Pause.
“Woes?”
I said,
“If you know him, about him, why is he still free and killing like he has a franchise?”
He grimaced.
“Time and time again, we thought we had enough to do him but witnesses always vanish.”
I said,
“And yet he seems to do exactly as he likes.”
He nodded, went,
“Even putting it to one of your old ladies.”
Waited for my reaction but I was too mutilated to rise to easy bait. I said,
“Delicate turn of phrase.”
He asked,
“That’s it? You’ve gone fucking philosophical about him?”
I stood up, drained my glass, slowly buttoned the controversial coat, said,
“Leave a tip for the barmen.”
He stood, contempt on his face, sneered,
“Just walking away. Hear from sources that is what you do best.”
I put a rake of notes on the counter for Ollie, who nodded in sympathy. He’d heard the last comment. I turned very slightly, moved my face close to supercop, whispered,
“I’m going to shoot him on Friday, at about three in the afternoon, so you can be there to make the big arrest.”
He moved back a step.
“Are you serious?”
I pondered, then,
“Maybe it’s the drink talking.”
Debated.
Added,
“Could be Thursday. I’m lousy with dates.”
36
The
Sagrada Família
,
Gaudí’s
temple of madness
triumph
ruin of Catholicism
monument to the greatest victory
brutal failure
breathtaking
glorious
without any semblance of order or even sanity,
but
at a certain time in the late evening,
before the revelers of Barcelona
begin to stir,
there is a profound silence
like the silence
before the bolt
on a Remington rifle is racked.
37
They killed the black swan.
By they, I mean, of course, Michael Allen.
He left the poor creature’s head at my door, with a note:
“Prepare for your swan song, Taylor.”
Oh, I was preparing.
Had the Jeep and on a Wednesday drove out to Anthony’s mansion / stately pile, broke in easily, and stole the Remington rifle plus six long shiny bullets.
Studied Michael Allen’s routine in the house he shared with my ex-wife.
How utterly fucked up is that sentence.
Every Tuesday, he strolled to the local pub, careless in his arrogance and so convinced of my cowardly acceptance of every new outrage he visited on me.
Never even gave the Land Rover a second glance.
I had the back window open and, lying prone along the backseat with a pillow as sniper’s block, I watched him saunter from the house.
I think he may even have been whistling
“The River Kwai March.”
I shot him first in the right knee.
Let him fall and the actual revelation of what was happening dawn on him.
I muttered,
“Suck on that.”
But didn’t feel a whole lot. Mainly my mind was consumed by, of all things,
Gaudí.
Yeah, as I pulled the bolt on the rifle, it gave a satisfying thud, like my favorite clunk of a Zippo.
Second shot to the gut.
They say it is the most agonizing.
He certainly roared enough. I watched,
Whispered, like a blasted prayer, a crazed mantra,
Gaudí.
“I’d go to Barcelona,” I said.
Then a third shot right between the eyes.
Lit a cig with, of course, the Zip.
The door of the house pulled open and I saw Kiki run shrieking down to the piece of garbage, got in the driver’s seat, and pulled away, no hurry.
I even turned on the battered radio and Jimmy Norman was reporting from, get this,
Catalonia!
If you believe in omens,
Or such drivel,
You might think it was auspicious.
I thought of Barca and Messi and the most glorious football club in the world.
Left the Jeep back where I found it, dumped the rifle in the Corrib.
Thought of the black swan, her beautiful plumage black as my heart.
I went home, made a hot toddy, it being November and the Feast of the Holy Souls.
Waited for the supercop to come get me.
He didn’t.
Nobody did.
Go figure.
Mainly, I couldn’t give a toss.
Next morning, I went to Annette Hynes in Corrib Travel, booked an all-expenses trip to Barcelona.
On my way home, ticket secured, I went to Dubray’s bookshop, looked at an art book featuring Gaudí.
I heard a female voice say,
“Dude, you down with Gaudí?”
Turned to face a young goth woman with all that kohl eyeliner.
Jet white face, serpent sleeve tattoo, and for a mad moment I thought Em / Emily / Emerald had come back from the dead.
Shook my head, went,
“And you are?”
She said in a very Brit, upper-class accent,
“Jericho.”
I nearly laughed, said,
“But of course you are.”
The Jericho saga would have to hold until I had my vacation.
Don’t you think?