. But then it was too late. Some mental osmosis had occurred and, as this concurred with her father’s suicide, the die was cast. She’d found her father swinging gently from the oak tree in the garden her mother had so industriously tended. At his feet was The Collected Oscar Wilde.

Her inheritance?

Certainly her compass.

Was the child freaked? Depends on how you term that.

She most certainly stood for a long time, staring up at him, Daddy leaking from her lips, over and over. Not in a hysterical fashion, as in frenzied howling, but more a detached “Look what the cat brung in.”

Kind of dawning, as opposed to “Look what the damn cat strung up!”

And began in her mind, over and over, like a demented sound track,

. . You are mad. What have I to do with her intrigues with you? Let her remain your mistress. You are well suited to each other. She, corrupt and shameful-you, false as a friend, treacherous as an enemy. .

When her mother finally appeared, grabbing the child, screaming,

“Oh, sweet Lord Alabama, what are you muttering, darling?” (her being a child of that there southern state),

Kelly, cold as ice, said,

“An Ideal Husband. .”

Her mother looking at her in fear and confusion and Kelly scolded her,

“One does not mutter Wilde, Mother; one intones.”

Her father had worked for a large legal firm and was one of the senior partners. Her mother swore the partners drove her husband to suicide to take the rap on serious malpractice allegations. It became a refrain of hers.

“The guilty go free, la di dah.”

Followed by the stern command,

“Kelly, make sure someone pays, sometime.”

Well, she was trying, kind of.

Kelly took a long time to learn how to disguise who she was. First, she had to find out that it was not considered normal to carry books by Wilde instead of dolls. The fractured connection in her head told her,

“Dad keeps dancing with Wilde.”

First time she ran this by Mummy, the consternation,

“What on earth are you muttering?”

Made those early mistakes of trying to explain, as in,

“Daddy was dancing on the rope, he told me that Wilde mattered.”

So began the rounds of shrinks-good ones, too. Kelly began to adapt quickly to what these professionals regarded as, if not normal, at least tolerable behavior. Later, when she read the books, and the classical signs, like neighborhood pets disappearing, she knew,

“Leave the fucking pets be.”

True, some people disappeared.

Honing her act, Kelly morphed into the all-American girl-blond, athletic, bouncy, vacant, cloned. On the surface. Only at home did she let her own self out to play.

Caught, once, by Mummy.

Debbi, yes, with the “i,” was in the pool, Kelly on the edge, hair dryer poised and Mummy grabbing her. Kelly, ice even then, warning,

“Careful, Mummy, what if the dryer fell in the pool?”

That evening, they had the talk. Mummy with a dry martini, clasped Kelly with The Duchess of Padua. A pitcher of martinis was close at hand. Mummy said,

“I know who you are.”

She didn’t.

Kelly said,

“Do tell, Mamma.”

She went into a long spin of psychosis, personality disorder, malignant spasms, all the while refilling her glass.

Her mother, no stranger to therapy her own self, had learned the melody without ever knowing the lyrics. Proving that, if knowledge, a little, is a dangerous thing, then psychiatric data are deadly. She even, as a coup de grâce, delivered,

“I’ve come to the conclusion you have a narcissistic personality.”

Kelly was delighted, said,

“Oh, that is perfect. You, the ultimate in vanity, dare to even utter such. .

Such. .

She truly had to reach for a word, settled for

“Horseshit.”

Then without missing a beat, intoned,

. . And if he does not drink it/

Why, then they will kill him.

Smiled beatifically at her mother, said,

“From The Duchess of Padua.”

Her mother stared at her drink in dawning horror, asked,

“Did. . did you put something in my glass?”

Kelly, beatific smile, said,

“Of course. .”

A beat.

“Ice.”

31

Let’s face it. If I wasn’t as talented as I am ambitious, I’d be a gross monstrosity.

– Madonna

Reardon was the original bad boy. But smart, way, way smart. His true cleverness lay in finding people of near genius and getting them to work for him. Kelly was studying psychology at Kent and met Reardon on the very day he’d been expelled. He was heading out, his thumb out, and she’d stopped in her flash new Corvette.

Why?

Because she liked to play and he had a built-in smirk. Like

“Gimme a ride, or not. Who gives a fuck?”

Her kind of thinking. He threw a battered duffel into the car, slid in, lit up a spliff, said,

“If you’re a cop, I’m way fucked.”

She studied him, asked,

“And you care?”

