“Mrs Boyle?”
She gave me a long focused look, said,
“Yes.”
“I’m a friend of your husband’s.”
“Were.”
“Excuse me?”
“Wrong tense, he’s dead.”
“Oh... I am sorry.”
“Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I followed her, noticing how her arse bounced. I felt a tiny stir of interest. The house was ablaze with paintings. I don’t know were they any good, but they had the sheen of wealth. Led me into a sitting room, all dark wood. A bay window opened out to a large garden. She said,
“Have a seat.”
I sank into a well-worn chair, tried to get my mind in gear. She asked,
“Like a drink?”
“Some water, perhaps?”
She had moved to a full bar, now cocked a hip, said,
“I would have taken you for a drinking man.”
She managed to coat the taken with a sexual undertone. I loosened the tie, said,
“Used to be.”
She said,
“Ah... I’m going to have a screwdriver.”
“What?”
“Vodka and OJ. This time of the day, it cuts the glare.”
“I believe you.”
She rubbed at her arms a few times. I knew the burn from speed could do that. Watched as she fixed the drink. She had the quick movements of the practised drinker. Held up the bottle, said,
“Stoli.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”
“You watch movies?”
“Sure.”
“You see the likes of Julia Roberts, she orders a drink, it’s going to be Stoli on the rocks.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
She gave a vague smile, not related to humour. Chucked some ice in the glass, then poured the vodka freely. One of my favourite sounds has always been the clash of ice in a drink. But to a dry alcoholic, it’s akin to the torment of hell, a signal to despair. She asked,
“How did you know Frank?”
So distracted was I, I’d no idea who she meant till she added,
“My husband... the friend you’ve called to see.”
“Oh, right... we, um... go way back.”
She nodded, let the rim of the glass tap against her teeth, a grating noise. She said,
“Ah, you must have been at Clongowes with him.”
I clutched at the lifeline, agreed,
“Yeah, exactly.”
She moved over to the sofa, settled herself, let her skirt ride up along her thigh, said,
“Wrong answer, fellah.”
“Excuse me?”
“Frank didn’t go to Clongowes.”
She didn’t appear unduly concerned, moved to the bar, added a splash of vodka, I took a deep breath, said,
“You got me.”
She gave a tiny smile, asked,
“But who is it I’ve got?”
“Jack Taylor.”
“Like that’s supposed to mean something.”
“I’m been paid to check you out.”
A slight raising of her eyebrows and,
“For what?”
“See if you killed your husband.”
“You’re fucking kidding!”
The curse rolling off her tongue easily, then it hit and she said,
“Terry, that little faggot.”
I nodded and she said,
“Jeez, you’re not too big on client confidentiality.”
I stood up, said,
“So, did you do it?”
“Gimme a break.”
“That’s a no.”
I moved towards the door, and she said,
“You have some neck, just call and ask me if I killed my husband.”
“It’s direct.”
She laughed, said,
“You have a phone number, if I decide to confess?”
“Bailey’s Hotel.”
“That’s where you live?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Jack Taylor, you might not be very good at your job, but you have a certain style.”
I’d reached the front door when she added,
“You decide to go back on the booze, give me a call.”
I gave her my best blank look, as if I’d no idea what she meant. She gave a nasty smile, said,
“I know the signs, and believe me, you’ll be back sooner than you think. It’s not really if you’ll drink, only when.”
“Screw you, lady.”
“You wish.”
And she banged the door in my face. I hated that she was right on both counts.
“I loved my friends so much I was in love with them, wanted them to be in love
with me. But since life isn’t like that, this completely shafted any chance of a
significant relationship for longer than I care to think about.”
The following Monday, a second year student got a cappuccino from the deli. It was one of those crisp fine days, not a cloud in the sky. You could almost touch hope in the air. People’s spirits lightened and you’d get a howyah, a smile from strangers.
That kind of day.
The student sat on a bench at the Square, sipped at the coffee. A stray wino would approach and ask for
“Price of a cup of tea, sur.”
But it wasn’t a serious beg, more from habit than necessity. No intimidation in it. Two non-Europeans asked for directions to Social Security. At noon, the bells rang for the Angelus. Down near the Great Southern, two workmen stopped their labours and blessed themselves. That is a rare sight. Not that they ceased working but that they observed the Angelus.
Around 12.15 p.m., a man approached, stood for a second behind the student. Then he took out a gun, put it to the base of the student’s head and pulled the trigger. He then turned on his heel and walked towards the top of the Square... and dis-appeared.
As he walked away, he threw the wrapper from his Juicy Fruit on the road.
The guards weren’t appealing for witnesses. They had far too many.
All contradictory.
Descriptions ranged from, tall, short, fat, thin.
He had, variously, long hair, black hair, no hair.
Was wearing, a suit, leather jacket, wax jacket, raincoat.
But definitely, old, young, middle-aged.
A photofit issued fit half the male population and wasn’t dissimilar to a few women.
Superintendent Clancy intoned,
“This is a horrendous, heinous crime. The gardai will not cease until the perpetrator is apprehended.”
He rambled on about lawlessness, a crisis in society, drugs and a range of vaguely related topics.
Concluded with,
“The gardai are pursuing a definite line of inquiry.”
In other words, they had zilch.
I had gone to ground with a book.
Here’s the lengthy title:
Movie Wars: How Hollywood and the media conspire to limit what films we can see.
By Jonathan Rosenbaum.
I was well into it, had almost forgotten how badly I wanted a drink. The phone went. I picked up, said,
“Yeah.”
“Jack, it’s Bill.”
“Hi, Bill.”
“I’m calling for a progress report.”
“Oh.”
“So, what progress?”
“Inquiries are in hand.”
Bitter laugh, then,
“You sound like a guard.”
“Old habits, eh?”
“Except I don’t want to hear that shite.”
“It takes time, Bill.”
“And who told you to involve that religious fuck, Flood?”
“Nobody told me. You want to find someone, he’s the best.”
“I’m telling you, keep him the fuck outa my affairs.”
I was getting tired of this, said,