“I have some good news for my mother.”
“You’re leaving town?”
“No, I got married.”
“What?”
“But she’s leaving town. In fact, she’s already gone.”
“You have a wife and she’s gone already?”
“In a nutshell.”
He flung the cig into the grotto, said,
“You’re stone mad.”
“But never boring, right, Malachy?”
“To hell with you.”
And he stomped off, I called,
“That’s not a blessing.”
A local woman, passing, said,
“Good on you. That fellah’s got too big for his boots.”
I said the prayer for Kiki, albeit a short one.
In Nestor’s, Jeff asked,
“Did you find her?”
“She’s gone.”
“Gone.”
“Back to London.”
“Jeez, Jack.”
“Where’s Cathy?”
“She’s angry with you. Give her a few days.”
He put up a pint, said,
“On the house.”
“Thanks, Jeff.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m meeting Keegan.”
“Who?”
“Detective Sergeant Keegan, London Metropolitan Police.”
“In London?”
“No, in The Quays, in about an hour.”
“Is it work?”
“He’s a piece of work.”
“Forget I asked, forget I asked anything.”
The sentry was in place and he glared. I asked,
“What?”
“I liked your missus.”
“Oh, God.”
Heading down Shop Street. It was cold, but that didn’t stop the street theatre. Muted. Dented but there. A juggler outside Eason’s, a busker at Griffin ’s bakery, a Charlie Chaplin near Feeney’s. A German couple asked,
“Where can we find the Krak?”
I waved my hands in the direction I’d walked, asked,
“What do you call that?”
The Quays was jammed. Above the tumult I could hear an English accent with,
“A hot toddy, love, and a pint of the black stuff.”
Who else could it be? Chaz, my Romanian friend, came out of the crowd before I could call Keegan, said,
“Remember the fiver I lent you yesterday?”
“No, Chaz, I lent you.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, but did you want another?”
“You’re the best, Jack.”
“Tell my wife.”
Keegan was wearing a white sweatshirt with the logo “Póg mo thóin”, bright red golf pants and a Blackpool souvenir hat which begged,
“Kiss me quick.”
He shouted,
“Jack Taylor, me best mate.”
Shoved a pint in my hand, said,
“There’s hot ones on the counter and drink, too.”
I thought,
“Am I up for this? Is anyone up for this?”
I asked,
“Where’s your luggage?”
“In Jury’s.”
“You booked in there? But I have a place.”
“Yea, that’s great, mate, but I might be shagging.”
Argue that. I went with the flow. Keegan is a force of nature, raw, ugly, powerful and unstoppable. There’s a nightclub on Eyre Square called Cuba. I don’t think there’s a Gaelic translation. Two o’clock, I’m there with Keegan and two women he’s cajoled. They appear to love him. He puts his arm round one, says,
“Jack, I love this country.”
“It sure loves you.”
“Too true, son; I’m a Fenian bastard.”
To hear that in an English accent is to have lived a very long time. The manager came over and I thought,
“Uh-oh.”
Wrong. It was to offer complimentary champagne. Keegan said,
“Bring it on, squire. We’ll have black pudding for breakfast.”
I’d resigned myself to the Twilight Zone. Over the next hour I told Keegan the events of the past weeks. He said,
“You mad bastard, I love you.”
Whatever else they label him, judgemental he wasn’t. He flashed a wad of notes at the girls, said,
“Trust my instincts, but you’d like sticky drinks with the umbrellas…am I right?”
He was and they adored him. He turned back to me, said,
“The dark-haired one, I want to ride the arse off that…OK?”
“Um…yes.”
“The quiet one, you have her, OK?”
“Thanks, I think.”
Then he got serious. All the yahoo-ism, vulgarity, the Hunter S. Thompson shenanigans dropped in a second. He said,
“Jack, I’m a good cop, only thing I can do, but the bastards are trying to get rid of me. Only a matter of time till they bounce me.”
“I’ve been there.”
“So, I’m only going to say one thing, mate.”
“OK.”
“Stick with the case. Nothing else matters.”
“I will.”
Then he clicked back to John Belushi, said to the girls,
“So, who wants to lick my face first?”
Next morning, opened my eyes, did a double take. A girl beside me. Last night came flooding back, at least as far as Cuba. She looked about sixteen. I moved the sheet, and oh fuck, she was naked. Jail bait. She stirred, woke and smiled, said,
“Hi.”
I’ve had worse beginnings. I answered,
“Hi, yourself.”
She cuddled into me, said,
“This is lovely.”
Then pulled back, said,
“Thank you for taking advantage.”
“Um…”
“You’re a real gent.”
Go figure. The heat from her was stirring me, and I said,
“Let me get some tea, toast.”
“Can we have breakfast in bed?”
“Course we can.”
“Jack, you’re the greatest.”
Out of bed, I was starkers. Bad idea. As beat up, as old as I am, nude doesn’t work. Grabbed a shirt and undies, and she said,
“You’re not in bad shape, you know.”
“Thanks, I think.”
Where was my hangover? I deserved a classic. Hadn’t hit yet. Downstairs, I found her handbag, went through it. Tissues, lighter, lipstick, keys, condoms. Jeez, these girls travelled ready. Her wallet with ID revealed her to be Laura Nealon, twenty-eight, and she worked in phone sales. A fresh pack of Benson & Hedges; I tore them open, got one primed. Did the breakfast stuff. Found a tray, it had the wedding of Diane and Charlie. I even located serviettes. Shunted that up the stairs. She said,
“Oh, Jack, a picnic.”
She patted the bed beside her. I declined and sat on the side. If she’d a hangover, it wasn’t showing. Ate that toast with vigour, asked,
“May I use the shower?”
“Of course.”
“Want to join me?”
“Ah, no, thanks.”
“You’re nice, Jack, I like you.”
Hard for me to get a handle on all this good energy. Man, I’m so used to grief. It’s familiar, almost comfortable. She returned, swathed in towels. I asked,
“Where did your friend go?”
“With Mr Keegan. She’s crazy about him. We were so lucky to hook up with you guys.”
I had to know, asked,
“Are you serious?”
“Completely. You wouldn’t believe the animals out there. I’m going to hang on to you, Jack.”
Then she was in my lap, doing things. Next thing, I’m having the blow job of my life. After, she asks,
“Was it good?”
“Brilliant.”
“I’ll make you happy, Jack, you’ll see.”
Heard the front door and thought,
“Oh, shit, Kiki’s back.”
Pulled my pants on and shuffled down. Sweeper was in the kitchen. I said,
“You’re going to have to pack in this coming and going as you please.”
“I rang the bell.”
“Oh, I must have been in the shower.”
Then he was looking behind me. I turned. Laura was there, in one of my shirts, said,
“Sorry, are my cigarettes here?”
Sweeper asked,
“Is this Kiki?”
“No…um, this is Laura.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I gave her the cigarettes, and she said,
“I better get ready, I’ll be late for work.”
When she’d gone upstairs, Sweeper asked,
“That’s not your wife?”
“No.”
“I see.”
But he didn’t and neither did I. I said,
“I’ve a definite lead.”
“Tell me.”
I did. He said,
“You’re going to see this Bryson, I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
We argued this for a while. Eventually he agreed and offered to give Laura a lift to work. I headed downtown. Went to the Vincent de Paul and bought a suit, sweater, shirts, jeans, blazer. Grand totaclass="underline" £35. The assistant said,