“How much for you to fuck off?”
And she’d laughed, actually came as close to loving him as was possible. They’d reached, if not a separate peace, then a perverse understanding. He knew she was mired in some darkness but felt no compulsion to investigate. At some deep level, he knew she had his back, and that was plenty. In the lethal deals he was involved in, and the plans he had for the future, a family ally was gold.
They neither dissolved nor advertised their marriage.
It was what it was.
I’d tried to find Kelly, but she’d gone to ground. I phoned Reardon, who said,
“You’re asking me?”
Well, yeah.
Said,
“Aren’t you her some kind of half-arsed husband?”
He laughed, said,
“All the more reason I’ve no clue to where she is.”
I said,
“And sounds like you could give a fuck.”
A pause.
“Taylor, best not to be a smart mouth to me. I mean, at best, I tolerate you. You have some vague uses but don’t think you have an in to a single fucking thing that goes on in my personal life.”
I said,
“Touchy.”
Long sigh from him. It’s been my life that, sooner or later, most I know get to sigh. Like some warped theme tune to my mad existence. He said,
“Taylor, you’ve got some cockeyed notion that C33, so named by Kelly, gives you a clue to the bizarre killings that happened. Take this on trust, caballero, even if by some wild stretch you could link Kelly to any of this crap, you do not, definitely do not, want to have her put you in her gun sights.”
I laughed, kind of, said,
“Gee, sounds like some kind of threat.”
Heard him mutter to someone, then,
“One thing Kelly and I still retain from our marriage. .”
Bitterness leaking over me, I shot,
“Yeah? Like fucking people over?”
“We don’t threaten,”
Pause,
“We deliver.”
Rang off.
It’s always been my lot to be easily distracted, to be turned aside from the case before me. I believe it’s a blend of denial, cussedness, cowardice, and sheer uninterest. Plus, side trips along the roads of
Alcoholism
Xanax
Books
And, very rarely,
A woman.
I don’t know what I think I ought to know but fuck, I know my own act and it is a cocktail of sordid self-interest, self-doubt, and of course self-harm. That doesn’t make me bad so much as Irish. I fully intended focusing on Kelly, her connection to the C33 killings, but
Hurling.
The all-Ireland final
Between Galway and the maestros, Kilkenny. Christ, those cats are good. Galway hadn’t won the title in twenty-four years so we were, like,
Due?
The town was electric, wired even more than when the Volvo Ocean Race had its conclusion in our docks. The city was hopping, drinking, and anticipatory. Flags everywhere.
A draw.
A fucking draw.
Jesus, everyone hates that. You’ve to go through all the same crap again, like Tom Russell sang,
. . and go through all that shit again.
Precisely.
We had to wait three weeks with the pundits analyzing why the underdog (us) usually won on the rebound, as it were.
We didn’t.
Three fucking points and we were done for another year. Did we take it badly?
You fucking betcha.
Guy said to me,
“Great thing is, they are a young team, we’ve got time.”
What about me? Time? I can barely draw me breath.
My mobile shrilled. I snapped it up, rasped,
“Yeah?”
Heard a cultured voice.
“Hell of a way to answer your phone.”
The voice familiar but escaping me. I pushed,
“So?”
“This is Mr. Westbury, legal eagle.”
Fuck’s sake, mister.
They call themselves that and you can translate: prick.
Asked,
“Can I help you?”
He chuckled, then,
“It’s actually what I’m going to do for you.”
I sneered,
“Gee, I kind of doubt that.”
He wasn’t fazed, continued,
“Your buddy Stewart left a will.”
“You’re shitting me.”
Another chuckle, though of the incredulous variety, said,
“What a turn of phrase you have. Have you ever considered writing? They tell me mystery is the money spinner these days, and Lord knows, you talk in a disjointed fashion that might even pass for style.”
Hilary Mantel had just won the Man Booker for the second time with, would you believe,
Bringing Up the Bodies.
Serendipity?
The fuck cares?
I asked,
“Surely Stewart was too young to have made a will?”
He tut-tutted.
I swear to God. That an adult can actually do this is a source of constant astonishment to me. He said,
“Stewart was a conscientious young man and a shrewd entrepreneur. One feels making such a wise move would not have been a choice of yours, Mr. Taylor.”
Bollix.
I said,
“It’s the dilemma of who to leave my Zippo to that’s held me back.”
“Very droll I’m sure.”
I said,
“Much as I love schmoozing with you, is there a point?”
“Indeed, Stewart left you a considerable sum.”
I muttered,
“Jesus H. Really?”
He said, in the driest tone,
“Would I be. . shitting you?”
En route to Westbury’s office, I walked along Shop Street, the buskers and mimes in full and silent roar, respectively. One was attracting a lot of attention, made up like Mitt Romney. He’d a sign around his neck which read,
. . I pledge to nuke Iran.
One felt he’d keep his awful promise.
A band was playing The Fields of Athenry and, for any decent Irish person, the song has resonance but, when it’s their sole repertoire and you’ve heard it for the tenth time, you’re prepared to lay waste the bloody fields. I was not alone in my thinking, The government was introducing legislation that required buskers to have, and I kid you not,
At least twenty songs!
Like, who the fuck was going to enforce this? Some lone dumb Guard would have to stand there and, like,
Hear
Twenty awful Irish ballads.
He’d run screaming for duty in Lebanon.
Then I did a double take. Was I finally succumbing to all my excesses and hallucinating in broad daylight? I saw,
A Segway.
Those stand-up, slow mobile things that somebody thought were a grand idea. A lone Guard, self-conscious and mortified was. . cruising?. . along by Griffin’s Bakery to jeers and mockery from just about everyone, even, God help us, tourists.
The Guard said,
“Those are to be the latest weapon in the war against street crime.”
I mean, fucking seriously.
The street thugs are carrying everything from freaking Uzis to grenades and this lone eejit on his trusty Segway appears and does what? Shouts,
“Halt, or I shall pursue.”
Jesus.
A woman, not young, was outside Boots, singing One Day at a Time.
But almost inaudibly until
Until she hit the refrain, Lord help me Jesus,
And, man, she hit that sucker with all she’d got.
This was, collectively, Dante’s Irish edition of the Seventh Circle.
I got that sudden thirst that knows naught of rhyme nor race, stepped into Garavan’s. The owner was there, a good guy. He knew to leave you be until you got the first drink down.
He offered The Irish Independent with the pint; news and stout, the staples. Got half the black away and sat back, wished for a smoke, and, I swear, the guy beside me asked,