“You are all right?”
He laughed, said,
“I am but my visitor-let’s say he won’t be making house calls for a time. The police were not exactly gentle in their handling of him.”
As if it just occurred to me, I said,
“Come pick me up, we’ll celebrate.”
Now the trace of caution entered his voice, he said,
“Jack, it’s blowing up a hurricane now.”
I laughed, went with,
“It’s Galway. If you let the weather dictate your life, you’d never go out.”
His intuition battled with his machismo and he conceded, said,
“OK, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
I was waiting outside, being blown to freaking bits by the wind. He opened the door of an Audi, urged me in. He had certainly dressed for the elements: a long Barbour coat, navy wool cap pulled over his ears. Now for the tricky part. I suggested we go to Blackrock, the area of beach passing on from the Salthill promenade. Before he could protest, I added,
“It’s the best view and, trust me, buddy, no more awesome sight than the Atlantic at full roar. You up for that?”
Poking his pride.
He put the car in gear and we were speeding out of there. His face was stone. As we came off the Grattan Road, I saw the off – license I was heavily dependent on still being there, said,
“Kosta, stop a moment. Let’s get some fortification for the wind.” He pulled over, began to get out, asked,
“Jameson?”
“Perfect and oh…”
Like I’d just thought of it,
“A pack of Gitanes.”
I didn’t want them but I desperately wanted to buy time and prayed the assistant would have to go looking for such a brand, or at least explain why they didn’t have it. I only needed minutes.
Four minutes and he was back, tossed a pack of Marlboro, said,
“No Gitanes.”
The bottle of Jameson felt heavy as he handed it over. He glared at the sea, said,
“It’s getting worse.”
He had no idea.
I said,
“Something you’ll never forget.”
That clinched it.
He parked near the tower, the silhouette of the diving boards barely visible in the driving rain. I said,
“See, under the tower, a shed. We can get protection there. When we were kids, we used to huddle under there, watch the sea roar.” If kids had done it, how could he baulk? He sighed, reached in the glove department, took out the Glock, said,
“Force of habit.”
We made our way down along the side, the wind tugging like the worst kind of religion. Once inside the shed, we caught our breath, I unscrewed the Jay, handed the bottle over, said,
“This will warm you.”
He took a deep draw, handed it back, and I toasted,
“Long life.”
I used the Zippo to fire us up and he put the Glock on his knee, the charade at an end. He took but one long fervent draw on the cigarette and flicked it into the storm, asked,
“What’s up Jack?”
I said,
“I met your daughter.”
He was stunned, muttered,
“What?”
“Actually, she found me. Told me that Edward had many faults but molestation wasn’t one of them. She did say that he was chipping away at your business and you’d never allow that.”
He grabbed the bottle, drank, said,
“Poor girl, she’s deluded.”
I let that sit, then,
“I checked around and, sure enough, he was no prince but he wasn’t what you said and he was most definitely a rival to your business.”
He had the Glock in his hand, said,
“Spit it out Jack.”
I did.
“You used me to erase him. That a friend of mine got killed was just friendly fire. Primarily, you got rid of a son-in-law you loathed.”
He stood up, watching the wild sea, said,
“Ah, Jack, why couldn’t you just let it go?”
Leveled the gun at me, said,
“I liked you, Jack, I really did.”
Pulled the trigger three times and was bewildered, hitting on empty. Now I stood, shucked the Mossberg free, said,
“I never wanted Gitanes, I just wanted time to, shall we say, defuse you.”
I racked the pump. He had to shout over the growing tempest, said,
“Jack, you’re not going to do this. You owe me. I got rid of the priest and his playgirl housekeeper.”
I was taken aback but didn’t lower the Mossberg. Gasped,
“Gabriel?”
He nodded, control sneaking back, said,
“See? I have your back, my friend. The priest was very cooperative; emptied all the bank accounts, too.”
Trying to keep my shock in check, I asked,
“He’s dead?”
He waved a dismissive hand at the sky, said,
“He’s in the wind.”
Then added,
“Which shows my friendship for you is real.”
I laughed, said,
“I love it, especially as you just attempted to unload a Glock into my face.”
I ordered,
“Give me the car keys.”
He did, his eyes darting round for an opening. I backed away, out of the shed. He asked,
“How do I get home without transport?”
I didn’t look back as I climbed along the railing, said,
“Join Gabriel, go in the wind.”
The sacred and profane
Clancy, the Garda superintendent, had been ominously absent during all of the Headstone drama. Didn’t mean he didn’t know. How could he not?
Ridge becoming a media darling-and he had to know my hand was in there. Mason, his new pet PI, taken off the board. Once my best friend, he hated me with all the passion that once had bonded us.
The railway station where my dad had worked was being revamped. The staff was being moved to a new building in the wilderness close to the docks. An Irish gulag. Did they have a say in this?
Right.
As homage to my father, I decided to take a last look at the station before they moved to the barren plains. I hoped I’d meet Brian Carpenter, for decades the stationmaster, or Martin Quinn who, even as mayor, continued his day job on the railway. Now that’s class.
As I got to the station, the occupants of the Simon Community were being sent out for the day, to kill the time till they could return. One asked me politely if I could spare a cig and I gave him the packet. I moved onto the platform, could almost feel my dad’s hand in mine as he showed me the trains when I was little more than a toddler.
Engulfed in memories of him, I failed to notice the burly figure come up behind me until he touched my shoulder. A train was approaching and I still wonder: if I hadn’t moved as fast, would the touch have become a push?
I swirled round to face O’Brien, Clancy’s hatchet man. We had bad history, mostly of violence and hurleys. He was surprised at my sudden turn, recovered, said,
“The Super would like a word.”
Not negotiable.
That much I knew from previous history. I followed him out of the station, resisting the temptation to look back. My dad was in my heart, that was what counted. A sleek Mercedes was outside, the engine humming, another thug at the wheel. I got in the back, O’Brien following.
The five-minute journey to Mill Street and Garda headquarters was swift and silent. I had nothing to say to these hoodlums. We moved quickly into the station and then Clancy’s domain/office.
He was sitting behind a new mahogany desk, as vast as his ego. He seemed to have grown in girth to match it. Dressed in full uniform, a riot of insignia pinned on the tunic, he busied himself with papers as O’Brien took up position behind him, smirk in place. Finally he looked up, took off his gold pince-nez, said,
“Ah, the fingerless Taylor.”
I said,
“Nice to see you too. Sir.”
He gave a predatory smile as he pulled up a very old file, blew the dust dramatically off it, said,
“Jacko, Jack, you must be very proud, your dike lady being promoted and your dope dealer friend involved in the head shops.”
Stick it to him or not?