“You can have him.”
The woman, actually gasping, asked,
“Was that Fionnula Flanagan?”
I nodded,
She shook her head, said,
“What a bitch.”
As you left the ball there was a table with the Irish version of the goodies bag, said to contain
A signed photo of the mayor,
A sliothar (the ball used in hurling),
And a free pass to the plowing championships.
I lined up for my mala, Irish for bag, and was refused.
I asked,
“Why not?”
The answer,
“Only for the significant invited.”
I slouched out to the car, was about to climb into the front, when the driver said,
“No can do, Jack.”
Aw, for fuck’s sake.
I said,
“’Tis the night that keeps on giving.”
I gave the tux jacket to a homeless guy, who used it as a bed for his dog, said,
“Didn’t suit you anyway.”
Quite.
27
Galway
Girls
Gomorrah
It would be the summer of the Galway girls.
Summer of dead girls.
The Galway Races began and the rain returned
With a vengeance.
I was summoned by Malachy.
I don’t really do summoned.
The same young priest from before at my door.
I had a ferocious hangover.
One of those, I’ll kill someone.
I snarled,
“You have a name?”
He caught the tone, said meekly,
“Pat.”
I threw open the door, said,
“I need a coffee, probably the hair of the dog.”
He ventured in slowly as I began to make the coffee. He dared,
“Um, I’m not sure we have time for that.”
I didn’t even look at him, said,
“Sit the fuck down, shut up, and don’t speak until I’m on the other side of two coffees, three cigs, and anything else I can keep in my gut.”
I poured two mugs of coffee, thought about it, then added a slug of Jay to both.
The mugs, wittily enough, proclaimed:
Mug 1
Mug 2
Cute.
The first cig nigh killed me and Pat tried,
“Is that a good idea?”
I laughed.
“Good idea? Jesus, I haven’t had one of those since 1957.”
He drank the coffee and I could see his color rise, the Jay almost instant in its effect.
He looked at his watch, said,
“He won’t be best pleased.”
I waited a beat, then,
“Fuck him.”
And he laughed.
I grabbed his mug, said,
“Lemme top that up.”
Added a fair dollop of Jay, handed him the mug, he took it willingly.
I let him get on the other side of that, then,
“What’s his big hurry?”
He was lit up, said,
“He is mighty pissed.”
... bit like yourself,
I thought.
He was all chat now, said,
“Jericho got bail.”
Fuck.
He added,
“Jess put up her home as bond.”
Not good.
I sent Pat away, muttering I had to get on this right away.
Pat crashed the car one street away.
Oops.
Sean Garret, the rapist
Who’d destroyed the young woman Alice’s life?
Alice, who wanted me to find her.
Figured, first I’d find Garret.
Google showed him to be
“One of our future leaders.”
Not if I found him.
Photos of him were extremely flattering.
Good looking in a slightly going-to-seed fashion, shaggy blond hair, almost surfer dude but with Armani suits.
His family owned one of the major construction companies and, at twenty-two, he was already a director, owned a Porsche, had a girlfriend who’d been on one of those Love Island shows.
Like all the new Irish who had Hollywood teeth and the awareness of a hedge fund.
The new generation, who didn’t have any talent but had burning ambitions:
To be seen
To be worshipped
To be envied.
Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, the new shrines.
For all the glitter, shininess, they exuded a deadly dullness.
I went to Charlie Byrne’s. It had been a time since I saw Vinny.
He was behind the counter, chatting to Noirin, a stalwart of the bookshop.
Vinny said,
“You’re looking well, Jack.”
We all took a moment to savor this nice, if blatant, lie. Noirin said,
“We hear you’re keeping company with a famous actress.”
Jess.
And keeping company
Has a myriad of meanings, from the sublime to the banal.
I said,
“She’s the reason I’m here.”
Vinny gave that knowing smile, ventured,
“You’re going to bring her up to speed on crime fiction?”
Close.
I said,
“She’s up for the leading part in the BBC adaptation of Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady.”
Noirin said,
“We do have a copy of that with all the original drawings, poems in her own hand, but it’s dear.”
I.e., expensive.
Vinny said,
“Oh, I’m sure we can help with that.”
It was indeed a beautiful volume, reason why Kindle could never hope to dominate the market.
Noirin wrapped it in the bookshop’s distinctive bag, said,
“You’ll be well in now.”
You’d think after my more than fractured relationship with Jess the last thing I’d do was buy her a gift.
She was indeed full of bluster and bullshit.
But
Somewhere in that entire complicated front I had glimpsed a frightened child.
I kind of admired her blunt embrace of life, to face all with a shot of gin and cheek. She was that rarity: an original and a ferocious pain in the arse.
I got home and instantly knew someone had been there.
I moved cautiously around and, in the bedroom, hanging from the light was a black noose.
Black as in jet-black rope.
On the bed was a sheet of black notepaper with red lettering that read,
“Hang loose.”
A body was hanging from the Spanish Arch.
A crowd gathered quickly and word spread that it was the actress from Dynasty.
One guy ventured,
“Christ, now that’s a bad review.”
The Guards arrived and it took hours to process the scene and finally take the body down.
The American who’d discovered the body later said to his wife,
“Remember our first night here?”
She did, said,
“Sure, hon, we went to see Playboy of the Western World.”
He nodded soberly, then,
“The dress the body was in, it was the same as Peg.”
She asked,
“You think they hung her after the performance?”
He loved his wife but, Jesus H, sometimes...
The Guards didn’t have to appeal for witnesses.
If anything, they had too many.
The square in front of the arch is party central in the summer.
Beside the square is one of the ugliest buildings in the city, a gray slab of