He slipped on a pair of ultraexpensive shades (she knew, as she’d stolen similar), then he looked at her, her pretty face reflected in the lens, said,

“Thing is, I got bounced from college today. Another bust would be. .”

Blew out smoke,

“A bummer.”

Was how they began.

As she would discover over and over, Reardon

. . knew a guy

Who’d invented an early version of the easy-fit seal that kept refrigeration turning. Reardon knew enough to go fifty-fifty in a partnership, then peddled the seal to the army. And got, he said,

“The first easy billion.”

He was a year older than Kelly and, for his twenty-first, they got married in Venice-the one in Europe. Reardon was, of course, persuading the EEC how much it needed an early form of the iPad for translators. The night he clinched the deal, he asked her,

“How much for you to fuck off?”

And she’d laughed, actually came as close to loving him as was possible. They’d reached, if not a separate peace, then a perverse understanding. He knew she was mired in some darkness but felt no compulsion to investigate. At some deep level, he knew she had his back, and that was plenty. In the lethal deals he was involved in, and the plans he had for the future, a family ally was gold.

They neither dissolved nor advertised their marriage.

It was what it was.

I’d tried to find Kelly, but she’d gone to ground. I phoned Reardon, who said,

“You’re asking me?”

Well, yeah.

Said,

“Aren’t you her some kind of half-arsed husband?”

He laughed, said,

“All the more reason I’ve no clue to where she is.”

I said,

“And sounds like you could give a fuck.”

A pause.

“Taylor, best not to be a smart mouth to me. I mean, at best, I tolerate you. You have some vague uses but don’t think you have an in to a single fucking thing that goes on in my personal life.”

I said,

“Touchy.”

Long sigh from him. It’s been my life that, sooner or later, most I know get to sigh. Like some warped theme tune to my mad existence. He said,

“Taylor, you’ve got some cockeyed notion that C33, so named by Kelly, gives you a clue to the bizarre killings that happened. Take this on trust, caballero, even if by some wild stretch you could link Kelly to any of this crap, you do not, definitely do not, want to have her put you in her gun sights.”

I laughed, kind of, said,

“Gee, sounds like some kind of threat.”

Heard him mutter to someone, then,

“One thing Kelly and I still retain from our marriage. .”

Bitterness leaking over me, I shot,

“Yeah? Like fucking people over?”

“We don’t threaten,”

Pause,

“We deliver.”

Rang off.

It’s always been my lot to be easily distracted, to be turned aside from the case before me. I believe it’s a blend of denial, cussedness, cowardice, and sheer uninterest. Plus, side trips along the roads of

Alcoholism

Xanax

Books

And, very rarely,

A woman.

I don’t know what I think I ought to know but fuck, I know my own act and it is a cocktail of sordid self-interest, self-doubt, and of course self-harm. That doesn’t make me bad so much as Irish. I fully intended focusing on Kelly, her connection to the C33 killings, but

Hurling.

The all-Ireland final

Between Galway and the maestros, Kilkenny. Christ, those cats are good. Galway hadn’t won the title in twenty-four years so we were, like,

Due?

The town was electric, wired even more than when the Volvo Ocean Race had its conclusion in our docks. The city was hopping, drinking, and anticipatory. Flags everywhere.

A draw.

A fucking draw.

Jesus, everyone hates that. You’ve to go through all the same crap again, like Tom Russell sang,

. . and go through all that shit again.

Precisely.

We had to wait three weeks with the pundits analyzing why the underdog (us) usually won on the rebound, as it were.

We didn’t.

Three fucking points and we were done for another year. Did we take it badly?

You fucking betcha.

Guy said to me,

“Great thing is, they are a young team, we’ve got time.”

What about me? Time? I can barely draw me breath.

My mobile shrilled. I snapped it up, rasped,

“Yeah?”

Heard a cultured voice.

“Hell of a way to answer your phone.”

The voice familiar but escaping me. I pushed,

“So?”

“This is Mr. Westbury, legal eagle.”

Fuck’s sake, mister.

They call themselves that and you can translate: prick.

Asked,

“Can I help you?”

He chuckled, then,

“It’s actually what I’m going to do for you.”

I sneered,

“Gee, I kind of doubt that.”

He wasn’t fazed, continued,

“Your buddy Stewart left a will.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Another chuckle, though of the incredulous variety, said,

“What a turn of phrase you have. Have you ever considered writing? They tell me mystery is the money spinner these days, and Lord knows, you talk in a disjointed fashion that might even pass for style.”

Hilary Mantel had just won the Man Booker for the second time with, would you believe,

Bringing Up the Bodies.

