“You might need to contact a lawyer.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Miller was found dead and we know from a hotel receptionist that you were his last visitor.”
“How did he die?”
“Violently.”
God almighty.
As she left, she said,
“Looks like you are screwed this time, Taylor.”
The young guy glared at me, said,
“I am looking forward to having you down the station.”
I gave him a caring smile, said,
“Go with God, my son.”
Later that day, I met with one of the few remaining Guards who would talk to me. Owen Daglish.
We met in Naughton’s on Quay Street, now a hubbub of hen and stag parties. I remembered when this was a dead street with nothing but a pawnshop. Owen looked seriously hungover, as he had done for the past ten years. Not so much one episode but the very box set of hangovers. He said,
“I’m dying here, Jack.”
He had the serious cure, double hot whiskey and pint chaser, a heated boilermaker, if you will. I stayed on the cold Jay. Never ceases me to observe the cure occur. Owen gulped down the toddy, exclaiming,
Oh, sweet Jesus, let it stay down.
No.
Oops.
Fuck.
Yes, maybe.
And then it hit, his face got the glow, the sweat evaporated, the shakes disappeared, he sat up straight, looking for fight, as they say. He literally sprang from the stool, urged,
“Come on, cig time.”
Definitely on the mend if you want a cig. Outside it was cold and we huddled like lepers with the other wretched smokers but with a defiant air of camaraderie.
Owen lit a Major, the serious nicotine route, drew in some lethal amount, then on the exhale said,
“I had to go to the wall on this request of yours, Jack.”
Meaning it would cost me.
Dear.
I handed him a wad of notes and, for a moment, seemed he might count it. Caught my look and put it fast in his jacket, said,
“This is a bad business mate. That poor bastard Miller? Whoever did for him, it was vicious, beat the poor whore for a time before killing him, shoved pages of a book in his mouth so forcibly that it crushed his tongue.”
I felt a shiver, asked,
“A book?”
Back inside, he signaled for a refill, the cure coursing through his system and, of course, screaming for more. Then,
“Yeah, some pages in, get this, Latin!”
Oh, fuck.
Before I could ask, he added,
“A priest translated it.”
“Whoa, what was a priest doing at a crime scene?”
He gave me a look of
“Yah dumb fuck.”
Said,
“He was still alive for a time and the priest was called for the last rites.”
He got the fresh drink, said slyly,
“Translation costs extra.”
I reached for more cash, slid it across with bad grace, thinking,
Hope it chokes you.
He tried to chill the situation. Said,
“Next round is on me, pal.”
Nervous though.
I snarled,
“The translation?”
“Oh, right, I have it written down.”
A crumpled piece of paper, then a big show of getting his reading glasses, then read,
“Hic est diabolized.”
Waited.
I near spat.
“The fuck does that mean?”
He waited a beat, then,
“He is demonized.”
Woodrow Wilson said, “The hyphen is un-American.”
Fleur de peau
Sensitive to anything that touches his skin
7
Time to go and see my boss. He would not be too thrilled that I failed to procure The Red Book. The fact that Frank Miller was dead and apparently with pages of said tome shoved down his throat. Would it cut any ice?
Would it fuck.
From my previous meeting with the great man, I knew he only understood results. Plus, I hadn’t shown up for the security job, figuring I was already working on something for him. I asked Doc to mind the pup while I was thus engaged. Doc was busy in preparation for Everest. I hadn’t yet asked him if I could come along.
I mean,
Here I was,
A drunk,
Xanax popping,
Two fingers mutilated,
A limp,
A hearing aid,
Dodgy health prognosis,
Recent wanna-be suicide.
Who wouldn’t want to climb the highest mountain with me? He had in his time summited
K2.
Annapurna.
McKinley.
Kilimanjaro.
Failed to reach the top of the North Face of the Eiger. I asked,
“You picked your team yet for the climb?”
He looked fit after a few difficult months and the mountain enterprise seemed to have rejuvenated him. He said,
“My old sergeant was first choice but he got a job as security consultant in Iraq so he’s out.”
Then he added,
“You are tied on a short rope to a guy on the most dangerous terrain on the planet, you need to know he’s the guy.”
I nearly said,
Better than a short fuse.
But for once my smart mouth did the right thing and shut the fuck up. I ventured,
“You know if you need a person to keep track of the provisions, like a manager at base camp, I could handle that.”
He stared at me for a moment then burst out laughing, managed,
“You!”
He was truly shocked, said,
“You can hardly climb the stairs.”
I was now late to meet with my boss and a rage was beginning to leak all over my being. I said,
“I don’t think I’m that bad.”
He nodded, said,
“You’re right. In fact you are way worse.”
Now he was shaking his head with the sheer incredulity of it. I said,
“You know what? Go fuck yourself.”
I strode off, the pup in tow, and he shouted,
“Jack, don’t you want to leave the dog with me?”
I threw back,
“I’d rather drown him.”
So, okay, a tad petulant, not to mention... the drama.
Sister Maeve, one of my few remaining friends. A nun as scarce ally, go figure. I had helped her in a small way many years before but she seemed to place a huge debt of gratitude to me. Was I going to dissuade her?
Was I fuck?
She was like the point man for her convent. She lived in the outside world and managed the lines of communication between the enclosed community and life. They chose the right front person. She exuded a warmth that was as natural as it was rare. She dressed in gray and one touch of color, a silk scarf I had given her. She lived in a small house on St. Frances Lane. But a decade of the rosary from the Abbey Church. I didn’t go empty-handed, stopped off at McCambridge’s to get goodies. She opened the door, greeted me with a tight hug, and the pup was delighted to see her. I handed over the clutch of goodies and she said,
“Oh, you didn’t need to do that, Mr. Taylor.”
“Jack.”
I left the pup with her and, several hours late, headed off to report to
Alexander
Knox
-
Keaton.
Yet again I marveled at the sheer impressiveness of that name. Name like that, it was preordained you’d be CEO material. Dish washing wasn’t really in the cards.
I was ushered into his office with no fanfare, just glares of cold hostility from his bodyguards. I was anticipating him being