I stuck it, said,
“One does what little one can, as you know. The little, I mean.”
O’Brien moved but Clancy waved a restraining hand. He had better fodder than a wallop. Asked,
“You a fan of TV, Jacky boy?”
“Just TnaG, the Irish channel.”
He was delighted, said,
“I think even they show a very popular series titled Cold Case.
We, in our own small way, have been going through old files, clear the debris of the past, onwards and upwards to a new proud Irish nation.”
I was lost.
He tapped the file, said,
“This is your old man. Now, I liked your father. Such simple men seemed to be the very backbone of our society then.” Seemed.
Very worrying. He continued,
“But I hate hypocrites and I detest thieves.”
I tried with all my might to rein it in. O’Brien knew, waited till I moved and he’d beat me senseless. Clancy continued,
“The files from the railway were fascinating, the pension fund especially. Did you know your father was in charge of it?”
I didn’t.
He was cruising, killing me, pushed for the home run, said,
“He was a thief, stole from the very families he was supposed to be looking out for. And you, you’ve turned out just like him. He’d be very proud of the drunken limping deaf disaster you’ve become.”
Instinctively, I reached for the Walther in my waistband and O’Brien’s face registered alarm, knowing he couldn’t get to me in time. But no weapon. Out of respect to my dad, I’d left it at home. I let my hand show.
Empty.
Like the damn poem:
Empty of all
…But memories of you.
I managed to mutter,
“Anything else, sir?”
Clancy looked to O’Brien.
“The fuck was going on?”
They’d hit me every which way but loose and I was… doing.. . nothing. O’Brien gave a cautious shrug and Clancy said, less certain now,
“No. You can go but bear in mind, we’ll be publicizing your father’s thievery.”
I managed to turn around, moved to the door, stopped, said,
“My left hand still has its fingers.”
He was puzzled, asked,
“So?”
I lifted the middle finger, said,
“Cold case that.”
Reeling down the town, my mind on hyperdrive from the revelations, I was stopped by a tinker woman who said,
“Jack Taylor.”
I nodded and she asked,
“My poor mother, she’s dead three years now and I can’t afford a headstone.”
I handed her my wallet, said,
“We can’t have that.”