Belief in nothing is at least a belief.
– Jack Taylor
I finally got to Garavan’s in little under an hour. All along the route, I’d heard people bemoaning the burst pipes, homes without water, government threatening a water rationing scheme.
Just deepened the gloom of a nation already desperately despairing. I stood at the counter, relishing the heat. The barman said,
“’Tis like a biblical plague, wave after wave of chaos.”
He let my pint sit before he topped and creamed it off, asked, “Did you ever see the likes of it, Jack?”
No.
He handed me the Irish Independent and I took a corner table. I was looking at all the sporting fixtures cancelled when he brought over my pint and Jay outrider. I was working on the pint when a large, barrel-chested man approached, sat down on the stool across from me. He had a sparkling water with a slice of lemon, placed it neatly on the table. I asked,
“Help you?”
He gave a bitter smile, said,
“I’m the new sheriff in town.”
I raised my pint, said,
“Good luck with that.”
Didn’t faze him. He said,
“I’m a professional, a fully qualified investigator, so I’m here to tell you that you can officially retire.”
I took a swing of the Jameson, let it warm my gut, asked,
“Do I get a gold watch?”
He leant across the table, said,
“Wise up Taylor, you’re done. The fucking state of you, hearing aid, limp, missing fingers, drinking before lunch. You’re like a mangy alley cat, the nine lives fucked and gone, but no one told the poor bastard.”
I sat back, asked,
“You a Brit?”
Flash of anger, his fists actually bunched, he asked,
“What the fuck does that matter?”
I smiled, said,
“More than you think, Sheriff.”
He shook his head in disgust, said,
“I’m already on all the major cases in the city, so, mister, don’t let me find you staggering around in any of them. Do what you do best-drink yourself stupid.”
I let that hover, seep in, and asked,
“What about Headstone?”
“What?”
I leant over to his face, said,
“Seems you missed one of the major cases. Not exactly a shining start to your professional career.”
He was mystified, asked,
“Tell me about it?”
I said,
“The fucking dogs in the street know about it. Mind you, they are Irish dogs.”
He stood up, weighing the wisdom of walloping me in a pub where I was obviously a regular. Anger was spitting from his eyes, he hissed,
“You’ve been warned Taylor, next time I won’t be so polite.”
I said,
“Be careful.”
He pulled himself up to his full height, looked at me, and I said,
“It’s thin ice.”
He gave a short laugh, said,
“You think I’m worried by the bloody weather?”
I lifted my hands in mock surrender, said,
“Who’s talking about the weather?”
He, dare I say it, stormed out.
Over the next few weeks, as the freeze continued and refused to relinquish its stranglehold, I continued to visit Malachy-without Ridge. One occasion, I left a carrier bag by the bed, a carton of cigs and the now customary bottle of 7-Up. He eyed this, said with a twinkle in his eye,
“Uisce beatha (holy water), I presume.”
I said,
“It’s certainly blessed to a lot of us.”
Saying thanks wasn’t ever in the equation but slowly, painstakingly, I managed to gather, in bits and scraps, his memory of the attack. I usually waited till he had a shot or four of the 7-Up as that lessened the sheer terror in his eyes. I had no love for him, never had, but we had history, bad, yes, but still… I hated to see a defiant feisty spirit like his cowed. He remembered.
Three young people, one was a girl. The girl he regarded as being especially venomous. Said with a shudder as he clutched his bottle like a prayer he didn’t believe in,
“She was on fire with pure hatred.”
Headstone, I thought.
Then I’d leave as his old head began to droop and sleep claimed him. A nurse stopped me one evening, said,
“You’re a grand man to visit the priest like you do. You must love him very much.”
I had no reply to that, if she only knew.
She added,
“Is he related?”
Now I could answer, said,
“Only through drink.”
My black eye was now in the yellow phase, like having jaundice. I had tried so hard not to think of Loyola and his death in the cold water outside the cottage he loved and regarded as a refuge. Time to do something about it. I dressed to intimidate: black jeans, black T-shirt, heavy black scarf, and my Garda coat. The Mossberg fitting snugly in the pocket. I took a Xanax, a wee drop of Jay, muttered,
“By all that’s holy.”
And went to the house previously occupied by Father Loyola. I didn’t bring port. Knew the lady would be long gone. Rang the bell, it was answered by a Barbie doll. Cross my heart, a real cutesy pie. Maybe twenty but not anything over. Jesus, at her age, I was security for a Thin Lizzy concert, right before Phil Lynott died.
She was heartaching gorgeous and as if in deference, she wore a heavy silver cross round her neck. God forgive me but all it served to do was accentuate her wondrous cleavage. Her clothes were the thin side of provocative. She asked, in a cultured voice tinged with the American twang beloved of Irish young people,
“Help you?”
Jesus, count the ways.
She clocked my hearing aid, my bruised eye, the black glove on my right hand. Nothing there to suggest any help…. could help. I said,
“I’ve an appointment with Father Gabriel.”
She chewed on her bottom lip and I knew if she had gum, she’d probably have blown a bubble. I said,
“No need to show me the way.”
Pushed past her. I didn’t knock on the door of the study, simply barged in. Gabriel was sitting behind a splendid new oak desk, a Galway crystal tumbler of booze at his right hand. The walls were adorned with photos of him with the guys with the juice. Most of whom were now facing indictments on all sorts of fraud, embezzling, theft. I focused on the one with him and Clancy, on the golf course, golden smiles and empty eyes. He managed, “Jack, what a surprise; this is unexpected.”
I gave him my best smile. Even if my teeth had been real, the sentiment never would be. I sat in the armchair opposite him, lovely soft napa leather that whispered,
“Relax.”
He asked,
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I said,
“Give me a shot of whatever it is you’re having.”
He had his control back, said,
“This is not really a good time.”
I said,
“Make it good.”
He glanced at the phone on his desk, one of those fake fucking antique jobs that cost a fortune, then decided to ride it out, reached in a drawer, produced a bottle of Laphroaig, then a glass, poured a smallish measure, pushed it across the desk. I said,
“Ah, Johnny Depp’s favorite drink.”
Contempt flowed easily now. He said,
“I really wouldn’t know. Pop trivia is not my forte.”
I said,
“He’s a movie star, but shite, that is one good drink.”
It was.
Like the smooth lie of an insincere priest. I said,
“Though, is it not a bit unpatriotic of you not to support the home side, like a decent bottle of Jameson? God knows, the economy could use all the help it can get.”
He was tired of me already, asked in a weary tone,
“Was there something?”
I made a show of looking around, asked,
“Where’s the housekeeper?”
We both knew I didn’t mean Barbie.
He made a dry sucking sound with his teeth, not an easy feat, but then, who’d want it to be? He said,
“Not really your concern but she had divided loyalties.”
I pushed,
“Where is she now?”
Exasperation oozed from him. He took a fine nip of the fine booze, patriotism notwithstanding, said,