“Like, seriously?”
Even in my head, it echoed of the U.S. He asked,
“Have we a deal?”
I considered my choices and went for the brazen lie, said,
“Sure, we have a deal.”
The gun was slowly eased into his jacket. He moved toward the door, said,
“I won’t be seeing you, then.”
I nodded.
I waited a beat until he was well gone. I circled the envelope with my fingers, wondering what revelations awaited.
There were four black-and-white prints, A4 size so there was no mistaking the players.
I felt I’d been gut punched, let out a wail of
“Oh, God, no.”
Never made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
Violently.
I sank down on the carpet, muttering,
“Sweet Jesus.”
A pity plea or a prayer?
Does it even matter?
If the past
Is
Another country
Why
Am
I
Held
At the border?
28
To come cap in hand!
In Ireland, that translates as
Begging,
With a suitable amount of groveling and humiliation.
As a nation, we know it all too well.
I said the words aloud as I prepared to meet Anne Henderson.
At the mediocre time of six o’clock.
The time that says,
“You don’t really count.”
In many ways, it was always six o’clock in my life.
’Tis sad but true.
I wore a crisp white shirt with a tie I nicked off a Rotary bollix. My newish 501s, and the scuffed Doc Martens. You never knew when you might need to kick someone in the face.
My Garda jacket, and if I had any cologne I’d have splashed that liberally but, lacking it, I would just have to rely on my old-school charm.
Emphasis on old.
I headed to the Meryck Hotel to meet the former love of my life and is there a sadder sentence than that? There was no rain but the air was heavy, oppressive. The doorman at the hotel, greeted,
“Well, well, the bold Jack Taylor!”
I said,
“At least you didn’t say you heard I was dead.”
Which was more than a frequent greeting. He looked slightly abashed, said,
“I did hear that but I didn’t like to say for fear it isn’t true.”
If that statement makes sense to you, you officially have an Irish mentality.
I took a seat at the rear of the hotel and waited. She arrived suitably late, dressed, if not to impress, then at least to warrant notice. Light navy raincoat over white sweater and blue jeans, flat-soled shoes.
I didn’t merit heels.
She went to bestow one of those air kisses on me and I snapped,
“Seriously?”
She sat with a very small sigh. Like,
“If I had a euro for every cranky man.”
She said,
“You look well, Jack.”
I didn’t return the compliment, asked,
“Are you familiar with the expression cap in hand?”
Stopped her.
Then her face got that peevish expression that screams,
“The fuck is it now?”
She said,
“Jack, I never understood half of what you were muttering about.”
Muttering!
Nice.
I said,
“Thanks for feeling you could share that but, back to the topic, it means to beg.”
She threw her hands up, said,
“Whatever.”
I gave her my second best smile, the one that is driven by malice.
I said,
“You never thought much of my work as an investigator.”
She didn’t leap in, protesting, in fact she said nothing.
The old silent assention.
Never no mind.
I continued in a very quiet, almost soothing tone,
“But what if I know what you want to tell me and...”
Big dramatic pause.
“Might even have the actual help you wish to get?”
She was stunned but disbelieving.
Said,
“I think that would be highly unlikely.”
The waitress came, adding to the nice air of tension, building mightily.
I ordered a Jameson, and Anne, almost desperately, a vodka and slimline tonic.
She went to ask me something and, very annoyingly, I made the shush gesture, let the drinks arrive.
They did.
And she gulped down the vodka without the tonic, slimline or otherwise. I said, sipping at my Jay,
“The rehab centers say more and more women are showing up. They call it the wine factor or indeed perhaps the whine factor.”
She was not amused, snapped,
“Get to it.”
I said,
“You were sleeping with Superintendent Clancy, photos were taken, and said photos now jeopardize his chance to become the police commissioner.”
She was stunned.
I asked,
“Did I miss anything? He sure has a fat arse.”
She did that new gig, crying without tears. You see it on reality TV. She whispered something I couldn’t decipher but I guess it wasn’t So sorry, Jack.
I asked,
“Is that you saying amazing job?”
She sniffled some more, then,
“What do I have to do?”
I could have been nasty, said,
“A blow job for openers.”
I did say,
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
She grasped at this tiny straw, said,
“Oh, Jack, thank you.”
I let that false gratitude hover a wee while, then,
“But Clancy, he has to do something.”
Suspicious,
And more than a little angry, she asked,
“What had you in mind?”
I said,
“To come to me, cap in hand.”
I prompted,
“You do recall at the beginning of our tête-à-tête I explained that expression?”
She gave a deep sigh, eerily reminiscent of my late mother and, God knows, that bitch could sigh for Ireland. She said,
“What does that actually mean in this case?”
I gave her a warm smile, no real warmth but lots of patience. I said,
“He puts on his dress uniform, comes to my door, knocks...”
I paused and, very annoyingly, made the gesture of knocking. Continued.
“Then he whips off his ceremonial hat and, bingo, done deal.”
She stood up, adjusted her coat, gave me a tight cold smile, asked,
“Anything else?”
I acted like I gave it some serious consideration, said,
“Tell him to grovel a little.”
“It’s not that the Irish
Are cynical.
It’s simply that they have a wonderful
Lack of respect
For everything and everybody.”
29
Clancy waited two days before he showed up. Early evening, a short knock at my door.
Solid, authoritative.
I let him simmer then opened the door. He wasn’t in uniform. I gave him a look of perplexity, asked,
“Help you?”
He gave a grunt of barely suppressed rage, said,
“Not a time for your usual bullshit.”
And brushed past me.
I weighed my options:
Scream obscenities,
Throw him out,
Shoot him?
Much as I liked the third one, I closed the door, said,
“How have you been?”