And shoes, ah, the shoes.
Keen boots.
Small fortune, they say.
My Doc Martens went blacker with envy. We shook hands and he asked,
“Fancy a pint?”
I did and mostly do.
We were at a table in the Imperial Hotel, at the top of Eyre Square, once a late night pit stop for the Guards, as it was quiet.
We had boilermakers as ’tis not often we get to chat.
I managed to pay first, an Irish gig where friends near fight to buy the first round. You have to be quick or not, depending on whether you’re a mean fuck.
Danny said,
“I was sick to my stomach about Christchurch.”
The day before, a gunman, Australian, twenty-eight years old, entered two mosques, murdered forty-eight people, one a boy of five. He wore a live cam on his head, feeding his sick supporters live commentary as he killed and mowed down the innocent. He then got in his car, blasted out the side window with a shotgun, continued to shoot at passersby. He had, as these psychos do, written a long manifesto, which, along with the video footage, was available for twenty-four hours after the carnage.
There are no words.
I had no words.
Danny sighed, said,
“I don’t know this world anymore.”
Me neither.
To ease the darkness, I said,
“They arrested McGregor again in Florida for criminal battery.”
Danny said,
“Next time he gets in the cage for a fight, may they lock it with intent.”
Amen.
I said,
“Danny, I need some help.”
He nodded, said,
“Tell me.”
I did, outlined the death of Meredith Morgan, her father’s grief, even the tattoo on his arm, how the Guards were already swamped with cyber theft, bullying, the whole new dizzying array of crimes the Internet was spewing out.
He listened attentively, even took out a slim black leather notebook, a Cross pen, jotted down the details. Then he looked up, said,
“The dark web is a scary place and difficult to track. You break through one firewall, six more are behind it, and they have nigh perfected the art of redirecting, or rather misdirecting.”
Not reassuring but I asked,
“Can it be done?”
He smiled, almost weary, said,
“Oh, yeah, if they are there, they can be found, but it takes time.”
I dreaded asking, but
“How much time?”
He considered, then,
“A month, if we get lucky and especially if the sick fuck gets arrogant.”
I caught the barman’s eye, did the finger thing they understand, said to Danny,
“It’s expensive.”
He waited until the round came, then,
“For friends, money is not a factor.”
I asked,
“Will you do it?”
He nodded, said,
“One thing you need to understand. I said it could take at least a month but I was talking in general terms.”
I waited.
“But me, say twenty-four hours.”
The whole day had just shaped up, I asked,
“You want to get some dinner? They do fine bacon and cabbage here, like in the old days.”
He said,
“And ruin a fine building buzz with food, no way.”
I agreed.
Later, as we unsteadily wound our merry way toward taxicabs, Danny put his arm on my shoulder, asked,
“I don’t want to put a damper on a fine evening but...”
He was going to put the damper on.
He asked,
“When I find this troll, and I will find them, what then?”
I had thought about that, thought about it a lot, then said, nearly truthfully,
“I was thinking a tattoo.”
He gave me a look that showed the steel behind his good nature, said,
“I’m not sure what that entails but I don’t think I want to speculate.”
I shook his hand, firmly, not bone crushing but close, said,
“That’s for the best.”
“If
You’re
Lucky
Enough
to
Be
Irish
Then
You’re
Lucky
Enough”
St. Patrick’s Day.
A grand excuse for the world to drink like the Irish.
And, at least in Ireland, they kept the mad notion well oiled, excuse the drunken pun.
But.
But is always bad and here it is very dark and woesome.
In Tyrone, in Northern Ireland, a small hotel in a small village held its annual disco for mainly teens. A hundred turned up but then buses began arriving, spilling out nearly four hundred unexpected teenagers.
A ferocious crush/ push/ stampede ensued, and the hotel staff locked the doors. Teenagers, forced against the glass, begged to be allowed in; the staff refused.
Three kids were crushed to death.
Aged
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
Horror engulfed the country.
In the days following, the hotel manager and one of the staff were arrested, charged with manslaughter. In a bizarre twist, the manager was arrested on drug charges when a white powder was found. Then, when tests revealed it to be not drugs, he was
De-arrested.
A term new to the population.
The three funerals took place on the Friday, in three separate churches, but the sight of a pink coffin for the lone girl did me in entirely.
The prime minister of New Zealand earned the respect of the world when she pledged in an address to the captured terrorist,
“We reject you; your name will never be uttered as long as I live.”
No notoriety/infamy for the psycho.
On Saturday, Keefer and I met for a drink. He handed me a book.
Life
By Keith Richards.
Said,
“You want to know about the Stones, read this.”
I actually didn’t want to know a whole lot about them but said,
“Can’t wait to read it.”
He shrugged, asked,
“Dude, when are you coming back to the farm?”
I told him of the cyber bully and the sheer grief of the father.
Keefer thought on that, then,
“So, we have two miracle children to find, an arsonist we need to literally put out, and an asshole husband who killed his wife. Now you have this new case?”
We were drinking tequila, for no good reason, which might be the best excuse.
On the other side of my third, I was feeling crusade-ish, said,
“Once I find this cyber fuck, we’ll deal with the other three cases.”
Keefer had deep frown lines on his face, said,
“I have a real sense of impending doom.”
I shrugged it off, said,
“Blame it on the tequila.”
Maybe a little more flippant then I meant but it did sound like a blow off.
He stood up, said,
“No, Jack, it’s not the booze, it’s you.”
Then, in a gesture that haunts me, he threw a rake of money on the table, said,
“Buy the next few on me.”
And was gone.
Guns and Rosaries
I watched a documentary with the above title.
Narrated by Martin Sheen.
An incredible story.
Patrick Peyton, from a large, poor family in Mayo, wanted to be a priest.
The Irish crowd said,
“You are not educated enough.”
So he went to the U.S.
Became a priest and then near died of tuberculosis, which was killing thousands of people in America. Near death, Patrick pledged if he recovered, he would devote his life to the Madonna and spreading the rosary.