I’m not against the death penalty but anyone who ever suggests I get a morbid thrill from it—
Fuck you.”
I got back to my apartment a few days later, knew instantly someone was there, moved cautiously inside, expecting just about anything.
Got...
Jericho.
Sitting in my armchair, the bottle of Jameson at her elbow, dressed in shorts, tight silk T-shirt, flip-flops, she asked,
“Wanna blow job?”
The heat wave was in its second week and already the government was warning of water shortages. I opened all the windows, trying for any trace of wind. As if reading my mind, she asked,
“Hoping for an ill wind?”
I looked at her, said,
“I think you pretty much cover that.”
She laughed, raised the bottle, asked,
“Join me?”
I asked,
“Who’d you kill today?”
She stood, did a yoga stretch, letting me see the curves of her, smiled, said,
“I want to call a truce.”
I laughed, a long way from feeling a trace of humor, asked,
“Oh, like, if you don’t kill Jess, I forget about you?”
She nodded, said,
“That work for you?”
“No.”
She pulled a mock petulant face, said,
“You’re getting the better deal. I mean, you did kill my sis.”
I said,
“I don’t know you, how the hell would I know your sister?”
She looked like she might knife me, then,
“My sister was Emerald, who you killed. We were sisters in blood.”
I said,
“And in madness, it seems.”
She ignored that, said,
“I was a total wreck when she found me, strung out on crystal, no hope, and she saved me. She made me promise if anything happened to her, I was to go after you, you, who she worshipped, removed all the bad shit in your life.”
There’s very little point in arguing with your out-and-out crazy, save a bullet in the head. I asked,
“That’s your grand design, kill me?”
A sly malignant smile. She said,
“But you have to suffer first.”
I said,
“You’re overlooking one tiny detail.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll deal with you first.”
She sneered,
“You’re not in my class.”
I opened the door, waved her out, said,
“Funny, Emerald thought the same thing.”
She was halfway down the corridor when I said,
“Gerry is looking for you.”
Stopped her. She asked,
“Who?”
“Your husband, Gerry Dunne.”
She gave a nasty laugh, said,
“Oh. He found me, gave him a quick blow job, he gave me the loan of six hundred euros but, odd thing is, he decided to go swimming.”
Paused, then,
“Must be the heat but Gerry... he never could swim.”
I stared at her, then her face lit up as if a brilliant thought had occurred to her. She asked,
“Maybe I could hire you, Jack, you being a PI” — the sneer she managed to inject here was nearly admirable — “Do you think you could find him? Oh, that would be such a relief. I’m, like, so worried I could, you know, like scream.”
She was still laughing as she skipped away.
The tape of Scott I had recorded was finally acted on by the Guards.
Jericho was arrested.
I let out a sigh of relief, thought,
“That’s the end of that madness.”
If only.
Her husband caught up with me in Garavan’s as I was working on my first pint. I might have felt relief that she hadn’t in fact drowned him but he was becoming more than a nuisance.
I wasn’t expecting gratitude that my information had helped him find her but perhaps I expected a certain amount of relief. Nope.
“You asshole,”
He launched.
Nope, not gratitude.
I gave him the slow look, asked,
“Who are you again?”
Threw him, but he rallied.
“Gerry Dunne. I hired you to find my wife.”
I ordered another pint, asked him,
“You found her?”
Tentatively,
“Well, yeah.”
“Did I charge you?”
“No.”
I said,
“Word of advice, don’t go swimming.”
He was baffled, said,
“So what else?”
I let out a breath, said,
“So fuck off.”
Later, a few pints to the worse, I left the pub, and waiting outside was
Gerry Dunne.
I muttered,
“Aw, for fuck’s sake.”
He kneed me in the balls.
Very few levels of actual agony reach the height of that pain; it soars straight to your brain as it roars.
“This is going to hurt like almighty.”
It does.
Luckily, he then kicked me in the face.
I say luckily as it momentarily distracts your brain, which wonders,
“What fresh hell is this?”
Then they join forces to form a symphony of such utter white heat that nothing else matters save the scalding universe of hurt.
He bent down, said,
“Your nose is broken. Now I’m going to blind you.”
He was grabbed from behind by someone who effortlessly tossed him across the street, then helped me to a kneeling position; standing was so out of the question. I could hear Dunne wailing,
“He had the love of my life arrested.”
My helper was Sheridan, who said,
“The broken nose will give you some hint of character.”
I managed to whimper,
“Just what I needed, some character.”
The doctor who examined me, said,
“It’s broken.”
I looked at him, said,
“Wow, you’re good. I’d never have known if you hadn’t examined me.”
He looked at my mutilated fingers, my discreet hearing aid, said,
“You’ve lived a rather...”
Searched for a description, got
“Full life.”
No argument.
He said,
“You need rest. I will prescribe some painkillers for your nose and, um, various ailments.”
He peered at the chart doctors seem to have attached to them, said,
“No drinking.”
I prepared to leave and he stood in front of me, said,
“I’m serious, Mr. Taylor, no alcohol.”
I gave him a lopsided smile. It hurt my nose. I said,
“As if.”
25
None of them knows
How then shall we lure her back?
From the way, she goes.
The mail next day delivered this:
The Mayor of Galway
And the councillors of the city
Cordially invite you to
The Annual Mayor’s Ball
To be held in City Hall
On Friday, July 6th.
Black tie
RSVP
I tried to digest this then muttered the only thing you could.
I muttered,
F
U
C
K
ME.
I was outside my apartment, still sweltering in the nigh monthlong heat wave.
A black BMW was parked before me.
Gerry Dunne appeared beside it, held up a bunch of keys, then, with slow deliberation, made a long deep gash alongside the car, gouged in deep, stepped back, sneered,