He applauded, literally, said,
“Well done, you figured it out, smarter than you act, methinks.”
His accent was now channeling Barry Fitzgerald via Dublin 4. Not an appealing tone. He put down his glass, said,
“Fill her up and I’ll fill you in.”
Managed to insert a certain mild menace into the sound.
I poured us both fresh ones, waited.
He launched.
“I had a decent living as an accountant. I work out, as is evident.”
Here, he flexed his upper body, did a small pirouette, continued,
“At the gym, as you do, I met my lover, a rather splendid fellow.”
Now he was aping Cumberbatch.
“We settled into a jolly old existence until...”
His face darkened.
“Until the twins, the Renaud twins, decided to engage in a little light gay bashing.”
He looked at me, asked,
“You know what the brain looks like after repeated kicks?”
How the fuck would I know that?
I stayed in low gear, shook my head.
He said,
“Like mushy peas.”
He shook a cig out of the Camel pack, so expertly that it had to have been rehearsed. Never no mind, it’s impressive.
He continued but now in a flat monotone.
“So, when a man contacted me, asked if I wanted justice, I said, You betcha.”
I poured us more sipping well-being, delaying any comment until I could get my head ’round this, then asked,
“You killed no twins?”
“No, of course not.”
“Who did?”
He drew out a tense silence, said,
“Pierre Renaud, their dad.”
“Are you frightened?” she asked.
“I haven’t peed my pants yet,” I said, “but then, it’s been a while between beers.”
“He might just do,” the fella said. “He’s got that ‘born to lose and lose violently’ about him.”
Pause.
“That’s good.”
10
I tried to take in what Tevis had said, asked,
“You’re claiming the twins’ own father killed his sons?”
He let out a tolerant sigh, said,
“I’m not claiming anything, I’m telling you what happened.”
Fuck.
I said,
“God almighty, to murder his family.”
He corrected me,
“Just two of them.”
I poured a drink but it didn’t seem to be having much effect. Maybe the sipping wasn’t really my style. I asked,
“Did he say why?”
He shook his head, said,
“I didn’t ask.”
Fuck that.
I demanded,
“Come on, seriously?”
He lit another Camel, said,
“I was in a blizzard of grief, rage, madness. I would have paid for revenge.”
That I grasped, having recently visited such territory my own self. I said,
“I’m trying to picture him actually doing that.”
Tevis said,
“He didn’t.”
I wanted to fling him across the room, shouted,
“You’re changing the story?”
He stood up, tired of the narrative, said,
“He had help.”
“Someone else?”
He shrugged, said,
“You hardly think a father would drown his own sons? I mean, get with the program, buddy.”
Enough.
I was across the room, grabbed him by the shirt collar, pushed him fast and hard against the wall, snarled,
“Stop fucking with me and answer the question without any more mind-fucking, got it?”
I was so enraged I could have beaten him to a pulp. I wanted it so badly I could taste metal in my mouth.
He nodded and I let him go.
Pulled himself together, tried to light a cig but tremors in his hands betrayed him. Instead, he gulped his booze, then,
“There is a man, served three tours in Iraq and had the distinction of surviving three bomb attacks. He understandably developed a phobia about noise. He now specializes in what the Americans term wet work. More prosaically, he kills people. They call him the Silence.”
I asked,
“And you met him?”
“Only once, and it was enough. He is the most nondescript man you’d ever see or, as the case may be, not see. He looks like every bad photo fit. He doesn’t turn up at the time you’d arranged and, just as you give up, prepare to leave, he is standing behind you.”
I was intrigued, tried to keep my tone skeptical, asked,
“What did he say to you?”
Tevis looked around as if he expected the man to be behind him, then,
“He asked me if I knew the value of silence.”
My mind was alight with so much craziness. I asked,
“And this mystery man, how does one find him?”
Tevis smiled, a hint of smugness there, said,
“You place a chess quote in the Irish Times.”
Then he gave a soft tap to his head, exclaimed,
“Oh my gawd, how could I forget?”
And ran to the door.
Then back a moment later, carrying a large parcel, said,
“As a wee token of my deep gratitude.”
Suspicious, I pulled the paper off to reveal my all-weather Garda coat, and like new!
He said,
“I took the liberty of having it dry-cleaned and, trust me fella, an expensive job.”
Not sure what to say, I asked,
“How did you? I mean...”
He shrugged, said,
“I made the young Guard who took it an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
I was impressed, I think, said,
“Thank you.”
He made a dismissive wave, said,
“You saved my life, I saved your coat. Seems fair.”
I pushed then.
“You felt guilty about those twins, and that’s why you were going in the water?”
He gave me a long look.
“Fuck no. I was depressed about my lover. But the twins? I was delighted they got theirs.”
Pawn Carnage
One rook on the seventh rank is an advantage but two are usually unstoppable.
11
Jimmy Reagan was a close friend of my father. They went to the dogs together. Greyhound racing, in College Road. Were the races fixed?
Let me say this.
One evening as my dad headed into the track, a man stopped him, asked for his race card, and then marked every single race. Said,
“We mind our own.”
All six dogs won.
After my dad died, Jimmy really went to the dogs.
The demon drink was mentioned.
I met him a few years back. He stood in a doorway, wearing what was once a very fine suit. I gave him a few quid. He said,
“Jackie boy, see this suit? I bought it from the winnings me and yer dad had.”
His face got a wistful look and he added,
“Ah, sweet Lord, that was the best night of me lousy life.”
Such men were not built for rehabs. They slipped through the cracks of society, like sad ghosts of what might have been.
He was found dead in an alley, wearing the suit. I was told he had no one to bury him so I took care of it. Brought the one suit to the dry cleaner. The guy there said,
“In its day, this was really something.”
I said,
“Weren’t we all?”
He asked,
“Going somewhere special?”