“One of those kids is, how do you say, shop-soiled.”
I hit him fast and dirty, so fast he didn’t actually fall down but it rocked his head like a seizure. No one in the pub seemed to have noticed. I leaned in, steadied him, and whispered,
“You have a real shitty mouth.”
It took him a few moments to orient himself, then,
“Cheap shot, Jack. I thought you were better than that.”
I got to smile, said,
“You thought wrong.”
He glanced around the pub, said,
“Gee, not any of those fuckers realize I was just assaulted.”
I said,
“Oh, they realize. They just don’t give a fuck.”
Harley and Raoul were waiting for Michael Allen outside Jurys hotel, at the bottom of Quay Street. Raoul was wary of the whole gig, said,
“What if this guy just offs us both?”
Harley, determined to be upbeat, said,
“Long as you get it on film.”
Raoul went,
“Huh?”
Harley pointed to the swans, said,
“Instead of moaning, you could be over there getting some footage of the black swan.”
Raoul, vaguely interested, asked,
“As a noir metaphor?”
Harley snapped,
“How many times have I explained to you the difference between an indie and a cult director?”
Raoul asked,
“Does either of those guys ever pay the camera crew?”
A white van rolled up, stopped. Allen leaned out, said,
“All aboard the magic bus.”
Harley muttered,
“White van. What a cliché.”
They piled in. Allen burned rubber.
As Harley and Raoul tried to find a seat in the rear of the van, Allen shouted,
“Mind what you touch, that’s a crime scene.”
As they sped up Grattan Road, the van braked suddenly, a group of hippie / monk-clothed people snaked across the road. Harley asked,
“Who the fuck are they?”
Allen sneered,
“The apostles of apocalypse.”
Harley nudged Raoul to begin filming. Allen added,
“Euro trash, their trust funds crashed, so now they chant doom and end of days.”
As Allen revved up, he said,
“Soon as I get some free time, I’m going to give them a taste of Armageddon.”
Harley noticed there was no humor in that statement. The van continued out beyond Spiddal, turned into a small lane, pulled up outside a bungalow.
Allen jumped out, displaying the controlled force of his fitness. Harley followed him into the house. In the front room, bare save for two hard back chairs, a fat man in only his underpants was tied to one chair, sweating heavily. A fading bruise under one eye was the only sign of violence.
He stared at Harley.
Allen said,
“Meet Peter Boyne, child molester and failed kidnapper.”
Boyne said nothing.
Allen indicated the other chair, said,
“You sit there, ask anything you want, and your camera guy can set up as he likes.”
They did so. Raoul whispered to Harlow,
“This is like seriously fucked up.”
Allen said,
“I’ll be outside milking the cows.”
To the baffled looks of all three, he added,
“Come on guys, cows? Really?”
But he did leave.
Harley got himself in interview mood, channeling what he thought of as his Cronkite tone. Boyne stared at him with dull curiosity.
Harley asked,
“State your name, please.”
“Peter Boyne.”
“Occupation?”
Raoul whispered,
“Kiddie hawk.”
Boyne said,
“Lollipop man.”
Harley nearly guffawed. It was like the title of a Stephen King short story. He went,
“What?”
“I help the children cross the road safely.”
He said this without a trace of irony. Harley was delighted, and he pushed.
“And do you abduct them after they are safely across?”
Boyne looked offended, near shouted,
“I don’t abduct children.”
There was a silence as all digested this. Allen appeared behind Boyne, said to Harley,
“Don’t adjust your set. This is a temporary glitch.”
He walloped Boyne twice across the head, said,
“Play nice or you don’t walk out of here.”
Boyne tried to turn to look at him, whined,
“You’ll never let me go.”
Allen moved to the front of Boyne, hunkered down, leaned on Boyne’s knees, said,
“Trust, Pete buddy, we got to have trust, else I take out your left eye. How would that be?”
Boyne nodded. Allen stood, did those neck stretches so beloved of deskbound yuppies, said,
“We’re good to go.”
Harley, shaken, began again.
“Um, when did you discover your, um, taste for, um, younger people?”
Allen moved, slapped Harley on the head, shouted,
“Seriously? This is your hard-core style? Ask him why he fucks kids!”
Harley pulled himself together, asked,
“How many children have you molested?”
Boyne just stared at him.
Raoul said,
“God sakes, this is not good.”
Allen said,
“We need some snap, some pizazz.”
He reached to his back, pulled out a Glock, racked the slide, moved to Boyne, asked,
“Snuff movie, anyone?”
If you have experienced utter silence
where the only sound is the steady beat
of your heart
it is nigh impossible to
readjust to mayhem.
25
Harley was busy. Very.
In anticipation of the coming success, he’d checked into the top floor of the Meyrick, said to the manager,
“Expect the world press to descend on this hotel in the next few days. You, my friend, are going to be very busy.”
Ordered champagne and began phoning top TV outlets in the States, hinting at the explosive material he had. Looked around, shouted,
“Raoul, the fuck are you? Bring me a drink.”
No Raoul.
Harley hung up on a West Coast hotshot, a nagging feeling starting in his gut. He saw Raoul’s knapsack, rummaged through it. No film.
No film!
But there was a note.
“Dear shithead,
You like to lecture at length about your art.
The art of cinema.
Here’s real art for you.
The guy with the film is the artist,
The guy holding the bag is
Fucked.”
Harley’s scream could be heard all the way down to the lobby.
The Galway races.
A week of utter madness, the pubs open until two in the morning, like the city went on the piss. Serious drinkers lay low; this was the time of messers. Apprentice drinkers who got loud and obnoxious.
I was in what civilized folk term a quandary.
Marion and / or Kiki.
I had met with Marion who, alas, wasn’t all that grateful for my apparent rescue of her son. I asked,
“How is the little lad doing?”
She said,
“Like you care.”
Jesus.
I wasn’t seeing a whole rosy future here. I tried,
“I was glad to be able to help get him back.”
Low shot, I know, but, hey, we weren’t playing fair here. She said,
“I feel if we had never met you, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Fucking outrageous, right?
I said,
“That is not only untrue but it’s downright offensive.”