He spat in my face, said,
“Get real, Taylor. I’m connected. Like, I got juice. So fold your pathetic tent and fuck off, I have history to write.”
I gut shot him.
Let him savor that awhile. Moved the barrel up to his right eye, the one the swans hadn’t taken all those years ago, asked,
“This your good eye?”
He was finally beginning to realize that maybe there was a court of no appeal, that no family, no money, upbringing, class, would step in to save him. He pleaded,
“I’m insane, don’t know what’s right or wrong, you have to get help for me. Right, Jack?”
I said,
“The thing with your good eye is you’ll see it coming.”
He did.
I pumped three shells in there and kicked his fucked-up body for good measure.
Then I was moving. As if the Hound of Heaven was nipping at my heels, thinking,
“We get out of this, I might even go back to mass.”
Heard the wail of sirens, a whole shitload of them. Kept moving. I was near the end of Forster Street when Stewart pulled over, the door open, the engine still primed, he screamed,
“Move. Fast.”
I did.
Sweat teeming down my cheeks, I glanced at Stewart. He wasn’t much better. We were past the Meyrick Hotel, turning down by the Tourist Office and into Merchant’s Road. Stewart, not booting it, desperately wanting to.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I could hear the clock, not on our side. One error and we were fucked. Outside McDonagh’s, but a docker from the water, he pulled into a vacant space near the hardware store. I opened the flask, took a deep hit, offered it. He took it, coughed, near spluttered, gasped,
“The fuck is that?”
I said,
“My own concoction, I might patent it, call it Headstone.”
He wasn’t amused but did take another hit. I was fingering the Medugorje stones like an unreasonable mantra. He asked,
“What’s that?”
I said,
“A hint of grace.”
We tried to get our respective shredded nerves in gear.
I asked,
“How’d the Guards respond so quick?”
He stared straight ahead, said,
“I called them.”
Jesus wept.
I grabbed the flask back, hit it with ferocity, said,
“Fucking great, just brilliant, Christ Almighty.”
He continued,
“Actually, I called Ridge, said she’d find two wannabe Columbines handcuffed to the front door. And that two more shooters were at the rear so to bring backup. The credit and publicity will rocket her career.”
I had nothing, so he asked,
“How’d it go for you?”
Almost dreading the answer, he knew it wasn’t going to be good.
I sighed, said,
“A lovers’ quarrel. Bine/Ronan Wall, he shot her after she opened up on him with her Browning.”
He asked the most inane question, an indication of how madness, gunplay, adrenaline affect people,
“She had a Browning?”
“She does now.”
Part of him wanted the details but most of him didn’t so he went with,
“And you think the Guards are going to buy that?”
I nodded, said,
“Sure, wraps it up nice and tidy.”
The booze had calmed him. He leant back, his head on the seat, then asked,
“OK, you think if we get past this, you might really tell me how it went down?”
I considered for all of two seconds, said,
“I seriously doubt it.”
Ridge was on the front page of all the newspapers, banners proclaiming:
“Hero Ban Garda Prevents First Irish Columbine.”
The accounts narrated her overpowering the two brothers but despite her valiant efforts, she was unable to prevent the deaths of the ringleaders who apparently had, in a bizarre pact, killed each other. Sales of We Need to Talk About Kevin went through the roof. Gus Van Sant with Elephant and Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine sold out of HMV and Zhivago.
The papers speculated on the weird deaths of Bethany and Wall and concluded:…A love affair, fuelled on drugs and would-be celebrity, gone berserk when faced with the actual enormity of what they were about to undertake.
Yada fucking yada, on they went, fuel for the talking heads.
Most of the editorials called for Ridge to receive the President’s Medal of Honor. Promotion was a given.
She called me, demanded,
“We have to talk.”
“I don’t think so.”
A pause, then,
“Jack, I can’t accept credit for what I didn’t do.”
Jack!
I weighed my words, let loose,
“Stewart gave you shelter when you needed it. You open this can of worms, he might go to jail. Trust me on this, he would not be able to do time again.”
Slam dunk.
I hoped.
Then,
“Jack, I need you to tell me the truth on something.”
“Fire away.”
Tentative,
“Did you have anything to do with the deaths of the girl and Ronan Wall?”
I could see Al Pacino in Godfather Two as Diane Keaton asked him something similar, said,
“You get to ask me this just one time, right?”
“OK.”
“No.”
Did she believe me?
Did she fuck.
I could feel the cluster fuck of questions she had but she let them slide, said,
“So, I’m indebted to Stewart, then.”
“More than you know.”
“Jack…Bhi curamach…be careful.”
“Leat fein….you too.”
I had two calls to make. Rang Directory Enquiries and got the number of the new private investigator in town, Mr. Mason.
Rang and he answered with,
“Ultimate Investigations.”
I said,
“I’ve heard you are a great PI.”
Let him bask.
He did.
Then,
“Well, thank you, we do our best or, as our slogan says, our Ultimate.”
Jesus.
I said,
“I’ve some hot information for you.”
“Your name please?”
“David Goodis.”
He was all biz now, barked,
“So David, let’s hear it.”
I gave him Kosta’s address, said he was about to move a major mountain of coke at seven o’clock that evening but to be careful, he carries a Glock always and is extremely dangerous. “He was involved in the killing of that Ronan Wall.”
Rang off before he could quiz me.
Then called Kosta, opened with,
“It’s Jack.”
He didn’t sound surprised. If anything, he was almost friendly, said,
“Thanks for returning my car.”
I launched,
“You helped me in so many ways so, to clean the slate, I wanted to warn you that a guy posing as a PI is going to arrive at your home at seven. He’s been hired by the Romanians to avenge Caz’s death. I don’t know how they manage to get their information but they do. Maybe, the daily threat of deportation has them on constant alert.”
He digested this, then,
“Thanks Jack, maybe after this… matter, we can be friends again?”
I let that dance, said,
“We’ll always be close.”
He laughed, said,
“A bottle of Stoli is waiting in the ice bucket, my friend.”
On ice.
I said,
“Works for me, hermano.”
He finished with,
“Del corazon, mi amigo.”
Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win.
– Irish saying
Kosta phoned the following evening, just after the Angelus bell had tolled. Outside, a fierce storm was blowing, one of those sudden blasts of terror that come without warning. The windows in the apartment shook from the power of it. He said,
“Yesterday evening was as you had forewarned me, thank you.” I already knew how it went down. Had called the Guards’ hotline and told them a crazy man was going to try and trespass on Kosta’s property. They were waiting for him and he was now in custody, trying to Brit his way out of a gun charge and various other violations.