He reached in his coat, said,
“You’ll need something for the swan gig.”
Palmed me an object. I went to look and he said,
“Not here; put it in your pocket.”
I did, asked,
“What the hell is it?”
“A stun gun.”
“Feels like a cattle prod.”
“Same deal with a tad more voltage.”
“Aren’t they illegal?”
“Course they are, and should be.”
I didn’t think he’d bought it in Galway, said,
“Surely you didn’t bring that through Dublin Airport?”
He drained his glass, gave me a stone look, said,
“You can talk? A bloke who bought coke in.”
I was astonished, asked,
“How did you know?”
“I’m a cop, remember? You have a heavy habit going, it stands to reason.”
“You never said.”
“Hey, that’s your affair, crazy as it is. Trust me on this, Jack: that shit will bring you down.”
“Thanks for the tip. How does this stun thing work?”
“Point and push.”
“Is it effective?”
He gave a demonic laugh; heads turned at the sound. He said,
“Oh, yeah.”
Then a thought struck me. I asked,
“Wait a minute, you hadn’t planned on giving it to me, had you?”
“No.”
“So, Jesus, I mean, you carry it with you as a matter of course?”
“What’s your point, Jack?”
“This is Galway. What were you expecting?”
“Your town, boyo, where they behead swans, kill gypsies; you tell me.”
I’d no answer so asked,
“What else do you carry?”
He gave a big smile, said,
“Oh, I don’t think you want to know, not really.”
He was right.
I’d offered to see him off, but he was having none of it, said,
“No, I don’t do goodbyes.”
The end of the evening, we were standing outside Jury’s. I didn’t want to let him go. He said,
“You have that look, Jack, like you’re going to hug me or something.”
“Would I do that?”
“You’re Irish, so anything’s possible.”
I wanted to say “I’ll miss you” or something with a bit of weight. I settled for “Take care.” He seemed on the verge of emotion, too, but then he aimed a punch, said,
“Stay wired, Jack.”
And was gone. I felt a profound sense of loss, turned into Quay Street and began to walk. Four o’clock and the street was hopping. An African combo walloping the bejaysus out of bongos, then a new-ager playing air guitar. He caught my eye. I said,
“Good riff.”
“It’s for Oasis, man; they’re fucked.”
I’d gotten as far as Kenny’s when two guards approached. I nodded and one said,
“Empty out your pockets.”
“What?”
“You’re causing a disturbance.”
“You’re kidding. Look, there’s the United Nations of music down there and you’re hassling me?”
The second one did a quickstep and they had me pinned. I thought of the stun gun in my pocket and thought,
“I’m screwed.”
The first one leant in close, said,
“Superintendent Clancy says you’re to watch your step, Jack.”
Then he hit me in the kidneys, with a punch I’d delivered myself in my time. It is a bastard. Drops you like a stone; you can’t breathe with the pain. As they sauntered off, I wanted to shout,
“Is that your best shot?”
But I couldn’t manage the words.
Next morning, I examined the bruise in the mirror. As if a horse had kicked me. It was over a week since I’d done coke and my nerves were raw. Add the hangover to the list and I was but a shout from the mortuary. Heard a parcel come through the door. One of those padded envelopes. My name was typed, so that told me nothing. The postmark was Belfast. Moved over to the table and opened it slowly. Then, holding the bottom, shook it. A hand fell on the table. I staggered back against the sink, bile in my stomach. Tried to focus as my heart rip-roared against my chest. Looked again, then approached. It was plastic. A note on the palm read,
Need a hand, Jack?
Sweeper arrived at lunchtime, said,
“What happened to you?”
“The guards.”
“Now you know what it’s like.”
He’d bought sandwiches and a thermos of tea. I said,
“There’s tea here.”
“Tea bags, they’re shite.”
He laid the sandwiches out, said,
“Rhubarb.”
“In sandwiches! It’s a joke, right?”
“Try them, you’ll be surprised.”
“I’d be bloody amazed. No, thanks.”
He ate two rounds, wolfed them down. I said,
“Bryson’s gone.”
“Tell me what he looks like.”
I ran down the description. He said,
“We’ll find him.”
“How?”
“The clans are scattered all over.”
“He might be in England.”
“More of us there than here.”
“What if he didn’t do the murders?”
“Why did he run?”
“That’s a point.”
Sweeper stood, asked,
“How’s your English friend?”
“He’s gone.”
“You keep strange company, Jack Taylor.”
If there was a rebuttal to this, I didn’t have it. After he left, I tried to read:
“The wind had blown the summer flies away. God had forgotten his own.”
This was from Nelson Algren, The Man with the Golden Arm.
The phone went.
“Yes,”
“Jack, it’s Cathy.”
“Hi, Cathy.”
“Jeff is gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“He’s drinking.”
“Oh.”
“Did you know he hasn’t drunk for twenty years?”
“No.”
“Will you find him?”
“I will.”
“Promise, Jack.”
“I promise.”
Raymond Chandler in an essay, “The Simple Art of Murder”, wrote,
The modern detective is a relatively poor man or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.
These words were ringing in my ears as I set out to find Jeff. I went to Nestor’s. A guy behind the bar I’d never seen before. I asked for Cathy and he said,
“You’re Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“Go on up, she’s expecting you.”
She looked terrible, her face wrecked from crying. I gave her a hug, said,
“It will be OK, I’ll find him.”
“If anything happens to him, Jack…”
“It won’t. Where would he go?”
“I don’t know, I never knew him drinking. At least he didn’t take his bike.”
The bike was a Harley. Jeff had told me of his two passions, motorbikes and poetry. He’d showed me the bike, said,
“It’s a Soft Tail Custom.”
I’d nodded sagely as if it meant anything. I sat Cathy down, asked,
“What set him off?”
“People have been sympathising about our damaged baby.”
“Jesus.”
“I let him down, didn’t I, Jack?”
I was no good at this but had to try, said,
“He loves that little girl and you.”
“So why did he drink?”
I didn’t know, said,
“I don’t know.”
What I wanted to do was sleep for six months and wake up to good news. Asked,
“Who’s the guy behind the bar?”
“From an agency.”
“If you’re stuck, I could do a turn.”
She gave me the look and I said,
“Yea, right, I better get going.”
“Tell him I love him.”
“He knows that.”
“Does he?”
The rain was hammering down. As if it was personal. I tightened my all-weather coat and thought,
“Set a drunk to find a drunk.”
Made sense.
Trawled through the likely suspects first. Decided I’d have a drink in every second pub. If I hadn’t found him after ten pubs, I’d be beyond caring. Such was a plan, awful as it sounds. In fact, I did five pubs without a drink as nobody should willingly have to endure them. They were bright, noisy, expensive and hostile. I jostled through the crowds of Celtic tiger prosperity. Money had bought a whole new attitude, one of mercenary yahooism. It dawned on me that Jeff wouldn’t waste a hot minute in these places. He’d been a musician, so next I hit the series of music venues. Advertising “Craic agus Ceol”. Loosely translated, this spells cover charge. To enforce it, the microphone bouncers are on the doors. I said,