“Can we speak in front of her?”
Emily said,
“I’m his lover.”
Took him... and me... aback.
She smiled, added,
“In truth I’m his trophy wife. We have a love lust gig going. He loves me and I do the lust bit.”
He took a moment to rally, then,
“I thought you were a deadbeat, Jack, and then you take out the whole office on the docks, and the American bollix is in there.”
The fire I’d heard about on the docks, Jesus.
I said,
“Good grief, I didn’t do that.”
He winked, fucking winked, said,
“Smart.
Deny
Deny
Deny.”
I’m on that page.
“Needless to say, if the Guards ask, I can provide an alibi for you and there will be a sweet bonus in the mail. Payback is a lovely bitch.”
And he was gone.
I tried to get my mind around the office being burned and, worse, a man dead. I looked at Emily, said,
“I swear on my father’s grave...”
She held up a hand, said,
“I know you didn’t do it.”
I felt a giddy relief, stammered,
“Thanks. Thanks for believing in me.”
She gave a harsh laugh, said,
“Idiot, it’s not that I believe in you. It’s more that I set the fire.”
“Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love, they depart to teach us about loss. A new dog never replaces an old dog; it merely expands the heart. If you have loved many dogs, your heart is very big.”
(Erica Jong)
Back in the ’70s, I was stationed briefly in Dublin. I can still remember the first guy I saw wearing bell-bottom pants. Drugs were just becoming part of the culture and dopeheads were beginning to appear and get busted. Our directive was crystal clear.
Guys with long hair, fuck ’em.
And we did, with feeling.
Those months gave me a sense of the street that has saved me many times. I was fit from playing hurling and full of piss and vim. Drinking wild but then so was everybody else. Least anyone I knew. There was a legendary drug cop named Lugs Brannigan, out and about in the ’60s, he was the sort of man that Gene Hackman was born to play. October 2014, the first ever bio of him was published. He used his fists to settle most disputes and nobody seemed to think it was worth noting, but he got the job done. He never used a baton, opting for a pair of heavy black gloves, and would lash thugs across the face. This not only got their full attention but had the invaluable ingredient of shame.
Reprimanded once by a judge for his methods, he answered,
“Nothing like a belt in the mouth to stop their actions.”
The powers that be kept him to never more than sergeant rank. He had the best approval though. On his retirement, the working girls of Dublin gave him a set of Waterford crystal to say thank you for his protection from abusive men.
I was seeing a girl from Athlone named Rita Lyndsey. Her father was a fire chief so we were somewhat in the same territory. She had a head of gorgeous dark brown curls and I think I was well smitten. She loved to dance, I loved to drink and, when I drank, I could, um, like dancing.
The primo duty in those days was security for visiting rock bands and phew-oh, we got some heavy numbers in those days. Led Zep, the Stones, and even a flying visit from Black Sabbath. As a Guard, I was meant to listen to
Show bands
Country and western.
A duty on a concert by Taste introduced me to Rory Gallagher, and shortly afterward I caught Skid Row, the band that fired Phil Lynott. Gave me a lifelong admiration for guitar heroes. The last few years, I went on a binge of curiosity about what happened to all these guys and I read
Nick Kent
Nina Antonia
Mick Wall
Robert Greenslade
Philip Norman
For some weird unconnected reason, all this fire ran through my mind as I tried to grapple with Emily being the arsonist. Close to babbling,
I said,
“I don’t know which is worse: that you did it or that you didn’t and are claiming it.”
She said simply,
“They beat you up, I got payback.”
I tried,
“But a man is dead.”
She smiled, chilling in its simplicity, said,
“He was a piece of shit.”
“It’s better to spend money like there’s no tomorrow than to spend tonight like there’s no money.” (P. J. O’Rourke)
Park heard the doorbell sound again and now it had that impatient shrill. His mind was still in the white zone, letters tumbling around like confetti. He felt weightless and yet strung out. He opened the door.
A woman in a dark coat and a tall Guard behind her. Beyond her, he could see Garda vans and cars. He thought,
“Uh-oh.”
The woman flashed a warrant card and a formal-appearing sheet of paper. She barked,
“I’m Sergeant Ridge, and this here is a warrant to search your home. You are Parker Wilson, I presume?”
Park found all kinds of wrong in the way she formulated the statement and question. It was in the wrong order.
He asked,
“Shouldn’t you at least attempt civility?”
Then his mind flipped and he lunged at her, but halfheartedly. The ECT had weakened him so it was, at best, a feeble effort but sufficient for the tall Guard to push her aside and tackle Park, bring him down heavily with a severe blow to the back of the head. Add this to the gin and the shock treatment and Park was out.
Ridge muttered,
“Jesus.”
Guards were running toward the house and she got control, ordered,
“Get him in the van, and search this house top to bottom.”
She looked down at the limp form of Park. The Guard asked,
“Is it him, do you think?”
Ridge felt that tingle of greatness hovering, the opportunity to score big. She took a breath, managed a smile, said,
“He is certainly now a person of interest.”
The Guard, a recent convert to U.S. idiom, said,
“Fucking A, sister.”
“Complete sentences need a subject and a verb. Without these, they are known as fragments.”
A storm had been threatening the city for weeks. The government focused on this to lure us away from the horrors of the water charges but it wasn’t working. Large-scale marches of ordinary, decent people were increasing and the ministers scoffed. The leader of the Labour Party had been especially condescending about the protesters until
She was trapped in her car by them for over two hours.
Ebola continued to wreak havoc in Africa. Of course what do the powers that be do when they want to distract the public? Fall back on the old reliable scare:
... Bird flu.
Yeah, time to float that handy threat again.
In the European qualifiers after a wonderful draw with the world champion, Germany, we were beaten by a newly invigorated Scottish side. Bob Geldof resurrected the Band-Aid single with a whole new cast of young singers to help the Ebola-stricken countries.
George Bush brought out a book about his dad and wrote on his friendship with Clinton! Ireland decided it needed an Irish fiction laureate and drew up a list of the usual suspects that nobody read.
I was walking the pup along the prom when I met a slow-moving elderly man. He raised his cane, boomed,
“Well, I declare, Jack-een Taylor.”
There was no warmth in that, none at all. I didn’t recognize him but nothing new in that. He was one of those who didn’t see the pup. That was all I needed to know. I gave a terse,
“Hello”
Kept going.
But he wasn’t done, said,
“Getting very high and mighty, are we?”
I sighed, wondered if I should just get honest, slap him in the mouth, be done with it. I looked at him, said,