“I’ve absolutely no idea.”
And the thought/sentinel riding point was,
“And I could give a fuck.”
Reared in the school of not giving a fuck, I recognized a fellow pilgrim.
Time to up the ante, get him focused.
I stood up and he was about to smile, thinking I was leaving. Used my left hand to free the Mossberg, pumped a shell into the chamber. The sound was awesome; you could have heard a nun drop. Momentarily startled, he managed to rein it in, said, “Such theatrics Taylor. You’re going to shoot a priest?”
Now he laughed, at the sheer absurdity of the thought. The bollix hadn’t been out much, it seemed. The laugh galvanized me, I was across the desk like I actually had the energy, the barrel jammed into his tanned cheek. I said,
“Great movie, available on DVD, Mesrine, classic French cinema. In it, Mesrine said, There are no rules, like me. I live without rules. You get my drift I’d hazard. Here’s the gig: you find the housekeeper and give her the money you ‘recovered’ from poor old Loyola. Sound fair?”
He was shaken, it’s hard not to be when a Mossberg is jammed into your face, but fair dues, he did rally, managed,
“Or what?”
I admire spirit, truly appreciate cojones in the face of a barrel but, truth to tell, I didn’t like this slimy bastard, simple as that. I pulled the trigger an inch from his ear, blowing a hole in the wall almost the size of the Greek national deficit. Then the sound of running feet and the babe-slash-housekeeper burst in. I said, “Fuck off, and if I hear the phone, you’ll be joining this dude.”
She took off.
I felt reasonably certain, not for the phone.
Gabriel was meanwhile whining,
“My ear, my ear, I can’t hear.”
Fucking tell me about it.
I stepped back from the desk, adjusted my hearing aid, said,
“I can suggest a good ear man.”
He grabbed his glass, hands trembling, said,
“Taylor, you’ve no idea of what you’re getting into. The Brethren have a very severe code of punishment.”
I moved back to my seat, facing him, asked,
“Like, say, drowning a helpless old man. Are you actually threatening me?”
The smirk was creeping back, not only to his face but to his very tone. He said,
“You can take it as a guarantee.”
He was either very drunk or very stupid. I grabbed the bottle, asked,
“May I?”
Even added a drop to his glass, I’m not vindictive… much. Asked,
“An actual threat from a man of the cloth, this is really something. You are serious, right?”
He lifted his glass, assured he’d regained the higher ground, back in control, the peasant in his place. I took a swig of the drink. It was smooth, smooth as false hope. I sat back, lit up a cigarette, just to see the flicker of annoyance on his movie star face, clicked the Zippo, twice, asked,
“You hear that?”
He was all done with my idiocy, began to reach for a file, said,
“I can hear fine now…”
I held up my damaged hand, said,
“Sh… ussh.”
God forgive me, it’s a rush to do that to a priest. They’d been trying for bloody centuries to keep us quiet, so throwing it back was a blast, if not indeed blasphemy. I put the Mossberg on the oak desk, would love if he tried for it, reached in my jacket, took out a slim silver recorder. Bought it earlier in the day from the Army and Navy Shop. They even sold grenades, collector’s items. Asked,
“Ready?”
Hit the play button.
His face took a serious drop as he heard his rich, clear voice.
I let it play, then pressed stop.
Put it back in my jacket, said,
“There will be two copies of this. One goes to Garda headquarters in Dublin, unless your golfing buddy Clancy really wants a copy? And the second to my friend Kosta.”
He was speechless. Maybe he could join a Silent Disorder.
I continued,
“Kosta I don’t think you’d like much. He hates priests and for some odd reason has a real hard-on for you. He got me the Mossberg and, cross my bedraggled heart, I love him dearly but it has to be said, he’s a nutter, your out-and-out psycho. The kind of guy who’d cut your balls off and shove them in your mouth. Or so they say. I haven’t actually seen it but I think it’s probably true. And here’s the best bit. You ready? He regards me as his great friend. Go figure, huh? Anyway, sorry for rambling on like a priest on a Sunday sermon, the point is, if anything… anything happens to me, I were you, I’d hope the Guards came before Kosta. So you see, I don’t like to be crude but I have you by the… nuts.”
I stood up, drained my glass, put the gun back in my jacket, said, “Keep it in your pants, padre.”
The housekeeper was standing by the door, her face ablaze with anger and fury. She glared at me. I said,
“Alanna, I’m not the enemy. Your boss in there, he had the previous occupant of this house put in the river.”
She spat in my face.
I let the spittle dribble down my cheek, no attempt to stop it, stared at her. She began to move back. I pulled off the glove, put my stumped fingers right in her face, lied,
“Your precious employer, the saintly Gabriel in there, he did that to me because he suspected I knew some things. I have one question for you.”
She was transfixed by the ugly remains of my hand, muttered,
“What?”
I pulled the glove back, asked,
“What does he think you know?”
Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there.
– Miles Davis
The call from Kosta was unexpected. He began,
“Jack, you extended me the hospitality of your home. I’d like to repay the courtesy.”
It occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about him, and yet we had a deep, almost ferocious, bond. I said,
“Of course.”
He gave me the address, in Taylor’s Hill, our own upper-class part of the city, home to doctors and other professionals. He asked if I could be there by five and I said, sure. Then he added,
“I need your help, my friend.”
“You have it.”
A pause, then,
“Thank you. Please bring the Mossberg.”
Jesus.
Was I being invited to dinner or murder?
Taylor’s Hill still retains those glorious houses, set well back from the road, with large carefully tended gardens. Kosta’s was midway, huge hedges almost shielding it but you could glimpse the majesty of the building. Built when money was used lavishly on homes. I opened a heavy wrought iron gate, and, instantly, two heavies were on me. Front and back. I said,
“Whoa, easy guys, I’m Taylor, and expected.”
The one facing me, all hard mean muscle, gave me a cold calculating look, then spoke into a lapel microphone, waited. Everybody wanted to be an FBI clone. He motioned,
“Pass.”
Not big on chat those guys. I moved up to the house, three stories of Connemara granite and kept scrupulously clean. I rang the bell and wondered if a maid would answer the door. Did people have them anymore? Apart from the clergy, of course. Kosta answered. He was dressed in a navy blue tracksuit, not unlike Ridge’s, trainers, a white towel round his neck. He greeted, “Welcome to my home, Jack Taylor.”
Waved me in. A long hallway was lined with paintings. I know shite about art but I do know about cash and here was serious dough in frames. The only painting I had was of Tad’s Steak-house in New York. He led me to a book-lined study. Not the books-for-show variety; you could see they’d been well used. Comfortable armchairs in front of a roaring log fire. Few things as reassuring as that. When I looked closer, I could see it was turf. A man who knew the country. He indicated I sit after I shucked off my coat. Left it close by. He offered a drink and I said,
“Whatever you’re having yourself.”
“Gin and tonic?”
“Great.”
He didn’t ask about on the rocks. Serious drinkers don’t do ice. I settled in the chair, putting the Mossberg on the carpet. Maybe he wanted it back. Got my drink, and he sat, reflected for a moment as he gazed into the fire, the flames throwing what seemed like a halo on his bald skull. Like Michael Chiklis in The Shield.