Serendipity?

The fuck cares?

I asked,

“Surely Stewart was too young to have made a will?”

He tut-tutted.

I swear to God. That an adult can actually do this is a source of constant astonishment to me. He said,

“Stewart was a conscientious young man and a shrewd entrepreneur. One feels making such a wise move would not have been a choice of yours, Mr. Taylor.”

Bollix.

I said,

“It’s the dilemma of who to leave my Zippo to that’s held me back.”

“Very droll I’m sure.”

I said,

“Much as I love schmoozing with you, is there a point?”

“Indeed, Stewart left you a considerable sum.”

I muttered,

“Jesus H. Really?”

He said, in the driest tone,

“Would I be. . shitting you?”

En route to Westbury’s office, I walked along Shop Street, the buskers and mimes in full and silent roar, respectively. One was attracting a lot of attention, made up like Mitt Romney. He’d a sign around his neck which read,

. . I pledge to nuke Iran.

One felt he’d keep his awful promise.

A band was playing The Fields of Athenry and, for any decent Irish person, the song has resonance but, when it’s their sole repertoire and you’ve heard it for the tenth time, you’re prepared to lay waste the bloody fields. I was not alone in my thinking, The government was introducing legislation that required buskers to have, and I kid you not,

At least twenty songs!

Like, who the fuck was going to enforce this? Some lone dumb Guard would have to stand there and, like,

Hear

Twenty awful Irish ballads.

He’d run screaming for duty in Lebanon.

Then I did a double take. Was I finally succumbing to all my excesses and hallucinating in broad daylight? I saw,

A Segway.

Those stand-up, slow mobile things that somebody thought were a grand idea. A lone Guard, self-conscious and mortified was. . cruising?. . along by Griffin’s Bakery to jeers and mockery from just about everyone, even, God help us, tourists.

The Guard said,

“Those are to be the latest weapon in the war against street crime.”

I mean, fucking seriously.

The street thugs are carrying everything from freaking Uzis to grenades and this lone eejit on his trusty Segway appears and does what? Shouts,

“Halt, or I shall pursue.”

Jesus.

A woman, not young, was outside Boots, singing One Day at a Time.

But almost inaudibly until

Until she hit the refrain, Lord help me Jesus,

And, man, she hit that sucker with all she’d got.

This was, collectively, Dante’s Irish edition of the Seventh Circle.

I got that sudden thirst that knows naught of rhyme nor race, stepped into Garavan’s. The owner was there, a good guy. He knew to leave you be until you got the first drink down.

He offered The Irish Independent with the pint; news and stout, the staples. Got half the black away and sat back, wished for a smoke, and, I swear, the guy beside me asked,

“Wanna fag?”

Not a question you’d ask an American.

I’d been yet again, on,

Then off,

And yada yada.

But, what the hell. I said,

“Yeah.”

We didn’t go to the smokers’ shed-too much like a leper colony-but took it out on the street. He offered a pack of Major, the original ferocious-strength one. He produced a battered Zippo, clicked. One of my favorite sounds. Fired us up.

Jesus, that pure poison is pure heaven. The guy was in his early twenties, dressed in good top-of-the-range clothes. His face had that ravaged look of hellish teenage acne but he had good eyes, those gentle ones you see rare to rarest in either a child or a Labrador, a sort of beguiling innocence. He said,

“I was thinking of going to Australia.”

The sarcasm in me nearly said,

“Finish the fag first.”

But bit down, said,

“Lots of work there.”

We’d fallen instantly into the camaraderie of smokers. He said,

“My girl, you know, she’s a nurse, she doesn’t want to leave Galway.”

Jesus, why not, to live in the sun, where the buskers might play another tune?

I said,

“Tough choice.”

He drew deep on the filter, then,

“What’s tough is she’s reading Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Is there a sane reply?

Berryman in The Paris Review,

“. . The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point he’s in business.”

I’d finished my pint, forwent another or I’d be there until closing, and headed for Westbury’s office. Kept me waiting an hour, old Reader’s Digests on the table. I increased my word power by

Two.

Butyraceous: of the nature or consistency of butter.

Caesious: bluish or greenish gray.

Not sure how to drop those babes into conversation.

When I finally got to sit opposite Westbury, his fabulously expensive suit was the color of

Caesious?

And, certainly, fine food, lots of the best wine, had given his jowls a butyraceous sheen. He shuffled papers in that important fashion they teach at law school. He was peering over his pince-nez (made me feel warm and literary to say that instead of cheap glasses), his expression sour, as if I were something the cat not only sneaked in but then denied.

