The Mossberg rested-a lethal snake-near his feet. He said,
“To good friends.”
“Amen.”
He liked that answer. Took a large wallop of his drink, savored, then swallowed, said,
“Genever.”
Dutch?
I’ve found nodding sagely stands you in good stead when you don’t have a fucking clue.
I nodded sagely.
He let out a deep….Ah.
I knew we were now at the main event. He said,
“Jack, like you, I live my life to the minimum.”
He was kidding, right?
Bodyguards, a huge house… not really Zen. He continued, “I have few friends, and you I regard as one. My history is violent but we don’t need to dwell on that. I have one daughter, her name is Irini
… means peace.”
Stopped.
Fuck, I hoped we weren’t in sharing mode. No way was I reliving Serena-May and the tragedy.
Pain ran across his eyes, took hold as he said,
“She is… otherworldly. Very beautiful, with a true purity of spirit. I have always, siempre, always protected her.”
I believed him.
He said, slowly,
“But I was detained for nearly two years. She met a man named Edward Barton.”
He spat into the fire, continued,
“A Londoner, he smelled money, married her, and by the time I was
… undetained, they had a daughter. This precious girl is five years of age now.”
Something had entered the room. Apart from the dark evening full set and the foul weather, it was a pervading sense of impending doom. Blame the genever, I guess. He suddenly was on his feet, grabbed a bottle, refuelled us. Then put the bottle back, sat again, all his body language reeking of rage and spittle. The line of his jaw was a study in controlled ferocity. He said,
“I despise this Edward. A lowlife, a rodent, rank in every way. I put such shit under my heel every week but Irini pleaded with me to be …”
He paused again as he searched for a word that wouldn’t blow a hole through his face, said,
“Lenient. This man has spent all the money I had put aside for her. OK. I can deal with that. Money is not the issue, but then she comes to me, tells me this… man, is… abusing their daughter.” He let out a torrent of bile and obscenities that were nearly impressive in their range-if you weren’t sitting a few feet from the source, realizing he was close to losing it. And a loaded weapon at his feet, serious booze in his hand and system. You get the picture. He looked into the fire as a large piece of turf fell, and I’d swear I saw tears. A woman crying is always a man’s undoing. But to see a man cry, fuck, especially a man like him, it was a knife in the soul that would forever leave its imprint. I stayed with the sage gig, i.e., I said fuck all. He reined it in, took a deep breath, said,
“I am meeting this Edward soon, this evening. He needs more money. As he is not so stupid to be unaware of my reputation, he insisted on a public place. Nimmo’s Pier? You know this?”
Oh, shite, did I ever. Bad, bad history there.
He checked his watch, a slim Philippe Patek. I know of what I can never afford. He said,
“I’m to meet him in one hour.”
I knew where this was going so I volunteered for my own lynching, despite the fact he had thugs in the garden and God knows where else. I said,
“Would you like me to come along?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
His gratitude was embarrassing. We both knew why I was here.
He said,
“My regular employees, you met two on your arrival-they are as loyal as money.”
I nodded, said with a sinking heart,
“Let’s get this show on the road.”
We stood and he didn’t thank me. If gratitude was a condition of our friendship, I wouldn’t be there. He took me out to a large garage with a line of cars, selected a beat-up Volvo. Cops use them for one reason: below the radar. Before he put the car in gear, he flipped the glove department, expertly caught the Glock that tumbled out. He checked to be sure it was primed, said, “Jack, my terrible dilemma is this: I can’t harm the man. He knows that, my promise to my daughter, so he feels… invincible.”
We sat there as he waited for my answer, which could be nothing other than,
“I haven’t promised.”
He smiled, put the car in first, said,
“Acrivos.” (Greek for exactly.)
We got there early, and to fill the time, I told him about Father Gabriel and the drowning of Loyola. He produced a silver flask, drank from it, handed it to me, and I didn’t wipe the top, took a swig. He said,
“Stoli.”
Strong is what I thought, thank God.
From where we were parked, we could see across the bay, the lights of Quay Street, beckoning to come party. He moved to get his back comfortable, said,
“One more thing, Jack. He has a driver, a new one, some Romanian trash named Caz.”
Oh, shite.
Christ on a bike, no. My decade-long, sometimes friend. He’d done the thing that counts in my narrow book: he’d come to see me in hospital-brought booze, too. In those ten years he’d been around a lot of, let’s say, under-the-gun stuff I did. He worked with the Guards as a translator for the Romanian refugees, and he could not only have scored major brownie points with Clancy by selling me out but got paid as well and secured his always precarious position as a nonnational. Superintendent Clancy was, yes, that keen to see me go down.
And, simply, deep down, I just liked him. Doesn’t need any more analysis.
In one fluid movement, Kosta lit two cigarettes, handed one over.
He had the instincts of a feral cat.
I took a drag, coughed. He said,
“Gitanes.”
Gypsies.
He was a veritable United Nations of moves, gestures, and actions And his instincts were uncanny. He said,
“Jack, your face tells me you know this man.”
When all else is up for grabs, sometimes, the truth is the only way. I said,
“I do.”
He watched the ash on his cigarette, letting it build, then,
“And, he is a friend, n’est-ce pas?”
I considered, said,
“We’re about to find out.”
I cannot persuade myself that a beneficent and omnipotent God would have designedly created parasitic wasps with the express intention of their feeding within the living bodies of caterpillars.
– Charles Darwin
Bine was dressed in full combat gear, as if heading for a riot. All he needed was a face shield to complete the picture. Blown up behind, in glorious Technicolor, was the school, the relevant positions marked in red. He was wearing a holster holding a Walther, and around his neck, beads with stones spelling out Medugorje.
Bethany watched him as he downed some speed, working up his shtick, getting ready to impress his minions. She thought, as she’d thought so many times,
“Arsehole.”
And wondered yet anew about men and guns. Like freaking kids with toys. Give them a weapon and even deadbeats like the lame brothers developed a swagger. Jesus, she wanted to puke. But she had a lust/heat gig going with Bine and still wasn’t sure where it would go. Mainly, he gave the constant rage she felt a focus. Gave her the jolt to feel alive. Too, she had to admit, when the sorry prick got ranting, he was mesmerizing. Got her to do stuff she’d never thought she’d have the grit to even attempt. And got her off on her little independent flights, like the mind-fucking with the alcoholic Taylor. Not something she felt was wise to share with the crew.
And, if they pulled it off, a first in Irish history, as Bine kept saying, she’d be famous. Maybe get on Oprah, have Angelina play her in the movie, and be on the cover of Hot Press. One thing she knew: the girls rarely did jail time, they just did a Linda Kasabian and squealed. Even in the movies.