Teddy was already seated in his usual booth, reading the Irish Times, dressed in a fine suit that might have been fashionable in 1963. He was once a tall man but his profession had stooped him; thinning brown hair was styled in a very bad comb-over. His face seemed as if it were carved from the very stones of Connemara. The eyes, behind small glasses, were vibrant, hinting at a suppressed devilment and, indeed, he had a sharp cutting wit. Badly needed in his line of work.
I headed over, asked,
“Teddy, might I join you?”
He put the paper aside, took his glasses aside, said,
“Young Taylor.”
I sat and Shane arrived with my pint and a short for Teddy. I didn’t pay, you settled up when you left. Very civilized.
I asked,
“How have you been?”
He gave that serious thought, then,
“I expect to see you on my slab one of these days.”
I said with absolute truth,
“God forbid.”
You waited until Teddy hit his stride, meaning single malt number five, then his tongue threw caution to the wind. I asked,
“That book I gave you,
Herbert Lieberman’s City of the Dead,
Did you read it?”
He nodded, said,
“Fairly accurate for a novel.”
You could see his features alter slightly as he prepared to spill some trade secrets. He said,
“Strange case recently. You remember that fire some weeks back, the Americans and the miracle child?”
I said, casually,
“Terrible business.”
He was quiet for a time and I thought he’d decided not to share, but then,
“Very odd. The fire was confined to the bottom part of the building, where the Americans died from smoke inhalation but, upstairs, the boy and a middle-aged woman.”
He stopped, a look of horror on his face, and with all he’d seen, examined, he was years beyond shock. He said,
“The boy and the woman, I think she was the carer, their throats were cut.”
I tried to process this, couldn’t.
He ended with
“The devil of it is, they’d been killed at least twenty-four hours before the fire.”
“An unappreciated miracle
Mutates
Into
An evil of such banality
That it almost
Passes
Unnoticed.
Almost.”
Keefer was to meet me in Garavan’s. I’d rung him to say it was vital he come to town. He’d asked,
“Why don’t you come out here, see Sara, tend to your falcon, meet Ceola.”
Fuck.
I couldn’t face the girl-child Sara yet. Needed to get some space since Teddy made his shock findings. Worse, if possible, he’d said the murder weapon was a serrated blade, like the one Sara carried at all times.
I made lame excuses but emphasized he had to meet me. He finally agreed, then,
“Got to tell you, this girl Sara, she’s like the daughter I never had.”
I was nursing my first pint when Keefer arrived. He was dressed less biker and more urban cowboy: new bandanna and crisp white shirt, dark jeans, boots that had a spit polish, and, I swear, a haircut.
I was about to order his pint and a shot when he said,
“Sparkling water is fine.”
Not good. The news I had to lay on him did not warrant him sober, no way. I got a double Jay for myself and grabbed a table at the back. He gave me a long look, asked,
“What’s so urgent?”
No way to sugarcoat it so I told it straight. He listened without comment. Finally, I ended with a description of the knife. I sat back, exhausted. He shook his head, said,
“You’re unbelievable.”
All I had was,
“What?”
He said with total coldness,
“Some drunk quack spins you a wild yarn about time of death and murder weapon and you, the fucking ace investigator, the top private eye, deduce it’s a young girl who has suffered abuse of every description.”
Then he stood up, threw some money on the table, said,
“I used to wonder why all your friends left you. They got killed or just fucked off. But now I get it. You’re a paranoid prick with no loyalty, no real empathy, just a sodden drunk who thinks the odd book he scans gives him gravitas. I’d pity you if you weren’t doing such a fine job of that yer own self but, get this asshole, stay the hell away from me and my family.”
He strode out.
What could I say?
Thank you for sharing?
I was in Crowe’s, nursing my battered ego and a boilermaker on a Monday evening. Quiz night.
A guy was shouting into his phone beside me.
Like this,
“Sell, sell now, the shares will drop by morning.”
Yeah, I then realized his phone was dead. He was shouting into empty space, like most of us in one way or another.
iPhones, the modern plague.
iPhones are a blessing or a curse, depending on which neighborhood of the debate you choose. But one thing they have killed is the pub quiz. Unless you ban the phones for the evening, as Crowe’s did for their Monday event. Two teams, captained by Bohermore lads, Tommy McGrath and John Casserly. I’d forgotten the quiz as I went there for a quiet time to ponder the whole Sara/Keefer situation.
I was sitting in the back as the quiz teams piled in. I couldn’t really leave as they’d be more than a little offended. I tried to keep my head down as the questions began, heard,
“Who captained the Galway hurling team in 2005?”
Fucked if I knew.
“Who was in Downton Abbey and Game of Thrones?”
Tommy shouted at me.
“Jack, you should know this.”
I said,
“Iain Glen.”
John’s team objected to me being consulted. I was merely a spectator.
The questions continued,
“Who was on the Irish pound note?”
“Who wrote Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital?”
I knew this but said nothing.
In exasperation, John asked,
“Jack?”
I said,
“Kevin Higgins.”
I was beginning to feel just a tad informed until
“Name three Irish presidents.”
I finished my drink, took my ignorant leave.
Homelessness was a major problem. Hundreds of families living in direct provision schemes. The number of patients on trolleys in the hospitals was shocking. Boris Johnson was leader of the Tories now and getting out of bed (or off a trolley) was daunting.
I’d been walking down Water Lane, then turned into the field that leads to Hidden Valley. A man emerged from the trees, a tent pitched behind him. He was shoeless and looked traumatized. I took some notes from my pocket, offered them, he said,
“No, I’m good, but thank you.”
Manners were so rare these days that for a moment I was speechless, then I foisted the notes on him, suggested,
“You’d be better off pitching the tent up the top, would protect you from the late-night gobshites.”
He allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. Then he asked me a question that would haunt me for a long time. He asked,
“Are there rats?”
I couldn’t answer that for a myriad of reasons so went with
“Get yourself a small terrier. Not only will he deal with any rodents, he’d be great company.”
He considered that, then stuck out his hand,