“Let me amend that. I sincerely hope he cannot swim.”
Father M called that evening and gave me the address of the rogue priest.
I said,
“Thank you.”
And got,
“Don’t bloody thank me, pay me.”
The blessings of the priesthood are a mystery to behold.
I told the pup about the thug I put in the water and, by the way he wagged his tail, I think he approved.
I watched Everest and was suitably impressed by Jason Clarke as Rob Hall. I ate some Irish stew with a tiny hint of Jay added and gave the pup some in his dish. He preferred a hint of Smithwick’s in his. When the storm hit on the mountain, he hid under the sofa, and if there had been room I might have joined him.
Frank Miller, the rogue priest, was staying in a hotel on Dominic Street, one of those new anonymous buildings that allowed short-term stays. And didn’t require a whole lot of ID. Money did the talking. There was a reception desk with a hostile guy reading a book, Spanish for Dummies. He had the book up high to discourage inquiries.
I was not discouraged, greeted,
“Hola, señor.”
He was not amused. I said,
“Basic greetings are at the very beginning of the book.”
He put the book aside and looked like he might punch me, snarled,
“What do you want, asshole?”
I said,
“Little manners would be good.”
I produced a wad of notes, said,
“Donde esta Frank Miller.”
He hesitated and I laid the notes on the counter, said,
“Mucho dinero.”
He grabbed them, said,
“Room 201.”
Up shabby stairs then knocked on 201. It opened almost immediately. Not sure what I was expecting, probably a whiskey refugee and old.
Neither.
Young guy, in his early thirties, long brown hair, bland face, dressed in gray tracksuit. Then I was falling backward from a punch. He was about to follow through with a kick but I grabbed that and flipped him, then, getting up, I dragged him by his hair into the room, kicked the door shut, said,
“Stay down or I will break your fucking neck.”
The introductions out of the way, I looked round the room.
Bare.
Thomas Merton would have been comfortable with it. I asked,
“Where is the book?”
Up close he didn’t seem as young though maybe being dragged by the hair ages you. He picked himself up, slowly, watching my boots carefully, asked,
“Are you working for the Church?”
I nearly laughed but went,
“I represent the private sector.”
He measured me, definitely found me wanting, but decided further tussle was wasted. Said,
“The book is gone.”
So I did what you do with a stubborn priest. I walloped him.
Twice.
Once to get his attention and the second because it plain felt good. He staggered back, moaned.
“I think you broke my nose.”
I said,
“Oh, it’s broken, all right. I can tell by the tilt but, you know, gives a touch of character to what is, let’s face it, a weak face.”
I swear, he nearly smiled but the pain in his face told him this was not wise. He said,
“From your accent and your whole black Irish face, you are probably Catholic. Didn’t they teach you it’s a sin to touch a priest?”
I laughed, said,
“Whoa, the clergy and touch? You really want to go there? Plus, the new teaching is that it’s a sin not to touch a priest.”
I gestured for him to stand and he moved to a hard back chair, settled with a sigh, said,
“There is no book. There were remnants of a manuscript but I burned it.”
I said,
“Now, that is not going to fly, padre. Why would you burn it if you went to the trouble of stealing it?”
He gave me the look that says,
“Lord, give me patience.”
Said,
“I was a high flier in the Vatican and the likes of you...”
Here, he gave me a look of such disdain,
Continued,
“Couldn’t even begin to imagine the power I had.”
I let the sheer arrogance of that hover, then,
“Had is the operative word. Now you are just a punk hiding out in a third-rate hotel.”
He nearly spat, said,
“You know nothing, you are... nothing.”
I said,
“Know this. There is a very powerful man who wants the book and I am, let’s say, the good cop.”
He wasn’t buying this, said,
“Run back to your employer and tell him to forget the whole thing.”
I stood, said,
“I could wallop you some more and, in truth, I would be glad to do so but I’ll pass along your message and,”
I headed for the door, added,
“May God have mercy on your soul.”
If this was supposed to intimidate him he hid it well.
“The red in The Red Book
Is a tomato color. Made from red lead.
The color lies on the top of the vellum
And in some cases,
Through old age, wear and tear,
Tiny pieces have flaked off
Leaving an impression of rough handling.
Despite the fading over the time
The red still has the power to impress.”
4
A few months back, I had been given a deadly medical diagnosis. Then, like so many cases in the country, they found it was mistaken and urged me to be reexamined.
Like,
Fucking right!
The governor calls and you get off death row, you’re going to go back, and ask,
“Please, may I have my death cell back?”
The Health Department was paying out small fortunes in compensation and the minister on TV daily saying,
“We deeply regret.”
Not a person in the whole country who believed the regret bit. You hear of people who get a second chance who proclaim,
“I could smell the roses.”
As the kids go,
“Like, really?”
In truth, Jameson never smelled so compelling.
A morning in late October, I was in Crowes in Bohermore, and telling Ollie, the owner, about the misdiagnosis. He went the very Irish route of
“Well, you look well on it.”
The double well implies they couldn’t really give a fuck... but appearances’ sake. A guy on the stool next to me, reading the Daily Mirror, said,
“You should sue.”
The new Irish pastime:
Litigation.
He was reading the sports section and added,
“Ferguson has a new book out.”
I nodded. Ferguson’s autobiography was the bestselling book in Ireland followed by One Direction, and I was interested, asked,
“More about Man U?”
He shook his head in disgust, said,
“It’s about how to succeed in life.”
We all shook our heads in unison, thinking Fergie had gone American.
Happens, even to the gifted. He said,
“Says that the two most powerful words in the English language are...”
Waited.
Ollie said,
“Love you.”
I tried,
“Pay me!”
He said,
“Well done.”
I finished my drink, headed out, was near assaulted by a woman collecting for a basketball court for the youth of Salthill.