He said,

“You’ll find all is in order and, may I say, congrats on your little windfall.”

He passed me over some papers. I scanned them, then said,

“Holy fuck.”

It was a lot.

He asked,

“Might you be needing some expert advice on how to best manage those substantial assets?”

I laughed, let out,

“Like fuck.”

He said,

“One takes that as a no.”

32

I’m allergic to alcohol and narcotics. I break out in jail.

– Robert Downey, Jr.

In my mind, it was Peter O’Toole as Lawrence of Arabia saying,

The trick is not minding that it hurts.

Didn’t work on thinking about Stewart.

A guy passed me wearing a T with the logo

. . Best boy band, One Erection.

I was meeting Ridge to have a drink to say a final good-bye to Stewart now that his estate was settled. We met in Feeney’s, at the top of Quay Street. It’s somehow hung on as a real pub, if not indeed ordinary because it didn’t serve chips.

Yet.

Fishing tackle was advertised in a front window alongside Middleton whiskey. A lone sentry sat at the end of the bar. If he remembered me, he’d didn’t let on. His flat cap was on the counter, lined up beside a dwindling pint. I offered,

“Another?”

Took my measure, then,

“Will I have to thank you?”

“Good heavens, no.”

He nodded.

No change there.

I sat near the back, a short and a tabloid before me. The sublime and the scurrilous. I was reading about the American election when Ridge appeared. Her face looked ravaged, like after a continuous jag of weeping. I didn’t ask, offered,

“Something to drink?”

Surprised me with,

“A hot toddy.”

As I moved to get it, she added,

“Make it a large.”

Indeed.

The barman didn’t ask if cloves were required or what whiskey. It was old Galway, so cloves and Jameson as sure as the swans were in the Claddagh basin. Smelled so good, I ordered one my own self. Brought them back and she wrapped her hands around the glass, hot as it was, like a forlorn rosary, said,

“Stewart left me a shit pile of money.”

“Me, too.”

She seemed surprised but not enough to compare figures. She took a gulp of the drink, swallowed, and shuddered as the whiskey hit. Her face turned a bright high-proof red, her eyes watered, and she was temporarily robbed of speech.

Why we drink the stuff.

Finally, she said,

“I’m giving the money away.”

Ah, for fooksake, Jesus. I waited a beat, asked,

“Why?”

Trying not to let bitterness leak over my tone. She seemed not to notice, said,

“My neighbor Kathleen used to go every evening for cat food, five o’clock.”

This abrupt turn in the conversation didn’t faze me. Put it down to the Jay. I said,

“Did she?”

Her glass was empty, and bearing in mind it was a double, I hesitated before offering another. She said,

“Kathleen didn’t have a cat.”

I had to roll with it, gave a brief smile as if it made some sense. She continued,

“She’d go to Dunne’s, buy half a bottle of vodka, and drink it on the way home.”

This insanity made a bizarre logic to me but, then, I’d been drinking in a lunatic fashion for so long that the only thing to surprise me would be social drinking.

. . The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly.

Kelly felt she’d followed Oscar’s dictum pretty closely. Now, as she lay flat on the table, the guy leaned over her back, glanced at the portrait she’d provided, asked,

“Who is the dude? Is it, like, Rupert Everett?”

She laughed, as, indeed, the actor had played Oscar and quite convincingly. She said,

“Can you do it?”

He moved the needle back, said,

“Babe, you got the cash, I can put the Rolling Stones on there.”

As if.

The guy had offered, as he put it,

“A spliff or something, to, you know, ease the pain?”

For Oscar, pain was bliss and she wanted to feel him. The guy worked in silence, then asked,

“Mind if I take a cig break?”

She sat up, not covering her breasts but the guy didn’t stare, rolled a Taylor-made, lit up, sighed, said,

“That’s goanna cover your whole back, you know?”

She waited. The Stieg Larsson gig was due to come around.

Yup.

He said,

“Like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.”

So

She said,

“Who’d you prefer, Noomi Rapace or the Hollywood chick?”

Leaning on chick just to, you know, like fuck with him. He said,

“I don’t do flicks.”

Took her a moment to realize he meant movies, so she, said,

“Whatever.”

A guy came bursting in, big fellah in a biker jacket, red face, eyes popping, like meth jag or something, shouted,

“Who the fuck owns the grey BMW?”

She looked at him, said in a meek tone,

“That’d be me.”

