Headstone (10 page)

already way past her simmer date, asked,

“What?”

To her horror, she noticed he was wearing his

riding breeches as he strode to the BMW. He

stopped, said,

“We’ll discuss this at home. I had to pull a lot of

strings to save your pathetic career.”

She almost ran up to him, got right in his

aristocratic face, said,

“Pull this.”

Instead yanked the cravat from his neck.

He was about to protest when she said,

“One fucking word, just one, and I’ll make you eat

this piece of rubbish.”

Turned on her heel and walked towards the city

center.

She had to stop at the Wolfe Tone Bridge as she

realized her whole world was going down the

toilet.

She fumbled for her mobile, her hands shaking,

called Stewart.

No frills, she begged,

“Can I stay with you for a few days?”

If he was fazed, he didn’t sound it. Then, nothing

ever seemed to get to him. He said,

“A Garda in my house, fantastic.”

One of the reasons she loved him, he never, never

asked,

“Why?”

You find a friend like that, you’re freaking gold.

That a convicted drug dealer and a Garda were

tight was a conundrum neither analyzed. Jack had

brought them together but even he never expected

they would form a separate peace. They did share

one quality, an indefinable regard for the train

wreck he was. Both, in their separate ways, felt

they might yet save him. When Ridge had begun her

martial arts program, Stewart had encouraged her,

offering Zen wisdom to beat the wall of pain. Jack,

of course, true to form, on hearing of her

enterprise, muttered,

“I’ll rely on my hurley.”

When Ridge arrived at Stewart’s house, he already

had a room prepared. His home was on the edge of

Cooke’s Corner. But a postmortem away from the

fish shop where a body had been found in the

freezer, and had been there for many years. Of

course, the local wits had a field day, the very

least of which was, “………………...Ah, he was

always a cold fish.”

Mafia jokes too, of course, not so much sleeping

with the fishes as being on ice with them.

Stewart was dressed in a silk kimono, black with

gold dragons. It should have looked ridiculous,

like Hefner on ludes. But his smooth, lithe

movements, his air of total calm, carried it off . He

hugged her and she nearly broke down. How long

since anyone had done that and truly meant it. She

could feel the easy strength of his body. He

released her, said,

“Tea’s on the pot, toast ready to pop, and my

special omelet is just the right tone of crisp and

delicious.”

He ordered her to sit, served them both breakfast,

commanding,

“Eat first, talk after.”

She asked,

“Is that Zen?”

He smiled, said,

“No, that’s hunger.”

The omelet was heaven, laced with a hint of a

spice. She gasped,

“God, this is good.”

He said,

“And not a magic mushroom in the mix.”

Finished, they sat back, sipped the Darjeeling tea,

and he told her about the new player, Mason, the

official PI. She said she would run a background

check, adding ruefully,

“If I’m still allowed to use the computer at work.”

Stewart wasn’t big on self-pity and asked about the

attack on her.

He considered, moved into a lotus position on the

chair, said, “First Malachy, then a handicapped

man murdered, and now you. And one of your

attackers referring to your sexual orientation.”

She asked,

“You think they’re connected?”

He wasn’t sure, said,

“Sometimes, you need Jack’s crazy view on things.

He sees weird patterns that a normal person would

miss.”

Ridge nearly smiled. Whatever else, Jack would

never be condemned as normal. She asked,

“Where is he? Do you think he’s gone on one of

those biblical benders?”

Stewart never replied instantly, took all the factors

into account, then,

“A ferocious lash, no. He’s drinking, sure, but not

in his usual blitzkrieg blaze. Laura, the American

woman, is due soon and I sincerely believe he has

feelings for her. I’m almost afraid to voice it but I

think he’s close to happy.”

Ridge tried to envisage such a concept, said,

“Jack and happy in the same sentence?”

Stewart didn’t reply to this, moved like a cat from

the chair, offering more tea, and Ridge confided,

“One of my greatest fears is going to his apartment

and finding he’s choked on his own vomit.”

Stewart stopped in mid-stride. He’d imagined that

very scenario more times than he’d ever admit.

Torture should be inflicted as though

completely disinterested.

No more than a procedure to be

carried through to its brutal

conclusion.

—Ex-freedom fighter [
sic
]

I cringe when I think how easy they took me. Am I

ashamed.

You betcha.

Mortified, in fact. Worse, it made me vulnerable,

the worst sensation in the world when all you’ve

got to protect yerself is…………yerself. Thing is,

I’d been busy, oh fuck, like a banshee on a mission.

Flush on my result from Loyola’s housekeeper, I’d

nicked the photo of the cottage and muttered

inanities

about

later

visits.

She

seemed

bewildered. Not my problem, least not then. I

headed for Monroe’s at the end of Dominick

Street. Huge place with the great asset of quiet

corners. I ordered a Jay, Guinness black. Settled in

to savor my triumph. I pulled the photo from the

frame and bingo, all me ships coming in, the

address was on the back.

Just outside Oughterard. I knew beyond a shadow

of a tinker’s doubt he’d be there. The loving way

the housekeeper had glanced at it, he was there. I

drained the Jay in one burst of elation.

Told meself,

“You’ve still got the moves son.”

A hefty draft of the black and I was flying.

…………………………..in the face of God?

As the old people say.

I was as close to delighted as I’d been since

Galway won three All Irelands in a row.

Glory days.

I was having me some now.

Muttered,

“I found him, Jesus wept, I did it, cracked the case.

