A fierce amount of killing ahead and the weather was blistering hot — had been for three clammy weeks.
We Irish, we love sun, as we like anything scarce, like money, but with climate change Europe was baking, and London had Boris Johnson as new prime minister, who sacked all his opponents.
Calling him a buffoon, scandalizing about domestic battles, did not deter the fact that he was a dangerous buffoon.
I digress, as the lit gang says.
’Twas not the humanity but the freaking humidity that was busting our balls. We were beginning to buy fans and inquire about air-conditioning.
I met with Dysart, who also wanted to kill Sara.
Not a popular girl.
We were to meet in Naughton’s, always called by the locals O’Neachtain’s, the Irish lilt giving it a hint of Celtic smarm and, sure enough, you saw lots of ponytails, even on the women. I think I saw some tie-dyed clothing but I don’t want to overwork the metaphor lest I lapse into bad poetry and qualify for an arts grant.
God forbid.
I was nursing a finely drawn pint when I saw Hayden, a crime writer of mid-list merit, meaning he sold fuckall. He had a clouded backstory of jail time in South America and carried an air of impending doom like a shadow of smoke.
We had met a few times, and got on well enough, neither of us borrowing money as is the mode in arty circles. He seemed to less like me than tolerate me.
He asked how I was.
I gave an Irish answer,
“Fair to middlin’.”
He smiled, long familiar with Celtic evasiveness. I echoed,
“And your own self?”
He continued the Irish vibe with a question to a question.
“Do you speak Spanish?”
Like fuck, I mean,
“Seriously?”
I said with fierce conviction,
“Why?”
He was amused, not a neighborhood he much inhabited, said,
“I know you like quotations so I have a fine answer to your query.”
He quoted,
“Le gusta este jardin?
Que es suyo
Evite que sus hijos lo destruyan!”
I saw Dysart approach. I asked Hayden,
“You want to have a drink with an ex-priest?”
He laughed and, as he moved away, said,
“Not even with a priest who isn’t ex. See you again, Jack, and the quote is from Malcolm Lowry.”
Dysart was dressed in black, like a mourning crow, the heat wave not on his radar. His face was drink-red and his eyes were slightly out of focus. Without preamble, he ordered,
“Double scotch.”
He didn’t offer me so I said,
“Bad hair day?”
He seemed to have made the mistake of cutting his own hair and had attempted the so-called buzz cut. It might have passed comment if he was an eighteen-year-old marine. He paid for the drink with a crumpled ten euro, ordered another. I said,
“Fuck sakes, easy.”
He turned on me, snarled,
“Don’t lecture me, Taylor.”
I finished my drink, asked,
“You get my Seconal?”
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a tattered envelope, said,
“There’s thirteen there. Should be unlucky for some poor bastard.”
I took the envelope, put it away; to an onlooker it looked like a drug deal, which it was. He said,
“One hundred euros.”
I asked,
“You take MasterCard?”
He looked like he might hit me, said,
“Do not fuck with me, mister.”
I said,
“We’re going to the country on Friday so pack your Glock.”
Threw him. He mustered,
“Friday? I’m not ready. I need two days without booze.”
I told him about Ceola, stressed the urgency of us going to the farm. I said,
“Here’s the plan. Ceola, me, and, if you’re sober, you go to the farm, take the girl without hurting anyone, bring her back here. I’ll get in contact with Monsignor Rael. Let the Church deal with her.”
He didn’t like it, tried,
“Keefer won’t let us.”
I said,
“Ceola will persuade him. If not, we use the minimum of force, take her against his will.”
He wasn’t happy.
I said,
“Noon on Friday. Be ready.”
I was leaving when a thought occurred. I asked,
“Why are you drinking like a lunatic?”
He said,
“To stop the nightmares of what I’ve seen of Sara’s trail of terror.”
I asked,
“Did it work?”
Sighed, as only the true, 100 percent blue alky can, said,
“Made it more vivid.”
Thursday, the day before we went to the farm and, I hoped, as they say in the U.S., weren’t about to buy the farm, I packed for the trip.
What do you need for a jaunt to the countryside to
Kidnap/kill a child?
Use force to restrain my best friend?
Rescue my falcon?
All you need is love?
Not really.
Just keep it simple.
A gun.
Your balls.
Lots of drugs.
Flask of Jameson.
Such was the plan.
I’d finally got time to meet with my wife — ex-wife — Kiki.
I hadn’t seen her since our child was killed in my arms. At the funeral, she’d wailed,
“Why, why wasn’t it you who died, you bastard? It’s your fault my lovely girl is dead.”
There was more but you get the drift.
She was now a member of AA so maybe forgiveness was part of her gig.
We met on neutral ground, the Meyrick, at the bottom of Eyre Square. It was fairly hopping as the Galway Races were to start on Monday. The heat wave was still in full merciless blast. I was early, nervous as a nun’s cat.
I had dressed in order to not intimidate or provoke. She had always hated my lack of clothes finesse. I was wearing chinos, blue shirt, mocs. I looked like a geek’s grandfather and felt it.
She arrived in heavy black, mourning for effect.
In deference to her AA status, I was drinking Galway sparkling water — even had a slice of lemon to whip up the bitter atmosphere hovering.
I stood to greet her, she snarled,
“Don’t even think of hugging me.”
Gotcha.
She told the waitress she would have chamomile tea.
’Course she would.
She sat, tentatively, cleaned the seat with medic wipes. I couldn’t begin with
So how’s the crack?
I tried,
“You wished to see me?”
She leveled her eyes at me; hatred burned her eyeballs, and didn’t do mine a whole heap of good either. She said,
“I’m bringing Gretchen home to be buried. I want her gold miraculous medal back. You don’t deserve it.”
How could I say
“The devil child stole it?”
Like that would fly.
Thinking I hadn’t quite heard her, she repeated the awful words.
“I’m taking Gretchen away.”
Like fuck.
I said,
“You can’t do that.”
She laughed like a banshee, said,
“I’ve already had the paperwork done. She will be disinterred today and flown home tomorrow.”
My turn to snarl. I went,
“No fucking way.”
She pushed home.
“My lawyer already described you as a washed-up drunk and — guess what? — the judge knows you and despises you so you’re screwed, mister.”
Weak, like close to passing out, I pleaded,
“But she’s all I have. What will I do?”
She stared at me for a long-tensioned minute, then,
“Drink. It’s your life.”
My heart was pounding. I implored,
“Oh, please, Kiki, please.”