Shovel Ready by Adam Sternbergh.
Kill by Anthony Good.
Can You Ever Forgive Me? by Lee Israel.
You’d be hard pressed to find a greater range that included utter madness to sublime writing, plus of course two of them contained shades of darkness that I understood absolutely.
I rarely read dystopian fiction, feeling the world was spinning enough out of control without needing a postapocalyptic narrative, but one book, The Last by Hanna Jameson, was so utterly special I read it twice.
Mid book musings, a knock at the door. I half expected Keefer but, no, a thin man, dressed in a dark suit, hatchet face, either an ill assassin or a poor undertaker. He asked,
“Jack Taylor?”
A tone of command.
Do first impressions really matter? I don’t know but I disliked this guy instantly. I asked,
“What do you want?”
He assessed me, saw nothing that impressed him, asked,
“May I come in? I won’t take up much time and I will pay for your valuable time.”
He let a drop of disdain drip from valuable.
Mildly interested, I let him in; he surveyed the apartment in all its bare essentials, stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, like a school principal, said,
“I’m Monsignor Rael.”
When I made no reply to this, he continued,
“I understand you have been of some small service to Mother Church in the past and we would like to engage your specialist talent once more.”
I said,
“My service was more an accident than design.”
He smiled, not a pretty sight. He had good teeth but the action gave him an even more skeletal appearance. He said,
“I admire modesty, which shows me you are indeed the man for our small mission.”
I took a guess, said,
“If it’s about the miracle, either you want the kids or you want them to shut the fuck up.”
He was surprised and then moved his hands to give me a brief applause, said,
“I was informed that you are shrewder than you let on.”
He reached in his jacket, took out a thick envelope, laid it on the table, said,
“This should cover any expenses you incur.”
I asked,
“If, and it’s a big if, I find the children, what am I supposed to do, give you a bell?”
He laid a business card beside the envelope, said,
“Yes, call that number and we’ll take good care of them.”
I looked right into his face, asked,
“Hand over children to the Church. Isn’t that the shite you guys have been covering up for decades?”
He shook his head, spoke slowly, as if to be fully understood,
“The Church does not wish a miracle at this time.”
It was too arrogant to even anger me. I said,
“Best be on your way, pal.”
Didn’t faze him. He reached for the door, said,
“I’ll expect your call.”
I said,
“It is truly staggering. You lot have learned nothing, absolutely nothing, from all the bad press.”
A final smile as he said,
“Trust me, Taylor, we have learned more than you could imagine: We have learned who to buy.”
After he’d gone, I realized he left the envelope. I asked myself,
“Does he think I’m bought?”
For the first in a long time, I smiled, muttered,
“What you’ve bought is so far from what you think you paid for.”
I heard about the arson on the news. Jimmy Norman, in his weekly video show/podcast, wondered aloud if this fire was connected to the previous fire in the warehouse. I now had three problems.
The guy who left me the long match. Was he the arsonist, and why was he contacting me?
The woman who’d come to me for help with her abusive husband. She was now dead and the husband had a solid alibi.
The children of the miracle. Where were they and how would I find them?
Keefer was in town and I was treating him to a pint in Garavan’s. He looked more than ever like a Hells Angel. The barman eyed him suspiciously. I said,
“It’s okay. He’s with me.”
The barman said,
“Why is that not in the least bit reassuring?”
I raised my pint, toasted,
“Sláinte.”
To Keefer.
Who answered,
“Paint it black.”
Indeed.
He told me that Maeve, our falcon, was flying strong and proud and I realized how much I missed the sheer joy of seeing her soar. I said,
“I have three problems.”
He finished his pint, said,
“Spill.”
I did.
He asked,
“How the fuck did you get your own self in the middle of this clusterfuck?”
I had wondered that same dilemma my whole career. He said,
“No biggie. We divide and find solutions.”
I had the envelope from the monsignor, took out the fat wad of money, split it in half, handed one to Keefer. He was bemused, asked,
“You’re putting me on payroll?”
I said,
“The Church gave me that.”
He whistled, said,
“Sweet.”
We headed out in search of, if not justice, at least retaliation. I figured if the children had been in the refugee camp in the Claddagh, and that was but a short prayer from the miracle memorial, I’d start there.
Turned out the woman in charge of the refugee center was known to me. She’d been married to a Guard I’d known and I had helped her out in some distant past. I asked her,
“How did two Hispanic children end up here?”
She was in her forties, a no-nonsense type, who’d seen the worst of humanity and didn’t expect that to improve anytime soon. She said,
“A fuck-up. The kids were swept up in Trump’s first roundup of the migrant columns from South America, then some bright spark allocated them on a ship bound for Europe as the Europeans were still a little tolerant. The kids ended up in the horrendous camps on Greek islands among the Syrian people. An Irish charity literally came in the night, took as many children as they could, and made it to the coast of Ireland.”
She seemed exhausted by the story.
I asked,
“And now, do you know where they are?”
She studied me, said,
“I do.”
I tried,
“Might you tell me?”
“No.”
I tried,
“Listen, those kids tended to me when I was hit by the truck. The very least I can do is thank them.”
Sincerity is not my best asset but I felt I managed it quite well.
She stared at me in disbelief.
I asked,
“What, I can’t be grateful?”
She shook her head in dismissal, said,
“Of all the things I’ve heard about you, naivete was never one of them.”
I was lost, asked,
“What do you mean?”
She was really dismayed, asked,
“You really don’t get it?”
Anger in my tone now, I pushed,
“Get what?”
She said very quietly,
“They weren’t helping you, Jack.”
When I didn’t answer, she said,
“They were trying to rob you.”
Keefer found the arsonist, or rather the arsonist found him. Keefer had done the round of pubs, dives, picking up bits and pieces but nothing solid and, down by the docks, he sat on the quay, rolled a smoke, heard,
“You are Mr. Taylor’s wingman?”
Turned to see a fairly nondescript man in a gray suit who said,
“I’m Benjamin J. Cullen.”
Keefer eyed him slowly, asked,
“You the dude who likes long nonsafety matches?”
Benjamin said,
“A question with a question, how terrifically Irish.”