Not mum but this fake schmaltzy affectionate term. She managed to fast convert a grimace to a smile, said,
“I bought her a car.”
Before I could comment, she continued,
“Nice breezy little yellow convertible, the color to match her cowardly soul.”
Phew.
I tried,
“Convertible? Not so sure that is really how would I put it, an Irish car.”
“How astute, Jack. Turns out the brakes had been tampered with.”
What?
She gave her smile of utter innocence she kept for utter lies, said,
“Went off the road near Silverstrand, I so hope she got to see the beach before... She broke her back and um... her neck too, I think, but who’s keeping count, eh?”
Of all our failings, loss for words isn’t something we Irish can be accused of.
I was lost for words. She leaned over, touched my arm, said in a down-home tone,
“Don’t sweat it, big fellah.”
I wanted to strangle her. Finally, I tried,
“Why on God’s awful earth would you want to...”
Grasped for a word.
Got...
“... share
Such utter madness with me?”
She drained her drink, seemed intent on getting wasted in jig time, said,
“I like you, Jack, even though you broke into my apartment and I do want that golden gun returned. I like to hang with you.”
Jesus.
She continued,
“And if I hang, you’ll fucking hang right along with me.”
I saw another drink had materialized before me and I took a long draft, considered my position.
Three months at best until curtains and what was still left, dare I say, hanging? There was the boy, and the man molesting him, so I went for the darkness. I mean, if you have a tame psycho in tow, why not utilize her?
I told her about Stanley Reed and Daniel and that I had their address. She pounced, near shouted,
“Shit, let’s go waste the fucker now.”
Well, you couldn’t fault her enthusiasm. I said, in a measured tone,
“This one is personal. The guy kicked the living shite out of me and I kind of want to pay back.”
Payback.
Revenge.
Retaliation.
These were the walls within which she lived. She asked,
“What do you want me to do?”
Outlined the plan and she clapped her hands, said,
“I could go all Orphan Black?”
“Discretion is the key here.”
“Long as I get to dress up.”
Then she paused, took a look at me, asked,
“What’s different with you?”
She always had an uncanny ability to home in on things, so I went deflection, said,
“Must be cutting back on the booze.”
Shook her head, then,
“Like you have an air of resignation. I was going to say surrender but that’s not in the Taylor songbook.”
Hmm.
I asked,
“So you and the Doc not an item anymore?”
She clinked the rim of her glass against her top teeth, a very irritating sound, said,
“I was just mind-fucking him.”
“Why?”
She seemed genuinely puzzled at this, then,
“Because I could.”
I said,
“Kind of cold.”
She stood up, laid a wad of notes on the counter, said,
“He was a bore and, like, I gave the poor bollix a dash of color. Where’s the downside?”
“I think he feels a bit of a loser.”
She laughed, loudly, said,
“Jesus, he was always that. I just brought it into focus.”
We set our plan for the boy and man and I asked her, earnestly,
“Can I rely on you not to fuck this up?”
She laughed, said,
“Oh, fuckups. Surely you have the lock on that, Jackie-boy.”
She had a point.
Back at my apartment, being under a death date, I could afford to be, if not magnanimous, then at least courteous. I had a bottle of sour mash, not easy to find in Galway but at McCambridge’s, the shop where the remnants of Anglo-Irish still lingered, you could find almost any hooch, at a price.
When it was busy, it was not unlike Ascot.
Hooray Henrys
In their faux Barbour coats.
Horsey women with sunglasses perched on their heads.
Dodgy solicitors dodging their dodgier clients.
And the new impoverished frat boys, once billionaires on paper and now not able to rub tuppence on a mortgaged tombstone.
The manageress, a rarity in Irish young women — she had a real accent, not the pseudo fucked American of Valley girls. She greeted,
“Jack, howyah?”
Not entirely sure why but that made me feel as if there are actually some things I might miss alongside breathing.
Thus armed, I knocked on Doc’s door. Took a bang or three but finally he opened the door a crack. Muttered,
“I gave at the office.”
I pushed my way in, proclaiming,
“Your time of whinging is up. She dumped you, get over it.”
He looked...
... fucking dreadful.
Only women can pull off the worn dressing gown look. And certainly no man of my generation can, if you’ll pardon the pun, carry off a box of tissues.
It’s just fucking gay.
So shoot me, the PC brigade.
His unshaven face looked like somebody squatted in his face and had bested all eviction notices. Oddly, his apartment was immaculate. I had noticed this before with Em’s mother, the lethal drinking coupled with an obsessive need to keep outward things in order, as if the chaos of the mind might be tempered by a severity of order in the surroundings.
Or, fuck,
... maybe they were just tidy.
I proffered the bottle and he asked, his voice a croak, a sure sign the vocal cords are out of use,
“We’re going American?”
I said,
“Seems to work for the government.”
He went to the kitchen, brought back two heavy tumblers, said,
“Part of a wedding gift.”
I lamely went,
“Oh.”
Deep, eh?
He said,
“There were six but I smashed them to smithereens to accessorize my new existence.”
He poured the booze and, as I looked around to sit, I tried,
“I’m sorry about you and... Em.”
He knocked back the shot like a good un, sneered,
“Don’t be a prick. You’re not sorry, not one fucking bit. You think it’s good enough for an old codger to get stiffed.”
Jesus.
I said,
“Well, in that case, tough shit.”
And...
He laughed.
We sat glaring at each other for a minute, then he said, cold voice,
“If there is nothing else, I need to get back to staring out the window.”
I stood and tried to come up with something Dr. Phil might provide.
Nothing.
I moved to the door and said,
“Hang in there, summer is coming.”
Fuck.
He gave a grimace, said,
“I’ve reached the tunnel at the end of the light.”
I had asked Em to pose as a Child Services officer and, if she could, to leave Reed’s house with the child Daniel.
If anyone could, she was the best bet. Five the next evening, I waited outside the house that Stanley Reed rented with the boy. Sure enough, a black Audi rolled up and out marched Em.
Dressed in a dark power suit, carrying a heavy briefcase, her hair severely tied back, and her face like the wrath of God, she strode up to the door and banged loudly. Stan opened and she bulldozed her way past him. I lit a cig, settled in to wait, but, to my amazement, the door opened after ten minutes and out came Em, leading the boy, who looked bewildered. Stan was waving his arms and Em turned sharply on a heel, got right up to his face, and read some riot act