For a man of fearsome reputation, he had a slight frame. Slighter now. The skin on his face seemed stretched to burst. As if someone had applied an undercoat, then forgot to add the finish. His eyes, still granite, were deep set in his skull. A glass of fresh orange juice in an old style glass stood before him. Pips floated near the surface. He said,
“Jack.”
“Bill.”
“Take a seat.”
I did.
Up close and personal, he looked like an Aids victim. He said, without moving, to the barman, “Pint for Jack.”
I asked,
“Can I smoke?”
He gave a dry smile, said,
“Course.”
The ashtray was advertising Capstan Mild. I shook loose a red, fired up with the Zippo. Bill put out a skeletal hand, asked,
“Mind if I have a look?”
I passed it over. He hefted it in his palm, said,
“Bit o’ weight.”
“Yes.”
“Want to sell it?”
“It’s on loan.”
“Isn’t everything?”
The pint came. Probably among the better poured. I said,
“Sláinte.”
For one awful second I’d nearly said,
“Good health.”
Bill let me savour the moment, then,
“What do you want, Jack?”
“Help.”
He stared at his orange juice before saying,
“I heard you did a number on the Tiernans.”
“Not friends of yours, I hope?”
“If they were, you wouldn’t be sitting there.”
The barman leaned over, said,
“You’re wanted on the phone.”
“Not now.”
Then back to me.
“You’re running around town with a cop.”
“I am.”
“Jesus, Jack, an English one.”
“He’s part Irish.”
“Bollocks.”
The word shook his delicate body. I asked,
“Are you sick?”
“Liver cancer.”
“Oh, God.”
“I don’t think God had a lot to do with it. Blame Sell-afield, least it’s English. What kind of help had you in mind, Jack?”
“There’s a girl, named Laura Nealon.”
“I know the family.”
“I want her protected.”
“Who’s after her besides yourself?”
“An English guy, name of Ronald Bryson, works sometimes with the Simon.”
Bill was shaking his head.
“What is it with you and the English? You spent years planning to go to London, all the time, London ’s coming to you.”
“You have a point.”
“OK, Jack, you know how this works or you wouldn’t have come. I’ll arrange what you ask. But I don’t need to remind you, there’s no free lunch.”
“Meaning I owe you.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want?”
“Who knows? You’ll get a call asking for a favour. It’s not negotiable.”
“I know how it works.”
“Be sure you do, Jack.”
The interview was over. I stood up, asked,
“How’s your mother?”
“Dead, thanks.”
In 1987, a garda training committee, its report on probationer training, defined for the first time a philosophy for the modern garda. The citizen expected police officers:
To have the wisdom of Solomon, the courage of David, the strength of Samson, the patience of Job, the leadership of Moses, the kindness of the good Samaritan, the strategical training of Alexander, the faith of Daniel, the diplomacy of Lincoln, the tolerance of the carpenter of Nazareth and finally an intimate knowledge of every branch of the natural, biographical and social sciences.
If he had all these, he might be a good policeman.
Parts of that had swirled through my dreams, and I slept till noon the following day. I was deep whacked. All the events of the preceding days had found voice and cried,
“Enough.”
I’d left messages for Keegan, Laura, Sweeper. To Keegan to say, “Thanks.” To Laura to say, “Let’s go dancing.” To Sweeper to say, “Nearly there.” The three messages contained only two lies. Cokeless, I’d got into bed with a hot toddy and one of the books furnished by Keegan. Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye by Horace McCoy, a classic of noir, though McCoy was best known for They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Halfway through the drink I was asleep. At least all I was burning was a bulb.
I took a long shower, blasted away the cobwebs. A glance in the mirror. Time to trim my beard, managed it without a tremor, progress of the slanted variety. Fresh sweatshirt, new jeans, and I was cooking. Downstairs to an envelope. Recognised the handwriting: Kiki. A bit of weight so it was going to be comprehensive; coffee first. I was feeling good not stupid. Two slices of toast with sizzling strips of bacon. Or rashers, as I’d told Keegan. Put that away, poured second coffee, lit a red and breathed Kiki. Opened the letter.
Dear Jack
The term metaphysics does not always evoke the same idea in different minds. In some people, it gives rise to a feeling of aversion because for them it means vague speculations, uncontrollable assertions and a trespassing of the boundaries of reason which is more akin to poetry than talking. Others see just the opposite in metaphysics, namely an extraordinarily obstinate effort to think clearly and cogently. Would it help you, Jack, to know the origin of the term? Among Aristotle’s works there are a few short treatises concerned with what he calls first philosophy. These were united into a work of ten books, which, as is supposed, Andronicus of Rhodes in his edition of Aristotle’s works called La Meta Physic, because of their location after the physical treatises.
Is this clear to you, Jack?
Do be clear on this, I’m divorcing you.
Kiki
On the radio, Seamus Heaney is saying Ireland is chic. Keegan would agree, though his description might be a little more colourful.
I got a new case!
I was having a coffee in Nestor’s when a man approached.
“Mr Taylor, might I have a moment?”
“Sure, and it’s Jack.”
Another English accent. I hoped Bill didn’t get wind of it. He was about my age, with the air of an accountant, a heavily receding hairline and a face that just missed being interesting. He was dressed in jeans, and a heavy denim jacket. Said,
“I’m Michael Tate. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“No.”
“Or the GSF?”
“Nope.”
He seemed very put out, so I said,
“Tell me what it means?”
“The Galway Swan Foundation.”
“Oh.”
“It’s purely voluntary. We take care of the swans.”
“Great.”
“Have you been reading the Galway Advertiser?”
“Not attentively, no.”
“Someone is decapitating the swans.”
“Jesus.”
“The guards haven’t the time to mount an investigation. We heard you get results.”
“I don’t know. I…”
“Seven swans in two weeks. We will pay you, of course.”
“Where does it happen and when?”
“The early hours of the morning, in the Claddagh Basin.”
“Why don’t you rally your members, mount a continuous watch.”
He looked down at his shoes. A pair of brown brogues from Dunnes. I’d considered the very pair on my recent expedition. He said,
“The majority of our members are not in the first flush of youth, Mr Taylor. Even if we did as you suggest, the person who’s doing this…well, we’d be no match for such an individual…or worse, a gang.”
“When was the last attack?”
“A week ago. It’s usually a week between them.”
“OK, I’ll give it a go.”
He stood up, gave me an envelope.
“I hope this will be sufficent.”
After he’d gone, I opened the envelope. A single twenty pound note. I wanted to shout,
“The drinks are on me.”
I didn’t get to investigate that night. I’d halfways planned on buying some thermal gear, going down to the Claddagh in the early hours of the morning, but it got away from me. Laura had to cancel our evening, asking,