At a loss, I said,
“I need to think about this.”
He said,
“See it this way. The Keith Richards reference: You might say I was writing my own story.”
I said,
“I better go.”
Heard a sharp intake of breath, then he snarled,
“You’re not going to ask?”
“What?”
I near shouted.
He said,
“One would have thought you might ask after the girl, or even the falcon.”
Then he clicked off.
My mind was seriously fucked. I poured a Jameson, swallowed it fast, wished I had some Xanax, wished I had some other life. Then the doorbell went. I tried to think of anyone I’d be glad to see. Nope, not a one.
Opened the door to Malachy.
He looked like my mind felt.
Wretched.
When he’d been bishop-elect, he’d cleaned up good, stopped smoking, had a haircut, wore crisp new attire, but that was all in the clerical wind. He stormed in, muttered,
“I need a drink.”
I stared at him: a rumpled suit, the white collar of the priesthood askew, his hair like a small jungle and dandruff on his shoulders, his eyes bloodshot, his face a riot of blotches.
I poured him a Jay. He looked at the measure, snapped,
“Are you rationing it?”
I added more. Did he say “thank you”?
Right.
He gulped the drink, burped, seemed like he might throw up but the drink took him another direction, into some realm of almost calm, artificial as it was.
He lit a cigarette, blew billows of smoke, said,
“I’d have been a great bishop.”
He was the essence of despair. I tried,
“They’ll probably give you something to compensate.”
I didn’t believe that for a moment. He snarled,
“They will like fuck.”
I asked,
“Don’t suppose you could sue?”
Enraged him. He spat,
“Sue the Church. See how far the child abuse victims got with that.”
True.
Then he straightened up, like a plan was evolving. That usually involved me doing something for him that I really didn’t want to. He said,
“There’s talk one of the miracle children survived the fire.”
Aw, fuck. I knew where this was headed. I said,
“No.”
He attempted to form his face into an expression of pleading but it didn’t quite take. It was more a grimace. He whined,
“If I were to deliver that child, they might reconsider me for bishop.”
I was split between outrage and incredulity, asked,
“Deliver?”
I had to choke down rising bile, continued,
“Deliver from what, deliver us from evil? You’d give her to the Church and they have such a record of virtue with children.”
He was on his feet, frustrated, said,
“I’d be a good bishop.”
I laughed, said,
“Good and bishop just don’t fit in the same sentence, and you’d be a shite bishop.”
He reached out a hand. I thought he was going to grab me but he clocked my face, let his hand fall back, and pleaded,
“You owe me, Taylor.”
This was too ridiculous even to argue. I said,
“I’ll make a deal with you. If you care about this child, tell me her name.”
Confounded him but he rallied, said,
“That’s madness, of course I know her name.”
I said,
“So tell me.”
He raised his eyes to heaven but I don’t think he found any solace there. He said,
“Theresa?”
In the mid-nineteenth century
Pyromania was considered to be
A morbid propensity to incendiarism
Where the mind,
Though otherwise sound,
Is borne on by an invisible power
To the commission of this crime
That is now recognized
As a distinct form of insanity
Time to go shake up the arsonist. Google Maps showed his house just off Threadneedle Road; this was an area that never could decide if it was
A. Part of the elite of Taylor’s Hill
Or
B. The shady environs of Salthill.
Benjamin J.’s house was impressive, one of those new mock Georgian piles that exuded money, if not class. Solar panels on the roof to showcase green credentials made me think of the recent European elections. The Green Party won big, Sinn Féin, not so much. A wit said they could unite to be
“Guns and Roses.”
A vintage Bentley in the driveway. I knocked on the door, waited. Opened by a young man wearing a boiler suit, like a would-be mechanic. He had blond hair, soft features, one of those moon faces that echoed steroids. His eyes were askew so that though he looked at you, it was as if he were seeing something in his peripheral vision. I figured some heavy drug dosage had scrambled his brain. He asked,
“Yes?”
I said,
“I’m here to see Mr. Cullen.”
This seemed to confuse him, so I added,
“Benjamin J.”
He considered this, asked,
“What’s the ‘J’ for?”
I guessed,
“Jerusalem?”
His face lit up. He asked,
“Really?”
God only knows how long this inane chat would have meandered on.
Benjamin J. appeared behind the man, touched him on the shoulder, said,
“James, go and see to the dogs.”
James looked at him, confusion writ large, said,
“We don’t have dogs.”
Benjamin gave a tight smile, snarled,
“Clean up the kitchen. Just go.”
Reluctantly, he did.
Benjamin managed to rein in his annoyance, asked,
“Mr. Taylor, how may we be of service?”
I said,
“A wee chat would be good.”
His mouth curled up at the idea. He said,
“Perhaps you might ring, make an appointment.”
I stepped toward him, said,
“It’s about fire insurance.”
He faltered but only briefly, made a show of looking at his watch, a Rolex, said,
“We can manage that.”
I followed him inside to a living room lined with books, the type of books for show, not tell, a large oil painting over the fireplace, and, no surprise, The Great Fire of London.
I said,
“Bit obvious that, no?”
He smiled, gave it a long appraisal, said,
“One of the greats, the pinnacle we might all aspire too.”
I said,
“For psychos, I’m sure.”
He frowned, as if seriously disappointed, said,
“I expected better of you, Jack. May I call you ‘Jack’?”
I gave him a look, asked,
“If I call you ‘Benny’?”
He did a twirl on his heels, turned to a drinks cabinet, said,
“I’m going to change the energy of this whole meeting. I feel a certain hostility from you so, to start over, let me fix you a drink. Jameson work?”
He poured two fine measures, handed me one, then moved to a high-back chair, said,
“Chin-chin.”
I thought,
Like people actually say this shit?
I was about to speak when he held up a finger, said,
“One moment before we get to what I feel will be unpleasant. Let me ask you two pertinent questions.”
Somehow, he had gained the upper hand in this sparring but I could run with it for a bit, said,
“Fire away.”
Got a brief bitter smile for my pun, then he asked,
“Your biker friend, the Rolling Stones chap, does he still have his farm outside of town?”
Letting me know he knew where Keefer lived. I said,