Before Keefer could reply, Benjamin continued,
“But like my good self you are not Irish. Your heritage is somewhat muddled but you, I believe, did some long servitude with a rock and roll band.”
Keefer was slightly amused, did half admire the cojones of the guy, answered,
“The rock and roll band, the Rolling Stones.”
Benjamin made a mock bow, said,
“My apologies but the vagaries of such a genre are not my strong point.”
The element of mockery rode point on his tone: Keefer let that stew before he answered,
“But burning people, that’s more your line.”
Benjamin moved a foot closer, not quite a threat but not without a certain menace. He said,
“A perilous allegation and, alas, not a shred of evidence.”
Keefer stood, did a long flex of his back muscles, asked,
“What makes you think I’m the type who ever cared about proof?”
Almost sleight of hand, Benjamin produced a long match, said,
“A token of my esteem.”
Keefer took it, snapped it, flicked it to the water, said,
“We’ll bury you in the country, with the other crazies.”
Turned on his heel, hummed as he strolled away.
If Benjamin was a fait with the Stones, he might have recognized “Sweet Virginia.”
Benjamin shouted,
“There was no need to toss the match, let alone break it. I mean, that was just...”
He struggled for the word to describe the action, settled for the lame
“Mean!”
Keefer laughed.
In his world, mean was just about the most basic tool for survival; he took it as the height of flattery. It was a few hours yet until he met up with Jack, so he decided to take a pit stop. Headed for O’Neachtain’s, the kind of pub on Quay Street where his appearance wouldn’t cause any waves.
It was packed, guys who looked like they were something in the arts. What exactly that might be, even they hadn’t quite figured.
And the women.
Ah.
They looked like they’d come right off the stage of one of Synge’s plays, all shawls and wringing hands. The smell of hash lingered on the air and that of course made Keefer right at home. He ordered a pint, settled back to watch it being poured.
Done right, the drawing of a Guinness is a work of art, and the longer the better. He rested his boot along the stool beside him, leaned on the bar, feeling comfortable.
The bar guy put the pint before him, asked,
“Anything else?”
Keefer surveyed the pint in admiration, said,
“Maybe a shot of bourbon.”
Got that.
Keefer offered,
“Something for yourself?”
The bar guy gave a wide grin, said,
“No, thank you. Are you a Yank?”
Keefer said no but asked,
“You hear tell of a dude named Garvey?”
Before the guy could say the city had a whole shelf of Garvey, Keefer added,
“He lost his wife tragically some time back.”
Something changed in what had been a friendly dynamic. The guy physically moved back, his eyes flicked over to a man nursing a pint in the corner, then back to Keefer. He said,
“Can’t help you there.”
Keefer let some time linger, then walked over to Garvey. Everything about the man spelled hostility. He was tall but stooped, a face like a wet rag, hair that needed a wash, and a track suit that had never known detergent. He looked at Keefer with malice, asked,
“Something bothering you?”
Aggression spilled all over his tone. He had his now empty glass clenched in his left hand. Keefer had encountered the type in many after-gig parties, the type who, as the term went, glassed you. Of the many varieties of violence Keefer had witnessed, a glass in the face he rated as the very pit of cowardice.
Keefer leaned back on his boots, said,
“I bet you a hundred bucks I can shove that glass up your ass before you can move it.”
Garvey’s face went through a permutation of decisions, most involving damage, but in his feral mind something told him, don’t.
He went with,
“The fuck are you?”
Keefer shot out a hand, letting it rest lightly on Garvey’s shoulder, said,
“I’m the guy who hates dudes that beat on women.”
Garvey tried,
“There’s no proof, nothing. I had an alibi when the bitch died.”
Realizing he’d spat bitch, he went,
“I mean...”
Trailed off.
Keefer gave him a final tap on the shoulder, said,
“Karma, now that’s a bitch.”
Nodded to the bar guy as he left.
Keefer stood on Quay Street, watching the various buskers, con artists, tourists, and muttered,
“To think I left the countryside for this.”
A man stepped up to him, offered a T-shirt with the logo
All in all
I’m just another
Prick
With a wall
Keefer said,
“Pink Floyd okay with you nicking their lyrics? Those bands, they’re precious about copyright.”
The guy stared at him, asked,
“Who’s Pink Floyd?”
Keefer thought,
The world is more fucked than I thought.
Sister Consuela/Connie was about to pack it in. She hadn’t been able to locate the miracle children, and the projected increase in followers to her sisterhood not only had not increased but the few she did have had legged it.
She’d had huge hopes for her brand of religion; it glorified freedom and a certain laxity that should have been a draw.
No.
Didn’t happen.
She said aloud,
“Fuck.”
Her second in command, though precious little to actually command anymore, asked,
“So what now?”
Indeed.
For maybe the first time in her varied career, Connie was all out of ideas. She had been, among other things, a therapist (being Californian, it was near mandatory), a prison chaplain (how she’d recruited Brid, doing a jolt for assault), a real estate gal (the territory of divorcées who’d been shafted), and a financial adviser (which led to her near indictment), but in her mind she had never, never for fuck sakes, been a failure. So she’d skirted real close to the legal wind but was never out of schemes or self-belief.
With icy bitterness, she said,
“I need a blasted miracle.”
In the twisted way of the Irish universe, at that moment a man arrived and, if far from being miraculous, he was certainly out of the ordinary. He stood before the two semi-nuns, declared,
“I am Benjamin J. Cullen.”
Brid.
Brid was fucked by nurture and nature.
Coming out of Compton in the worst years of that doomed suburb, she was lost from the get-go. She was doing a jolt in the toughest prison in California when she heard of the golden chaplain.
Sister Consuela was the patron saint of inmates. It was rumored she supplied not only the hackneyed solace but pills, the most valuable commodity in jail. Too, she knew how to game the system. Brid was highly cynical before she met her, not believing the hype until...
Until
She met her.
And was smitten, utterly.
Here came the symbol of the California dream babe, tall, blonde, confident, and, best of all, sassy. When she walked into Brid’s cell, Brid had a shank ready, prepared to gut the bitch, but, instead, this vision moved straight to her, laid a tanned hand on her head, whispered,
“Be still.”
And she was.
The nun asked her,