“Yeah.”
He mulled that over, then,
“Good, that’s excellent. Now the second question is...”
Paused.
“Have you ever watched a sheep burn?”
I let out a deep breath, asked,
“Are you threatening me?”
He stared at me for a long moment, then,
“Good Lord, no. Would I be so reckless?”
I stood up, walked over to him.
With a supreme effort, I didn’t wallop him, said,
“You really don’t want to fuck with Keefer. We have a witness who saw you bolt the door to the house where four people burned to death.”
He was unfazed, asked,
“And will this witness testify?”
When I didn’t reply, he pushed,
“Rather awkward case to actually prove, I would think. A judge would throw it out.”
I said,
“You’re making a basic assumption here that is wrong.”
He was relishing this verbal chess, asked,
“Pray tell.”
I said,
“You think it would be judged in court, we have a whole other method of dealing with a killer.”
He mocked,
“Vigilante justice? How film noir of you.”
I shook my head, turned to leave. James was standing behind me, asked,
“What’s film noir?”
“As
My
Body
Continues on its journey
My thoughts keep turning back
And
Bury
Themselves
In days past.”
As I tried to figure out what to do about Benjamin J., I considered the options.
1. Kill him.
2. Tell the Guards.
3. Do nothing.
Number 3 was what I excelled at.
Telling the Guards had proved futile. Killing him, phew-oh. I was spirit-spent on all the death that engulfed my life. Once, I had attempted to head for America, the great illusion, but it sustained me through many bad Februarys.
Ann Henderson, the shining love of my bedraggled life, was dead. She’d once asked me,
“What would your ideal life be like?”
Even I knew that if a woman asks you that, you better include her as part of the vision. Then and now, I didn’t know, but I could flippantly reply,
“To drink ferociously and not have hangovers.”
Like that would happen.
Ofttimes, I sat on Nemo’s Pier, stared at the ocean for hours. I could yearn as an Olympic event.
I had recently read
Wild and Crazy Guys
By
Nick de Semlyen.
An account of the eighties’ comedians Bill Murray, Eddie Murphy, John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Steve Martin. After Ghostbusters, Bill Murray was one of the hottest stars in the world. It didn’t sit easy with him, to such an extent that he fucked off to France, studied philosophy at the Sorbonne.
That impressed the hell out of me.
One passage describing his daily life in Paris seemed as close to perfect as you’d get, especially if your mind was most ways fractured.
Before I lay out Bill Murray’s Parisian day, here is a rundown on what was going on in Ireland, in its entire insane color.
Trump arrived in Ireland, having literally fist-bumped with the queen during his U.K. visit. He did have talks with Farage on the very last day that Theresa May was in office as prime minister.
Farage had 33 percent of the European vote and, if a general election were to be called, the Tories were looking like they’d be decimated. Brexit, in its third insane year, continued to avoid solution.
All over Europe the far right were on the rise.
In Ireland, Trump was a huge hit in the tiny village of Doonbeg, where his hotel was situated. His sons went to the local pub and got a fierce welcome, even the parish priest coming out to sing their praises.
Was this now what we were?
No wonder we embraced Katie Taylor’s fifth world title.
We so desperately needed a hero.
I needed to savor a day in Bill Murray’s Paris life to exorcise the sheer weirdness of what our country was experiencing.
Bill Murray had a routine. Every morning, wearing a battered pair of Converse tennis shoes, he strolled into Paris’s 5th arrondissement, passing such landmarks as the majestic Val-de-Grâce church and the tropical Jardin de Plantes. Arriving at Sorbonne University, he climbed a steep spiral staircase.
At his destination, a hushed classroom, overlooking the Eiffel Tower, he sat at a desk for the day’s lessons. When they were over, he headed back down, smoked a cigarette hand-rolled with Gitanes tobacco, bought lunch and popped into his favorite chocolatier for 150 grams of candy.
Then he treated himself to a silent movie at the Cinémathèque.
I could imagine such a day, a day that seemed surreally perfect. I replayed that passage so many times in my head that I could smell the Gitanes.
I’d probably have skipped the 150 grams of candy.
I called Keefer; had to. Benjamin J. had issued a direct threat so I had to warn him. He answered with
“Whatever you’re selling, we got it.”
I said,
“It’s Jack.”
He said,
“What’s up?”
I told him, laid it out as it had gone down. He was silent for a beat, then,
“So what are you going to do?”
Good question, but I went with,
“What am I going to do?”
I did let a touch of granite leak over the question. He said,
“You’re there, he’s there, and it’s not rocket science.”
Fuck.
I tried,
“What does that mean?”
He sighed, said,
“Deal with it.”
I changed tack, asked,
“How is Sara, our girl, doing?”
His voice changed. I could hear warmth. He said,
“She’s a trouper, real gem, that kid. She and the falcon are a perfect storm.”
I had to think about that, asked,
“Isn’t that unusual? I mean, for a falcon that’s used to another handler?”
He said,
“All I know is they are inseparable. She even sleeps in the barn with the bird.”
The thought flashed through my mind.
Killers find each other.
Good Lord, where did that come from?
I knew I better ask for Keefer’s new lady and, for the life of me, could I remember her name?
Could I fuck?
Something to do with music, yeah, definitely. Was it Melody? No, it had some Celtic connotation? I went with
“How is your, um, lady friend?”
Lame, huh?
At least I hadn’t said “significant other.” Keefer said,
“You’ve forgotten her name already.”
I blustered,
“As if. I mean, seriously?”
He hung up.
Teddy Nuland. The name suggested someone jovial, with a playful temperament.
He was the county coroner, medical examiner. Nearing retirement, he was not jovial, but put him together with his single malt he became very chatty. Not fun company but certainly gripping.
I’d known him for years but it was only in the last few that he allowed me into his company, a small circle of friends he drank with. I’d given him a rare single malt that cost the kind of money that had you mutter,
“Fuck me.”
In Forster Street there is a small pub named Ryan’s that is so incongruous most people pass it by. It caters to select professionals. The atmosphere is subdued, a serious tone for serious drinking.
I dropped in there on a Tuesday evening, a time favored by Teddy. The barman, named Shane, looked a hundred. He kept chat to the minimum. The pub itself was like a drawing room from the fifties.