“No…um…she’s left me.”
“Jack.”
I had to know about her life, and even though I dreaded knowing, I asked,
“What about you, still seeing, um…?”
“Yes, we’ve set a date for June. You’ll have to come, promise you will.”
I don’t know what I said. I stumbled away, bumping into headstones, cursing, near weeping. On the side of the van, one of the kids had glow scratched,
“TINKER.”
“And you have held my hand for reasons not at all.”
I’d spoken on the phone with Laura. Went like this:
“Jack, I miss you.”
“Good Lord, that’s…”
“Will I see you?”
“Sure.”
“Because Keegan is seeing my friend, like totally. She’s going to try for his baby.”
“That’ll get his attention. Look, how about a meal tomorrow night?”
“You’ll bring me to a restaurant, really?”
Why did I keep feeling she was winding me up? As soon as I got eager, people would leap out shouting,
“Ejit!”
Keep it low gear.
“I’ll meet you at eight in Garavan’s; we’ll take it from there.”
“I’ll look really nice for you, Jack.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Had eased my way back from the daily intake of coke. This could only be a good thing. I went to bed early and seemed to only just have got to sleep when the phone rang. I checked the clock, four…went,
“This better be bloody vital.”
“Jack, did I wake you?”
“Who’s this?”
“Thought you’d be guzzling whiskey all night.”
“Bryson.”
“What happened to you calling me Ron? Ah, be friendly, Jack.”
“Was there something?”
Could hear playfulness in his voice, a languid tone.
“I wanted to fuck with you, Jack, like you did with me today.”
“You’re getting there, pal.”
“Been doing your homework on me, Jack?”
“Why…have you something to hide?”
“Am I like ‘the Prime Suspect’? You, alas, are no Helen Mirren.”
“Would you like that, Ron, being a suspect?”
“Don’t patronise me, you worthless piece of sodden garbage.”
“Whoa…got a hard on for drinkers…that it, Ron?”
“How dare you presume to analyse me. Think about this, Mr Private Dick…Ann Henderson.”
I caught my breath. He heard it, said,
“Give you a start, did I, Jack? Now you have some clue as to who you’re dealing with.”
I needed some points fast; needed a cig, too, but fucked if I could see them, said,
“I know who I’m dealing with all right.”
“Pray tell?”
This last in a falsetto.
“A sick fuck who jerks off against windows.”
“8B, Hidden Valley, have I that right, Jack?”
Got me again, continued,
“Maybe I’ll drop by, catch you unawares.”
“You threatening me, Ron? I don’t do threats well.”
“You’ll grow accustomed. Alas, I must grab some zzzzzs, an endless line of deadbeat drunks to fix tomorrow.”
“Fix?”
“Oh, yes, Jack, I fix them fine. You’ll see soon enough.”
Click.
Got out of bed cursing,
“Where’s the fucking cigarettes?”
I couldn’t get hold of Keegan next day as he was touring Connemara. God help them, I thought. Sweeper was defending his position as leader of his clan. Literally. Every so often, a young buck would challenge and they’d settle it bare knuckled. Venues were usually held round Mullingar and attracted huge crowds. The betting aspect was the magnet, and fortunes were wagered. Nobody can generate cash flow like the clans. The guards would be reliably informed as to time, date and location. They’d overreact and flood a totally incorrect part of the country. The media particularly relished it and gave prime time to guards stopping innocent motorists. I had promised to attend at a later time. Not altogether sure I would.
I arranged to meet Brendan Flood. He suggested Super-mac’s. I got there first and took a table. Sign of the new Ireland, two black men were cleaning tables. I made a point of saying “Hello” but seemed to frighten them. Jesus, wait till they saw what the pubs and clubs disgorged at four in the morning. Then they’d know fear. Both the guards and the taxi men avoided it during the war zone. Those guys know. Brendan arrived in a suit, remarkably similar to my own recent purchase. I said,
“They get the dry cleaning free.”
“Who?”
“Vincent de Paul.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a detective.”
He looked round, and I asked,
“Why meet here?”
“They do lovely curried chips.”
“Want some?”
“Oh, no. I gave them up for penance.”
I let it slide. Would only open up all that ecclesiastical mayhem. I passed over a wad of money, said,
“For the missions.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Ronald Bryson’s address and the times he’s out.”
He nodded, asked,
“You met with him?”
“I did.”
“Is he the one?”
“He’s the one.”
I took my mobile phone on the date. Rarely I took it anywhere. I need to get out more. When it rings, it puts the shite cross-ways in me, and I swear “never again”. Only Jeff, Sweeper and Keegan had the number. Gave me an artificial sense of control. Dressed to impress. Wore the now-creaking leather. One day of Galway rain would wipe them notions. A white shirt and soft-to-softer faded jeans. You put them on, your body sways to the music of thanks. The off-white colour between stone and disintegration. Then the Bally boots. Oh, Kiki.
Walking down the town, two guards were coming towards me. Their combined age might be twenty. I said in the Galway vernacular,
“Min.”
They said,
“Sir.”
How old was that?
Garavan’s was hopping nicely. Old Galway still prowls there. A school friend said,
“Jack.”
I said,
“Liam.”
No more. Irish warmth at its best; that is, completely understated. Works for me. Laura was sitting at the back, stood up to greet me. Wearing what can only be called a slip. It revealed everything. She did a twirl. I said,
“Wow!”
“It’s a wow?”
“And more.”
I wondered, if she sat, where would the dress go. She said,
“It’s called a sheath.”
“I’m not going to argue that.”
I’d have said hankie, but there you go. She smelled great, so I told her. She said,
“It’s Paris.”
“It certainly is. What will you drink?”
“ Metz.”
I thought she was kidding, asked,
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I always have that.”
“It’s what the winos drink, 100 proof.”
She was lost, said,
“It comes in a silver bottle, with schnapps and orange, says Metz in black letters.”
“Oh.”
Feeling a horse’s ass, I went to the counter. Shelves of the stuff alongside all the other alcopops. Frigging evil it is. Came back with that and a pint, asked,
“Do you need a glass?”
“Oh, God, no.”
In my youth, you drank from the bottle ’cause there were no glasses. The mobile went. I wasn’t going to answer, but what if Sweeper was hurt? It was Jeff; he had hurt in his voice.
“Jack.”
“Jeff, how’s it going?”
“Cathy’s had the baby.”
“Oh, great. Is she OK?”
“I don’t know. Could you come?”
“On my way.”
Told Laura. She asked,
“Boy or girl?”
“Um…”
“What weight?”
“Um…”
“Jack.”
“Jeez, Laura, these are women questions; guys never think to ask.”
Leastways not any I knew.
She said,
“You better go.”
“What about you?”
“Can I wait in Hidden Valley?”
“Course.”
I gave her the keys. She spotted the miraculous medal, asked,
“Do you have a devotion to Our Lady?”
Irish women, they’ll kill you every time. They juggle a mix of blunt-nosed reality and a melting simplicity. Just when you’ve them figured, they blow you away. I said, “Jeff gave it to me.”