Fuck,
Thought Harley.
There was American interest. A film about a broken-down PI in the West of Ireland, what was not to love? Harley had engaged the Galway singer-songwriter to compose a score for the doc. Marc Roberts had been easygoing and didn’t demand cash up front.
Don Stiffe, another in-demand singer, had expressed interest but Don hailed from Bohermore, so he wasn’t writing anything until he had a contract.
Locals had been great, happy to talk about Taylor, and Harley had got a ton of stuff on exploits, mostly false.
The Guards?
Not so much.
Had told Harley in no uncertain terms,
“Fuck off.”
He wished Raoul had caught that on camera.
But best of all, the freaking money hook, Taylor, was now a bona fide hero.
You believe that luck?
Saved a snatched young boy.
Gold.
Pure guaranteed white gold.
Save
Taylor was unavailable.
As
Harley yet again laid out his frustration to Raoul, he noticed Raoul was not listening but watching as a man headed determinedly toward them. He was dressed in black jeans, black sweatshirt, and moved with a sure ease. His blond hair was cut in the buzz style, giving his face a granite look. He reached their table, said to Raoul,
“Get lost.”
Raoul, accustomed to angry creditors, went without a word. The man took his stool, faced Harley, stared directly at him. Harley, uncomfortable, tried some East Brooklyn hard, said,
“Help you, fella?”
The man smiled, said,
“I’m Michael Allen.”
Harlow shrugged, the vodka giving him some artificial spunk, said,
“So what?”
His phone beeped and he reached for it.
Allen’s hand snapped out, gripped Harley’s wrist. Allen said,
“Not now.”
Harley, shaken, tried,
“You know who you’re fucking with, buddy?”
Allen leaned real close, near whispered,
“You are what we used to call back home
A huckster
Flimflam man
Grifter.
But that’s okay. Your Micky Mouse operation could use a major jolt.”
Harley sensed opportunity, so went,
“Tell me more.”
The bar guy, who was already lured by Harley’s claim to celebrity, had watched the proceedings and now moved quickly. Strode over, put a hand on Allen’s shoulder, addressed Harley,
“Everything under control here, Mr. Harlow?”
Letting a nice shade of hard dribble over his tone.
Without a movement, Allen said,
“You have twenty seconds to remove your hand and ten to scuttle back to the bar and get me a sparkling water.”
You work in bars, especially on a hopping street like Quay, you know when to exercise caution. This was such a moment. He withdrew his hand and moved back to the bar. He poured a long glass of water from the tap, added Fairy washing-up liquid to get the bubbles and hopefully poison the bollix.
Walked back, plonked the glass down in front of Allen, winked at Harley.
Allen said,
“Taste it.”
The bar guy was thrown, muttered,
“I don’t do sparkling water.”
Allen said,
“Neither do I, but you will drink that.”
There it was.
Plain as day.
Implied violence. The bar guy stepped back. Allen turned, looked at him, said,
“Hey, just pulling your chain.”
The sound of a cold humor was even more sinister than the outright threat.
As the chastened bar guy retreated, Allen threw,
“Soon as I find out where you live, I’ll drop by, we’ll have us a sparkling old time.”
Then turned to Harley, asked,
“Where was I?”
Harley wanted to cry, just straight out bawl. He said,
“You were mentioning an opportunity?”
Allen smiled, asked,
“An exclusive, a hook to get the U.S. in on the project, an interview with the sicko who snatched the boy.”
Harley saw the lure of that but,
“Will the Guards permit an interview?”
Allen continued the weird smile, said,
“The Guards don’t currently have him.”
Harley worked the angles, didn’t see it, asked,
“Is he out on bail?”
Allen waited a beat, then,
“Peter Boyne is presently staying with me.”
Harley echoed,
“Peter?”
“Indeed, Peter Boyne, and, if I say so, very keen to, how do you say, spill the beans.”
Part 3
The Summer of the Black Swan
24
A good summer in Galway is as rare as integrity. That July
The arts festival
The Galway races
And the black swan.
She appeared in the Claddagh Basin, and speculation was she’d come from South Africa. Not so much credence given there. She drew massive crowds and seemed content to accept food from the onlookers. Even walked on the shore to the delight and apprehension of children.
The other swans ignored her, not big on prima donnas. I watched her glide along the water and a tinker woman said,
“Nil rud maith ag teacht” (Nothing good is coming).
I thought,
So what else is new?
Asked her,
“Why’s that?”
She looked at me, stated,
“Ta tusa an mac Taylor” (You’re the Taylor boy).
I nodded, she said,
“A black swan is black luck.”
I stared at her, asked,
“Really?”
More than a hint of disbelief lining my tone.
She took my hand. Spat in the palm, said,
“Anois ta tu bheannacht” (Now you are blessed).
I knew that gig, reached for my wallet, but she was gone. I looked ’round for her but she’d glided away as silent as the swan. I looked at my palm but it was dry. I said,
“I need a drink.”
Pierre Renaud, the father of the murdered twins, was found hanging from a tree in his fine garden.
No note.
The belief was he’d been overcome by grief. I was in Garavan’s on my first pint when Tevis arrived. Dressed in a good suit, linen lightweight, with a very sporty straw boater.
I said,
“Very Gatsby.”
He ordered a small vodka, slimline tonic, said,
“Another sad bastard.”
“Fitzgerald?”
He took a tentative sip. Then,
“No, I meant Renaud. You might say he had a bad heir day.”
I’d heard about the death, said,
“Guilt?”
He gave a nasty chuckle, said,
“More a case of qualms.”
Looked at him, got the nasty smile. He said,
“Ol’ Pierre decided he couldn’t live with what he’d done, so he was going to confess.”
“Did he?”
Tevis finished his drink, contemplated another, said,
“Well, Allen felt there was another option.”
I wasn’t sure where this was going but didn’t like the sense of it, asked,
“You mean he hung him?”
He recoiled in mock horror, said,
“What a nasty chain of thought you have.”
Then he changed tack, asked,
“How is that Sophie’s choice gig going for you?”
I had a fair idea of what he meant but feigned ignorance, asked,
“What are you on about?”
“Your wives? Or wife and concubine? Who’d you choose, the one with the kid? Oh, no, they both have those.”
He gave an evil chuckle, said,