He glared at her, snarled,

“Yah stupid cunt.”

For some time, she’d felt herself disintegrating, had read about the effect in countless books, but couldn’t believe it would take her.

It was and did.

She shot a hand out, grabbed the tattoo needle, and jammed it in the guy’s eye, said,

“Language.”

The tattoo guy stared in horror as the man roared, the needle vibrating in the socket, and it seemed like forever before he fell to the floor. Kelly put her shirt on, put some money on the table, said,

“We’ll pick this up later.”

Thinking,

“Fuck, I’m forgetting something.”

As she drove off, she remembered,

“Don’t leave witnesses.”

But mostly she felt a sadness that only part of Oscar covered her back. That made her laugh and she shouted,

“Who’s got my back, eh? Answer me that.”

The BMW stalled at a traffic light. Heard the constant whine of Reardon, if not of reason,

“Godammit, you’re flooding the engine.”

A young guy, maybe seventeen, at the light, whistled,

At her

The car

The stalling

Or a combo

Wasn’t clear.

She rolled down the window, asked,

“Want this car?”

He did a double take, went,

“You’re fookin’ jokin’.”

She got out, handed him the keys, said,

“Go for it.”

He took the keys, slid in tentatively, asked,

“What’s the catch?”

She smiled, said,

“Only one requirement.”

He’d already decided to get like double fuck time out of there but played, said,

“Yeah?”

“Be Meat Loaf.”

“Wha?”

“Like a bat out of hell.”

He did.

Tires screeching, no flooded engine now. She thought,

“What would Oscar do?”

“A cocktail.”

But of course.

The Skef was running a happy hour. She perched on the long bar, asked the sharp-looking bar guy,

“You do Long Island Tea?”

“Does Greece long for the drachma?”

That being a yes.

Showed he was not only a graduate of handsome lessons but down with, like, you know, events, as in current.

He served the drink with a flourish. She hoped to fuck he wouldn’t say,

“Voilà.”

He did.

She tasted it, said,

“Mmmm.”

She asked,

“You ever see Basic Instinct?”

No.

The guy wasn’t the brightest, so she spelled it out.

“Wanna fuck?”

In the bathroom, tearing each other’s clothes off, he stopped, gasped,

“Your back. . it’s bleeding!”

She adopted a Brit accent, went,

“It’s bleeding Oscar.”

* * *

I’d just woken up, barely had the shower and stuff done, about to have the first kick-ass coffee, when the doorbell went.

Loud and insistent.

I muttered,

“Fuck.”

Pulled it open to Ridge, another Guard, both in pressed uniforms. I snapped,

“What?”

Needed to be on the second cup of caffeine before I could listen to whatever shite they brought. It was never good and always way too early. Ridge said,

“Let’s take this inside.”

We did.

Ridge, glancing around, not seeing anything to warm her, asked,

“Are you alone?”

I grabbed my cup, got some down, asked,

“You mean in the metaphysical sense?”

The Guard, young and obviously gung ho, eager to test his power, commanded,

“Answer the question.”

I looked at him. Ah, to be twenty-two and stupid. I asked,

“Or what?”

Ridge, flexing her sergeant’s stripe, said,

“Yesterday, your lady friend stabbed a man to death.”

I knew, I fucking knew, it could be only one person, stalled.

“Need a little more than that.”

She could play, said,

“Kelly Reardon.”

I finished the coffee, waited for the kick, said,

“I haven’t seen her.”

The young Guard looked around, like he’d like to be sure. Ridge sighed, said,

“If you do hear from her, I trust you’ll be in touch.”

I gave her my best smile, said,

“Trust, loaded word.”

She let that slide, said,

“Later.”

Headed out, the young cop lingered. I’d an idea of what was coming. He said,

“Heard you were a Guard.”

I smiled, said,

“This is where you tell me that won’t cut me any slack, and oh, yeah. . in a measured tone, you’ll tell me you don’t like me.”

He reddened, so even younger than I thought. I continued,

“You see for it to matter that you don’t like someone, you have to matter and, trust an old Guard on this, you are a long way from mattering to anyone, so hustle back to Toytown.”

And slammed the door on him.

Another enlistment in the ranks of those who loathed me.

Fun though.

The coffee was way cold. Was it too early for a Jay? Not if the cops have been, so maybe a wee dram. Sat in an armchair, tried to figure about Kelly obviously unraveling. No doubt in my mind now: she was the vigilante killer and, more than likely, Stewart’s killer, too. What was I going to do now in light of my feelings for her?

