The bankers
Developers
Clergy
Continued to fuck us over every way they could.
A single piece of notepaper had this printed on it
You want to take this one? Your turn, Jack.
Signed
C33.
3
“Right,” she thought, “I’m just having a little attack of metaphysics.”
Philosophy is for the man of private means.
Stewart was more a reluctant ally than a friend. A former yuppie dope dealer, he’d been sent to jail for six years, hard full sentence. I’d solved the murder of his sister; he felt an enduring debt since. After his release, he’d reinvented himself as a Zen-spouting entrepreneur. And seemed to make shitloads of cash. Even in the depths of the current bleak economy. We’d been thrown together on numerous cases and he’d developed a strong friendship with my other ally.
Ridge.
Sergeant Ní Iomaire.
A gay Guard, married to a bollix. She was currently out of the marriage but moving up the ranks, slowly, in the all-male hierarchy of the police. They seemed to believe I was redeemable.
Not yet.
Stewart was sitting in the lobby of the Meryck Hotel. It fed his posh aspirations and served herbal tea. A crime in any venue. Wearing an Armani suit, he sat at ease, like a cat with breeding. I was drinking black coffee, bitter as my heart. I showed him the note, article, photo I’d received. He gave his full focus. Said,
“Let me check on this photo. It looks familiar.”
Then he read aloud the message, which was
“Your turn, Jack.”
Looked at me, asked,
“What do you figure?”
I told the truth.
“No idea.”
He pushed.
“And?”
“And. . nothing. I don’t care.”
He let out a small sigh, stole a glance at my mutilated hand. I wore a glove, gave the appearance of all the fingers. He pushed his tea aside, made a gesture with his head.
Annoyance?
Asked,
“Why are you showing it to me then?”
“You see, Stewart, you have the tendency to want to know the answer to. . Jesus, everything. I thought this might keep you off the streets.”
He didn’t rise to the bait, asked,
“If I work it out, am I to tell you, am I to report back?”
I said,
“Tell Ridge. She might give a fuck.”
He scanned the note again, asked,
“C33?”
And before I could take a shot, he said,
“Right, you don’t give a toss.”
I was moving fast away, despite my limp, acting up less these days, when Stewart shouted,
“What about that dude Reardon?”
Let him shout
Bí cúramach!
Indeed.
The Reardon Riddle?
Talk of the town. One of the rarities, a dot-com billionaire who’d survived the current global meltdown, had come to Galway, set up headquarters, and, according to rumor, was going to save the city. Not yet forty, the guy was allegedly a blend of Steve Jobs, Gandhi, and Putin. Didn’t hurt he looked more like a roadie than a star, gave that edge vibe.
When priests had to disguise their clerical collars owing to public ire, it helped that this whiz kid didn’t look like the other loathed species, bankers.
His trademark jeans, trainers, were more Armani than Penney’s but, hey, who was judging?
Was he too good to be true?
We were about to find out. But the buzz was all good thus far. I mean, fuck, he’d even said he’d like to save Galway United. On the smart board, this was cute twice over. Swear to God, our previous manager’s financial adviser had been Nick Leeson! Yeah, the same fella who took Barings Bank for a scorching hike.
When I was a child, the nearest family we had to royalty were the Hunters. They made prams-I shit thee not-but had the Anglo-Irish gig down. Owned a large, get this, White Mansion, at the rear of Galway. They were steady employers, reputed to be decent folk, i.e., they’d actually greet a person, if sparingly.
Like our economy, belief, decency, they were in the wind.
Reardon had bought their old home and extensive rebuilding, renovations were under way.
See, employment right there.
I’d watched a rare interview he’d given. Long, tangled,
“Dude, just got out of the shower. .”
Hair.
The aforementioned jeans and a sweatshirt that was just faded enough to read,
Pogues. . Rule.
This guy had his shit down.
He’d given one of those rambling monologues, ablaze with sound bites, signifying nothing. But he had a way of doling out this crap, you could believe it made some sense. His accent was a hybrid of surfer dude, Michael Flatley version of Irish brogue, geek.
Somewhere in this mess, he’d been asked about his single status.
He. . winked. . fucking winked, went coy about hoping to meet an Irish girl. That’s when I threw up.
Ridge phoned me as I was reading about the former hangman, Albert Pierrepoint. The state had released papers previously sealed from the public and all sorts of weird, startling data were flooding the news. Pierrepoint had offered to hang two people with the deal,
“Ten pound for the first and I’ll do the nephew for half price.”
Jesus.
The forerunner of all those offers,
Buy one, get one free.
Ridge asked,
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Tales of the hangman.”
A pause.
The question hovered,
“Are you drinking?”
But it passed and she asked,
“Will you help me out?”
Uh-oh
As they say in literary novels,
No good would have come of it.
Ridge had married Anthony Hemple, an upper-class Anglo-Irish bollix. He wanted a mother for his daughter, she wanted juice for promotion to sergeant. They were now separated. I said,
“Well, sergeant, spit it out.”
“I’ve been invited to a party. I want to go, but I need a partner.”
I let her stew, then,
“How come you didn’t ask Stewart?”
“He’s already going with a young lady.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“The Reardon party.”
The party.
Reardon had altered the Hunter house to accommodate his reputation. Up to a helipad on the extended roof. The setting remained spectacular, not one other property nearby and the golf links spreading out to reveal the whole of Galway Bay. It made even the bloody rain look attractive. I was dressed in my one suit, the funeral job. Black and from a charity shop. I was suffering a panic attack, no Jay, no X, no cigs, thinking,
“Am I out of me fooking mind?”
I was loath to attend public events as just recently a newspaper, in lieu of anything new or out of sheer bollocks laziness, rehashed the story of, as the headline put it,
The Tragedy of Serena May.
Replayed all those terrible events. My closest friends, Jeff and Cathy, had a daughter with Down syndrome. The light of their lives and mine. I adored that child, spent many hours as the bedraggled excuse for a babysitter. Until, Jesus, a terrible accident and the child was killed. Years later I was exonerated of blame but the mud stuck, the thinking was
“Taylor was there.”
And true, as the Americans say, it happened on my watch. The article didn’t scream
“Taylor did it.”
But published a furtive photo of me and you thought
“The fucker did something.”
All it took.
Suggestion.
Ridge asked,
“You all right, Jack?”
Given that I’d never in me whole bedraggled, befuddled existence been all right, I had to bite down on the sarcasm, always bubbling under, then,