I said,
“Who’d ever think I’d outlive Stewart?”
Ridge gave me an unknowable look, said,
“You shouldn’t have, no way.”
Jesus, steady.
A lone swan came gliding along. Ridge watched it with longing, said,
“They say a swan is the reincarnation of a Claddagh fisherman who drowned.”
Fuck.
I said,
“Jesus, I’m so tired of Irish
Piseógs
Stories
Omens
Superstitions
Fairy fucking tales.
Stewart is fucking dead and he ain’t coming back as a swan or any other freaking thing.”
Like I said,
“Bitterness oozing.”
I’d checked out Lee Waters, he’d fit the bill for the C33 agenda, but the Guards were no way going the way of a vigilante and, anyway, Stewart had been a dope dealer. Never no fucking mind it was years ago, he was dirty, end of story. Waters, and Stewart, had been clients of Westbury and Stewart had told me he was trying to find a link with Westbury and former victims, and I’d
. . blown him off.
I said to Ridge,
“Stewart thought the lawyer, Westbury, was worth investigating, maybe even built a case for him being the C33 character.”
Ridge shook her head.
“It’s nothing. The Guards checked out all this nonsense, there is no link between the killings.”
Fuck sake.
I said,
“What about the notes?”
She gave me the look, then,
“There’s a school of thought, um. . that suggests. .you. . you might have written those.”
“Are you fucking kidding? Why? Why on earth would I do that?”
The boat was approaching, I moved back from the pier, asked,
“And you, Ridge, what school do you favor?”
Said,
“You’ve been under lots of pressure and maybe, you know, a desire to look, um. . significant, in front of your American buddies.”
She put a lean of condescension on buddies.
I started to move away, she asked,
“Where are you going? We have to scatter Stewart’s ashes.”
I fixed my eyes on her, tried to keep my voice low, said,
“You’re smart, just take the top off and. . scatter.”
* * *
My mind was in free fall.
A line from Scott Walker, he’d said something like this is how you disappear.
To a torrent of self-recrimination, the chorus of not disapproval but downright bile, thinking,
“I always knew when the joke was over, but my dilemma?
Never being quite sure when it began”
Toward David Mamet describing his childhood,
. . In the days prior to television, we liked to while away the evenings by making ourselves miserable, solely based on our ability to speak the language viciously.
Pause.
Stopped to catch my breath, reach for my cigarettes,
And,
“Fuck, don’t smoke no more.”
Fume, yes, freely and with intent. The director Mike Nichols declaring,
I do well with the fundamentally inconsolable.
Fucking A.
A homeless person asked me for something and I shouted,
“You want something? Here, a word of consolation, fuck off.”
Repented.
Went back.
Gave him fifty euros, heard him mutter,
“Bloody eejit.”
26
“It’s over for you, motherfucker.”
— the voice Brian Wilson heard in his head, over and over, for twenty years
I went down into the abyss,
Spiral
Screaming
Burning
Hot
To
Freakish
Cold
Fucked.
Snatches of Stewart’s friendship flashing through my mind like a dire recrimination of what would never be again. Five days before I surfaced, kind of, sick through sickness like I’d rare to rarer experienced.
I came to in my own apartment, a large man sitting opposite, lounging in a chair, drinking from one of my coffee mugs, a slight smile playing on his lips. I didn’t know if he was real or part of the previous day’s horrors and hallucinations. I croaked,
“Hey.”
Deep, yeah.
I sat up, real bad idea. The room did a jig, a reel. The man stood, got a glass of water, said,
“Get some of this down, slow ’n’ easy.”
I did, slowly, and managed to keep some if it down. I asked,
“Who are you?”
He was even bigger when my vision settled, over six two and climbing. And must have been close to 200 pounds, not much of it fat. A face that had been squatted in then grilled. Cold blue eyes but with a shot of amusement. Wearing chinos and black, battered Dr. Martens, the originals. A T-shirt with the logo
Monterey rocks.
So faded it might have been an original, which could mean he saw Jimi Hendrix. I shook my head as he said,
“Name is Moore, least that’s we’re giving out today.”
And he smiled, kind of.
He said,
“I’ve got some healing here for you, buddy, some pills your benefactor Mr. Reardon provided.”
Reardon.
Moore had been asked by Reardon to keep an eye on me, mainly for Kelly’s sake, and found me crumpled in a mess outside my apartment, reeking to high heaven of booze. Got me inside and halfway cleaned up.
I snapped,
“So, have I to beg? Let’s make with the fucking things or not.”
He laughed, took out a battered tin, began to roll a cig. I said,
“No-smoking zone, pal.”
He laughed, said,
“I like it, and gotta say, dude who’s taken the punishment you have, to crack funny, that’s. . hard-core.”
He, I kid thee not, flicked a long match off his boot, lit up. I said,
“You’re kidding. What, you studied Clint movies and then figured you’d trot out that party trick?”
He blew a perfect ring, said,
“Just a match, partner, nothing more.”
Jesus, I’d woken up in a scene from a clichéd western by the freaking numbers. He reached in his pocket, tossed a phial, and, no, I didn’t catch it. Fuck.
Got the lid off, got two capsules out, dry-swallowed them. He said,
“Trusting type, ain’t yah?”
I said,
“If you’re poisoning me, the hangover I have coming down the pike, you’d be doing me a favor.”
He shrugged, said,
“You’ve got some grit, fellah.”
I asked,
“So, who the fuck are you? And what are you doing in my home, besides cowboy cameos?”
He stood up, did the neck exercise beloved of jocks, said,
“I’m your guardian angel.”
His accent was gruff, no prisoners New York, Lower East Side if I knew my Jimmy Breslin. His eyes testified to war years with not so many bullets avoided.
I gave him my best skeptical look, honed by years of dealing with priests who told me the Kingdom of Heaven was within.
Within whom they neglected to mention.
Christ, I began to feel good, not just, um. . hungover, but fucking real fine. I had a shower, shouted,
“Brew up some coffee there,”
Pause
“Pilgrim.” Angel dust indeed. I dressed fast, raring to go. Faded Levi’s, cleanish white cotton shirt, my fave boots, the ones that clicked, made you sound like you were going places or, at least, had been to some joint of significance. A light jacket, khaki in color, that gave the vibe of a player.
Being able to stand straight, I was nearly as tall as Moore. He handed me a steaming mug of caff, said,
“Roasted Colombian.”
Roast heaven.
All I needed was spurs, a gray palomino, and wagons fucking ho to be the full cowboy.
Moore was surveying me, then pulled out a small jotter and with a stub of a pencil made some notes. No Mont Blanc posing here. I asked,
“You taking notes?”