After twenty-five years, Guns N’ Roses returned to Slane and it was even suggested that Axl Rose and Slash were talking to each other after decades of a feud. Murmurs of rehab and AA, sober living plus vegan tendencies slightly dented the old outlaw image.
Eighty-five thousand people were attending the concert with four hundred Guards on duty.
A guy asked me,
“Would you know offhand which page of the Bible tells you how to turn water into wine?”
At the height of the heat wave, a young man put his eight-month-old baby in the car, then went to work. Forgot the baby was there and went to his job.
Returned to the car after five hours to find the baby dead.
The Guards did not arrest him.
Donald Trump wept at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.
Across town, the pedophile Peter Boyne was putting the final touches to his plan to snatch Joffrey. He was in a state of high excitement. Laid out his materials:
Plastic ties
Chloroform
A long knife with serrated blade, not that he wanted to have to use this,
Wanted the goods in fine form.
He had memorized the school times and there was a window early morning as the boy went to meet the school bus.
He would wear black pants, black ski mask, and black sweatshirt. The last was tight, his bulk barely fitting it.
He hadn’t washed the van — white, of course.
They are always white (see Patrick Hoffman’s The White Van).
Dirt obscured the license plates. Not to mention the fact he was a lazy git who could barely wash himself.
Lately he had been in chat rooms dedicated to man / boy love. These were in the dark net where such items as
Weapons
Drugs
Passports
Were available.
Going deep a few weeks back, chugging Southern Comfort and emboldened, he’d gone to the electric website where killing kids was the gig.
It filled him with awe.
Part 2
The Duke of Brunswick Defense
15
Then along came Harley.
Phew-oh.
Where to start with that?
The beginning, I guess.
I was outside Garavan’s, the town hopping. Sunshine and buskers. If Galway had weather all year round there’d be no room for the locals. I was watching a small film unit, with a guy before the camera. He was tall, rangy, lanky, with a breadth of long blond hair, thinking,
He is the spit of the guy who was in the Nordic noir Easy Money, then went on to play the
Junkie
Punk
Recovering addict
In the American version of The Killing,
Which led to a breakout role in House of Cards.
What the hell was his name?
He spotted me, his face lit up, and he did that throat slash gesture that means kill the film.
He strode toward me, his fingers laced to make that frame scene beloved of media people. Ordered,
Nay, commanded,
“Don’t move.”
Then to the camera guy,
“Raoul, get Jack framed against the bookshop. It is fucking downright iconic.”
I was thinking,
Hello, Jack?
He put out his hand, gushed,
“Harley Harlow’s the name and documentaries are my game,
and a privilege to meet Jack Taylor.”
Said in Brit voice interspersed with American twang.
Then aside to Raoul,
“You are getting this, Raoul?”
I said, very quietly,
“Don’t film me.”
He threw up his hands in delight, near shrieked,
“Oh, God, so butch. I love it. You’re even more... primeval than I dared to hope for. I could come right now.”
WTF?
I asked,
“Who in hell are you?”
He did what might be described as the Valley girl coy simper (a horror all its own), asked,
“You’re thinking I look like the guy in The Killing, am I right? Oh, I wish, Jose.”
The name came to me.
Joel Kinnaman.
I put a finger to his mouth, said,
“Shut... the... fuck... up. Now, who are you?”
He pulled back in mock outrage, then smiled.
“We are Hard Productions, award-winning documentary makers, noted entry at Sundance with Crystal Murder in 2003.”
I nearly smiled, albeit with bitterness writ large, echoed,
“Hard? Seriously, like a hard-core porno gig?”
He reached in his safari jacket (yes, the movie version) and took out an e-cig, vaped furiously, then grinned.
“Double entendre right there, Jack-o. It stands for Hit... and... Run... Documentaries. And that is our style: guerrilla tactics, in out, fast furious, like Clint makes his movies, no second takes.”
Since Marion’s call, I was back full-on smoking, reached for my pack of Major — yeah, those coffin nails — then a heavy silver Zippo from my days with Emerald, clunked that babe, lit up, ah...
He stared at the Zippo, drooled.
“So Waylon Jennings, you are going to love the title of this doc.”
I decided to humor the lunatic, asked,
“Hit me.”
He laughed, said to Raoul,
“I love this dude.”
Then to me,
“Gay Indian Nation.”
He couldn’t be serious if he was what I think he was intending. Our new prime minister, a doctor, was
Gay
Indian.
I said,
“Good Lord, you can’t say that.”
He seemed puzzled, asked,
“Is your prime minister Indian?”
“Well, of Indian parents.”
“And is he not of the light-of-foot persuasion?”
God, what a term. I said,
“Yes... but...”
He near roared.
“But me no buts. Aren’t you Irish supposed to be fearless in your speech, as in Bob Geldof, Sean O’Casey?”
Why was I even trying to debate with this ejit? I asked,
“What is the doc about?”
Like I could give a tupenny fuck but anything to be shot of him.
He grabbed my shoulders with both hands, a very risky move. Said,
“You, you, Jack Taylor, are my subject, my quarry, my bête noire.”
Sweet Jesus.
I said with absolute sincerity,
“You’re shitting me.”
He was on fire, started,
“But it’s so perfect, the new broken Ireland, with a broken PI. I mean, you couldn’t make this shit up, man.”
I tried,
“Like that is going to fly, a PI in Galway?”
He mock-intoned,
“Oh, ye of little faith, am I not the dude who made a doc on an anorexic girl way down in the bayou, got tones of sepia and Daniel Woodrell in there, and it got nominated for the Golden Bear in Berlin?”
I kind of wanted to know, not hugely, but in there, asked,
“What did you call that?”
He paused, threw a look at Raoul who was lighting a cig, then said,
“Pangs in the Bayou.”
“Why?”
He seemed genuinely puzzled, said,
“Like hunger pangs, you know, anorexia?”
“I know what it is.”
He slapped me on the shoulder, said,
“Lemma buy you a brew, Pilgrim.”
Added,
“My treat. Your money’s no good when you’re in the company of the Harley.”
Jesus, he actually said that.