The Jay answered that.

“Kill the bitch.”

I broke into Reardon’s house.

Why?

Because I could.

Five in the afternoon and the winter darkness had already settled. The house was lit up like hope. I knew sensor alarms were to be installed on the grounds but, owing to a strike with the grounds staff, it was in limbo. And, yes, I did say, grounds staff.

No point in being sick rich if you didn’t flaunt it. Like,

Two gardeners

Security guards

Gamekeeper (I shit thee not)

And all attending a Galway United match. Thank fuck. Reardon his own self was the guest of honor at the match. I figured on somebody being home but was intending to avoid whoever it was. I mostly hoped Kelly would be there. I was carrying.

Nine mil.

I’d a scenario in my head. See her and just pump two in her fucking head, no frills. A kitchen window was fairly easily maneuvered. The alarm it should have set off was, like the rest, at the match. God bless football. I stood in the kitchen, listened. Quiet. Lights were on all over but I felt they were cosmetic. The house felt empty. Nevertheless, I let the nine slide to my right hand, headed for the stairs, stopped en route, had a glass of rye, keep it U.S. Tasted good, tasted like more. I moved on. Up the stairs, did a full search of six bedrooms, not a dickey bird.

So, okay.

I’d wait.

Back downstairs, another rye, with ice; just because I felt like fucking with my own head, sat in a large leather chair, settled in. The room had a comfortable feel, lots of books that had never been opened. I know my used books. When books are for show, be sure you’ve put ammunition in the nine, double-check.

Close to midnight when the front door opened, I’d turned the lights down so it appeared undisturbed. Reardon’s voice and a woman laughing.

Kelly.

Shoot them both?

It wasn’t Kelly. They’d walked into the living room, arm in arm, she still laughing at something he said. I did recognize her, vaguely. From a recent reality show that was like all those shows, about fucking nothing. Worse, nothing with what they thought of as street cred.

Jesus.

She had one of those new bogus Irish names, like

Blaithín

Or

Sneachta.

Which translated as flowers and snow, respectively. I don’t know either. Their sole function seemed to be the annoyance factor. I had the gun down by my leg and felt there was little need to show it now. Reardon reacted smartly, said,

“Jack, glad you could come by.”

I went with,

“Sorry to intrude but I felt it was best to report personally.”

The woman was pissed, whined,

“You’re working now?”

Man, she sure leaned on that now. Managing to get a world of complaint into it. Seriously, I don’t think anyone would ever call what Reardon did work but, hey, she was a reality star. But he liked to play, always, said,

“Jack’s my gopher, you know, the one who jumps when I whistle.”

Building a whole amount of sneer into that. She liked it, pushed,

“Get him to jump now.”

Maybe I’d just shoot her.

A long moment. We were frozen in a tableau of dislike. Reardon broke the spell, said,

“Jack has to run along now. Isn’t that right, Jack? There’s a good boy, hop it.”

The sneer was so inbuilt, you could almost miss it-almost. I stood, slipping the nine into the pocket of item 1834, my all-weather Garda coat, asked,

“Any idea of where your wife might be?”

The reality genius heard wrong, laughed, said,

“Is he looking for a wife, Daniel?”

Daniel. Jesus, who knew?

I’d of course read about Danny Reardon, American poet/actor/author who now lectured at Trinity, but, I figured, no kin. Daniel smiled.

“Jack, you’re a PI and asking me?”

The bright spark was about to ask something and he lashed her, fast, with,

“Shut. . the. . fuck. . up.”

She did.

I looked right into his eyes, let him see I was not fucking around, said,

“Best for all if maybe I find her before, you know, the cops?”

We both knew that was a crock. He asked,

“Where would Oscar flee to?”

I was on my way out, a slight tremor niggling at my nerve ends. I heard, in whine song,

“Who’s Oscar?”

Galway was on the world stage for all the wrong worst reasons.

An Indian woman died of blood poisoning after being denied a pregnancy termination. Though she was in severe pain, the hospital refused to act, as the staff said,

. . there was still a fetal heartbeat and this was a Catholic country.

Previously, she’d been told she was having a spontaneous abortion and the fetus had no chance. Details of the woman’s horrendous agony and agonizing death led to immediate street protests, and crowds from both sides of the abortion divide shouted at each other outside the hospital.

The government ducked and dived, muttering platitudes, adding fuel to the notion it was the most hated government we’d ever had. The new austerity measures, seemingly new ones daily, had the people already at breaking point.