“Will he die?”
He reassessed me. Then maybe acknowledging I was in shock, soft-pedaled. He said,
“He is not a young man and, alas, he has not taken care of his body very well, so, as I said, the next day will be crucial.”
“Cigarettes,”
I said.
He nodded then asked if I had a number I could be reached at. I gave him the mobile one. We shook hands and he headed off to do doctorly stuff, or maybe, if my smell was still vaguely intact, grab a sly cig. I was preparing to leave when a tall, stern-looking priest literally marched up to me. They ever needed a poster boy for the clergy or the Gestapo, this guy was it. A shock of steel gray hair, beautifully cut. I know, as I have the other kind. The cheap bad version. His black suit was immaculate. If Armani was doing a clerical line, he’d got the best of the bunch. Shit, I mean, if the current pope was releasing a CD wearing Gucci slippers, anything was up for grabs.
His face was deep tanned and I finally understood what an aquiline nose meant.
His eyes matched his hair.
Steel.
He moved like an athlete, assured, confident, and I thought,
“A player.”
A tiny pin in his lapel, shining in its gold almost-simplicity.
Opus Dei.
Memo to myself,
“Watch your wallet.”
He extended his hand, said, not asked,
“Mr. Jack Taylor.”
I took his hand, said,
“Yes.”
His grip was like the granite workers in Connemara. He smiled.
Fucking great teeth. I had great teeth but they weren’t my own.
He said,
“I’m Father Gabriel.”
Like I should know?
I asked,
“Like the Archangel?”
Too easy, but what the hell, how often do you get a Dan Brown moment, especially when he said,
“You know your angels?”
I countered,
“And my demons.”
The smile vanished. Just folded its tent and fucked off. He asked,
“Is there somewhere… less public we might talk?”
I bit down, asked,
“The confessional?”
He was seriously tiring of me, so I said,
“The River Inn, across the road, does a rather good lunch.”
I added the rather just to keep him off balance.
Some of the smile slithered back. He said,
“Capital.”
I mean, outside of Booker nominees, who talks like that?
He added,
“My treat.”
My cup fucking overfloweth.
A man brushed past me. I vaguely recognized him, a Down syndrome adult. I asked,
“How yah doing?”
He gave me a radiant smile, said,
“Wonderful, Mr. Tayor, thank you.”
Oh, God, if I’d only known, that brief encounter would feature large in what was to come. When I finally learned of the alley murder, I immediately thought of that lovely soul.
I just pray that I was as warm as he seemed to think I was. Gabriel was meanwhile moving fast and I had to hurry to catch up. The guy was a power walker and he stopped, noticing my limp, said,
“I do apologize Mr. Taylor; I’m accustomed to speed.”
Bollix.
I said, clenched teeth,
“Tell you what Gabe, you power on over there, grab the corner table and order up.
They do great bacon and cabbage.”
Like Mr. Perfect would ever eat such basic peasant food. He asked, smirk in place,
“And for you Mr. Tayor?”
“Pint and a Jay chaser, oh, and you call me Jack.”
His face ran a gamut of emotions, none of them exuding warmth.
He said,
“Righty-ho, see you anon.”
The fuck was this guy? Who on heaven’s earth spoke like that?
And he was gone.
Trailing coldness in his wake.
Whatever else I know, I knew bacon and cabbage wouldn’t be his.. . forte?
And I seriously doubted he watched True Blood.
I stopped outside the hospital, saw Gabe already disappearing into the River Inn, and reached into my jacket for my cigs. Yeah, yeah, I know,
“Smoking again.”
Rationing them, OK?
I cranked up my Zippo; it had the logo,
“Fifth of…”
And gulped down a lungful of Blue Superkings.
I moved over to the dismal smokers’ shed. It should have a sign proclaiming:
“Give me your huddled masses.”
A motley crew of: frazzled nurses, patients, I kid you not, trailing IVs, stunned relatives, and
Dr. Ravin.
I know my kin. For once I did the decent thing. I pretended not to see him. A man, my age, with a jaundiced pallor, on crutches, said,
“Hiya Jack.”
I did the Irish gambit, when you haven’t one flogging notion of who they are, said,
“Jesus! Haven’t seen you in ages.”
He moved closer to me. He had the scent of death on him, I know it from familiarity. He said,
“I’m Gerry Malloy.”
I didn’t ask,
“So how are you?”
He was on crutches, looked desperate.
He was fucked.
I lied,
“Great to see you Gerry.”
He looked furtively around, then confided,
“I’m hoping to get a big claim out of this.”
I ground my cig under my boot, said,
“My fingers crossed for you.”
He licked his bottom lip, a gesture like the onset of dementia, said gleefully,
“If they cut off my right leg, I’m set for life.”
OK.
Before I could hazard,
“Good luck with that,” he asked,
“Jack, could you spot me a twenty? You can see I’ll be rolling in it so no worries about payback.”
An arm and a leg as they say.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
I gave him the note and as I limped away, he shouted,
“Big hug to your blessed mother.”
I waved… yeah.
She was dead five years but I had a feeling he might be able to deliver the hug in person sooner than he reckoned.
A lapsed Catholic is simply one who is hedging his bets.
– Ken Bruen, from
“Reading at Random,” in Collected Essays, 2001-2005
I arrived at the pub, a long fifteen minutes after Gabriel. He’d found the corner table, and a lone ray of sunshine was beaming through. Did it illuminate him?
No.
Seemed to emphasize the aura of darkness around him-or maybe I just needed a frigging pint.
He was finishing their famous handmade soup, dabbing at the corners of his mouth like a petulant nun. A lone pint of Guinness, forlorn in its solitariness, opposite him, like a sin he’d refused to absolve. I indicated the chair across from him and he waved me to it. The waitress, a rarity-she was Irish-approached, greeted,
“Hiya Jack.”
He gave me the look, like, how often are you in here?
I gave her my best smile and meant it. She turned to Gabe, asked,
“Father, have you decided on your main course?”
He had.
Demanded, not asked,
“The Dover sole, lightly grilled. Are the vegetables fresh?”
“Yes, Father, we had a fresh delivery just this morning.”
He never looked at her. This guy was accustomed to hired help. He said,
“I’ll have the brussels sprouts, a side salad of coleslaw, red onions, and, of course, in olive oil dressing.”
She risked a glance at me, her eyes saying,
“Bollix.”
She asked,
“Usual Jack?”
“That would be great and thanks.”
He looked up, queried,
“You eat here regularly?”
“Drink, I drink here… regularly.”
Like this was news to him. He reached down, fetched a beautiful brown leather briefcase with a symbol on it:
T. B. E.
I thought I knew it but couldn’t bring it to mind then.
I would later, ruefully… as I learnt it meant The Brethren, Eternally.
I said,
“You didn’t have that in the hospital.”
He was mildly impressed, said,
“A keen observer, that’s good, very good. My driver brought it over.”