This meant a serious bonus from the lizard Gabriel

and Laura was due real soon. I could afford to

have the apartment professionally cleaned.” My

mobile shrilled, I signaled to the barman for the

same again, answered,

“Yeah?”

“Jack, it’s Stewart.”

“How’s it going buddy?”

Stopped him, then,

“You sound very . . . chipper.”

Chipper?

People actually used this outside British sitcoms?

I said,

“Laura’s arriving in jig time and . . . I cracked a

major case.”

His voice quickened,

“You found who mugged Malachy?”

Malachy, Christ, I’d forgotten all about him. I said,

“No, but a case with a nice lump of change.”

Silence.

I figured he wasn’t counting my blessings. Then he

said,

“Malachy too poor to count?”

Sarcasm leaking all over the words.

I was fucked if I’d let him puncture my balloon.

Said, with total ice,

“Don’t lecture me pal.”

And God forgive me,

added,

“You weren’t so damn righteous when you came to

me whining about your dead sister.”

I regretted it instantly, knew how horrendous it

was. I can’t excuse it, was a low cheap wounding

shot. Blame my state of euphoria.

He sounded as maimed as I’d anticipated, said,

“I called to tell you that I’d been checking on

Ronan Wall’s sister.”

Another case that had dropped way down on my

priorities. As I fumbled for a way to erase or stem

the pain, he said,

“Ronan Wall is an only child.”

But Bethany, the Goth girl I’d met?

I said,

“What?”

“He doesn’t have a sister.”

Clicked off.

I worked on my second pint, considered calling

him back to say . . . what?

Instead, I used my mobile to get Directory

Enquiries, got them to connect me to the best pub in

Oughterard. It rang a bit, then a gruff voice

answered.

I said,

“Liam, it’s Jack Taylor.”

Another ex-Guard, took early retirement, bought a

pub/restaurant, we have some history, most of it

fairly good. He needed a moment, then,

“By the holy, Jack Taylor. I was beginning to think

you were a rumor running round as a fact.”

You don’t have to be Irish to decipher that, though

it helps to remove logic from such conversations. I

asked,

“How’s biz?”

He sighed, said,

“Sweet Jesus, bollixed. The usual crop of

Christmas parties, and they bring in major cash,

would usually be booking now but they’re scarcer

than a politician with the truth.”

I didn’t sympathize. That would be as much help to

him as an audit. I said,

“A lady friend and I were hoping to have dinner

there this Saturday.”

Jesus, it felt odd to say that, strange and wondrous.

To be, in fact, no longer singular. He laughed,

astonished, said,

“There must be a rib broke in the devil. Jack

Taylor finally hooked.”

Now for the lure, I said,

“I was hoping to introduce her to Loyola”

(deliberately omitting the Father; get that hands-on

friendship gig going).

He paused.

Few are as loyal as an ex-Guard and especially

when they are protecting a disgraced priest. Our

history was riddled with such precedents.

Carefully, he asked,

“You know him?”

Time to kick for the sympathy/guilt trip, said,

“When my poor mother passed, may she rest in

peace, he was a tower of strength, arranged

everything. I don’t know how I’d have got through

without him.”

Dumb fuck bought it.

Nothing like

priests,

dead mothers,

and guilt

to shake the bastards.

He flustered,

“Jack, I meant to get to the funeral, to send a mass

card, to . . .” Enough of this shite. I cut him off at

the knees, said, adding a wee sting,

“She always loved you, Liam.”

Then before he could regroup from that shovelful

of polite recrimination, I asked,

“Is he still partial to the old drop of Paddy?”

Anxious to move on, he rushed,

“Oh, Lord yes. Only yesterday, I made him a hot

one.”

Gotcha.

I said,

“Liam, put one of your oldest vintages aside, cost

no problem, and don’t tell him we’re coming. We

really want to see the look on his face.”

“Honest to God, Jack, my lips are sealed.”

“See you Saturday mate.”

Rang off.

Man, I was hitting them out of the freaking

ballpark. Sank my second Jay in pure delight. It

burned, like the Resurrection. I needed nicotine for

the best call of all. Settled my tab with the barman

and added a twenty for his trouble. He had to

know, asked,

“Jack, you’re all lit up, you win the lotto or what?”

I gave him my best smile, said,

“Only the ecclesiastical version.”

More’s the Irish curse, I actually believed it. The

next day, I’d arranged the cleaning service. They’d

be done by evening. I made strong coffee, and it

kicked in about the same time as the Xanax. Now

for the fun part. I rang Gabriel; he answered on the

second ring. I said,

“It’s Jack Taylor.”

He replied with a terse,

“Well?”

Boy, I’d be so glad to be free of this shithead. I

decided to skip the frills, just lunge in, said,

“I found Loyola.”

He couldn’t hide his astonishment, went,

“Already?”

Trying, if not much, to rein in my smugness, said,

“What you paid for.”

The guy was really up now, said,

“That is capital. You’ve done splendidly and more

than earned your bonus.”

I gave him the details and location of the cottage. A

tiny voice niggling in my head, intoning,

“Thirty pieces of silver.”

I put the phone down and the Xanax dissipated my

feeling of unease. I focused on Laura; two days and

she’d be here. I was excited, as close to happy as

it gets. I said aloud,

“Ton of cash imminent, Laura arriving, it’s almost

too good to be true.”

I should have paid more attention to my own