She went with the other weapon.
“Were you ever going to mention your wife and...”
Pause.
“Child?”
Time to fold.
Did I go dirty and mention her husband?
I asked,
“And your husband?”
Kiki.
I met her for a drink in Garavan’s. I ordered a pint and she said,
“How typical of you, Jack. You know I’m in the program and yet you meet me in a pub.”
Aw, fuck.
I had no energy after Marion. I asked,
“How is my daughter?”
She looked at me with a far distance from affection, asked,
“You even remember her name?”
I could have mustered some defense but, instead, I drained my pint, said,
“Have a great life.”
Got the fuck out of there.
I walked along the canal, wondering if it was deep enough to drown myself. A guy was fishing and I stopped to watch. He was intent on the task, then said,
“Jack Taylor.”
I asked,
“I know you?”
He felt a tug on the line and reeled in a large eel, took the hook out then released it, said,
“Stocks are low.”
Then,
“You helped my old man out some years ago.”
Well, finally some brightness.
He asked,
“You a betting man?”
I said,
“I’m not against it.”
He said,
“There’s a horse running at Galway today, the two forty-five, everything about him
Trainer
Jockey
Owner
Is local.
He’s running against some very fancy horses. Like you, a lone voice against the big boys. His name is Pateen. He’s all heart and endurance.”
“Thank you.”
I went to turn away and he added,
“Put a decent wager. Act like you believe.”
I was on my way when he said,
“You know they say, You learn more from a loss than a win?”
“I’ve heard that.”
He gave a very small smile, said,
“That’s horseshit.”
I put an indecent amount on the horse. He was 20–1.
He won.
I was heading down Forster Street with my substantial winnings when a small shop caught my interest. Near to the Puckeen pub, it had a variety of Galway souvenirs displayed. At the very back of the items I saw a black swan.
An omen, I thought.
Of what, I had no idea.
Bound to be a metaphor, at least.
I went in and the owner was a quick study in hostility. Without saying a word, he conveyed the notion I was a shoplifter. I said,
“The black swan, I’d like to buy it.”
He stared at me, said,
“We don’t have any white ones.”
What?
I said,
“I don’t want a white one.”
His body shifted as if “How much more aggravation can one man endure?”
He said,
“The Galway swans are white.”
God almighty.
I said,
“There’s a black one there now.”
He muttered,
“Sure.”
But made no sign of moving.
I asked,
“So can I purchase the black one or not?”
He reluctantly got it, blew some dust off it, said,
“Thirty euros.”
I was in some new realm of Monty Python so decided to go with it, asked,
“How much do you charge for the white ones?”
He took a step toward me. Was I going to end up wrestling with a shopkeeper on the floor of his shop?
He snarled,
“You’re a bit of a smart-arse.”
I said,
“As opposed to an actual customer?”
I threw the money on the counter, picked up the now controversial swan, said,
“You’re probably overwhelmed with return shoppers.”
And was out of there.
I headed up toward the square. A wino asked me for a few quid so I handed over some notes. I still had the swan, unwrapped, in my hand. He said,
“Funny, I always thought them birds were white.”
I got back to my flat and, not for the first time, missed how no little pup would be waiting to welcome me. I shook my head to rid myself of the memory of the wonderful dog I had.
Was into the flat when I realized I was not alone. A man was standing against the window, staring out at the ocean. He seemed completely at ease, said,
“Hell of a view.”
Turned to face me.
Tall, with a buzz cut, dressed in fatigues, a face that was nearly remarkable in its blandness. A suppressed energy danced around him. He said,
“I’m Michael Allen.”
I said,
“The psycho.”
He shrugged, said,
“Not an auspicious beginning to our meeting.”
I said,
“It’s not a meeting when you break into my flat.”
He saluted, said,
“I didn’t break anything.”
Pause.
“Yet.”
I gave him a long look, said,
“Time to pack up whatever nonsense you’re peddling and fuck off.”
He smiled, said,
“Harsh.”
I had been rationing cigarettes in between vapings and reached for one now, fired up, said,
“Spill whatever it is.”
He said,
“I thought a little gratitude might be forthcoming.”
I said,
“You knew where the boy was being held but did nothing for three days.”
He let out a deep sigh, said,
“Let me demonstrate something for you.”
Crossed the room and in a split second flipped me on my back, his shoe resting on my windpipe, said,
“A little pressure and it’s good night Jack Taylor.”
He stood back, said,
“Just so we’re clear.”
I got shakily to my feet, let my head hang down as if I were still groggy. He came over, said,
“Deep breaths, champ.”
My head came up fast, catching him under the chin. I followed with an almighty punch to the side of his head. He staggered back against the wall but
Managed to stay on his feet.
I went to the cupboard, poured a decent shot of Jay, knocked it back, said,
“Now we’re clear.”
He recovered fast, said,
“I knew it, my kind of soldier.”
I said,
“We going another round or are you going to piss off?”
He smiled. I could see a bruise under his chin taking shape. He said,
“Tevis, I know he’s some kind of buddy to you.”
“Not my buddy.”
He let out a shout, said,
“Excellent, then we have no problem.”
He leaned against the wall, his body both relaxed yet crackling with a manic energy. Whatever else, I knew this guy was extremely dangerous so I decided to play along, see where the madness led. I asked,
“What exactly is it you want?”
He pondered this, then,
“Tevis is a loose cannon, probably the gay thing. He is having bouts of conscience and that I can’t have.”
I said,
“From what he told me, he seemed quite delighted you solved the problem — the guy who killed his friend.”
He laughed, said,
“I like the way you tiptoe ’round the acts committed in the name of justice.”
Enough of this nonsense. I said,
“So you’re removing Tevis, that it?”
He made an odd sound like a strangulated sigh, said,
“No, no way.”
I nodded, said,
“Great, so you can be on your way. Nice chatting with you and all that.”
He said,
“You’re not getting this.”