Headstone (13 page)

Ridge was sobbing. Stewart moved to her, put his

arm round her, said,

“I know some people, I’ll have them keep watch

on Anthony.” Stewart wasn’t much of a drinker but

he kept booze in the house. Never knew, Jack

might arrive. He went to the kitchen, poured a

sizable glass of Jameson and added sugar, for the

shock, brought it back to her, and literally held it to

her lips and waited till a sizable dent had been put

in it.

Waited.

He had, of course, every drug known to man but he

needed her to have the trauma eased and fast.

Finally, she composed herself, said,

“I’m not as tough as I thought.”

He smiled, said,

“None of us are.”

Then added,

“It’s not about toughness, it’s about strength.”

She asked,

“Zen?”

“No, just the truth.”

She averted her eyes from the carnage on the table,

said,

“They’re like ghosts in the wind. We’ll never find

them.”

Stewart, fighting like a dervish not to let his

simmering anger show, said,

“They’ve made two major mistakes. The first was

setting down a pattern that we can trace.”

She waited, then had to ask,

“The second?”

“Not killing Jack when they had the chance.”

From the place

Term

Vulnerable.

—Romanian saying

I had the usual professionals come and, as the

Americans say,
visit
. They had the obligatory

psychologist who, I shit thee not, said,

“This will require a period of readjustment.”

I was like a bastard, they’d cut back on my

painkillers. I asked,

“For us both?”

He’d obviously been clued in as to what I was

like, gave that tolerant smile, said,

“Anger is part of the process.”

So I said,

“Then you won’t be surprised at my next line.”

He continued with that emphatic smile, asked,

“Yes?”

“Fuck off .”

Was he delighted?

Yeah, I think so.

He continued in that soothing tone they use for

Musak interludes,

“You’ve been through a traumatic experience and

time is needed . . .”

I cut him off , asked,

“How would you know?”

He had doe eyes, and a mop of hair that he

continually flicked back, annoying the hell out of

me. He said,

“Believe me, Mr. Taylor, I’ve worked in this field

for many years.” I asked,

“They’ve a field for Stanley knives?”

Lost him for a sec but he rallied,

“We have many modules for coming to terms with

such events.”

I said,

“Cutting your balls off, which module would that

come under?”

He stared at me. I continued,

“That’s what I thought they were going to do.”

He stood up, said,

“Perhaps another day when you’re less . . .”

He reached for the euphemistic adjective, settled

for,

“Stressed.”

I sat up in the bed, asked,

“What’s your name again?”

Like I could give a flying fuck.

He said,

“Dr. Ryan.”

I held up my bandaged right hand, said,

“See this? They sliced off my fingers. How many

days you figure for me to de-stress every time I

look at it?”

He fucked off .

Next up was the woman who spoke about the

wonderful strides in artificial aids. I let her

yammer on and she took my silence for interest,

finally wound down, asked,

“Which appendage do you think you might most be

interested in?”

I said,

“The one that allows me to swing a hurley.”

Threw her. She said,

“I don’t follow?”

But I felt she was truly trying to help, so I went

easy.

Well, easier, said,

“I’ll get back to you.”

The nurses liked me.

Actually that’s a lie.

One did.

She enjoyed the runaround I gave the highfalutin

consultants, said,

“You’re a terrible man.”

I agreed.

She had some edge so I liked her, anything to get

away from the freaking platitudes I’d been

listening to. She said,

“You’re fierce cranky.”

I said,

“Give me a few shots of Jameson, I’m a teddy

bear.”

She had a great laugh. I love women who laugh

with their whole body, not worried if their

mascara will run. She said,

“From the look of you, I’d say you’ve had your fair

share of that devil.”

Any mention of the devil tended to quiet me: too

many bad memories of an individual who

might/might not have been the Antichrist in person.

Any further discussion was deferred when she

said,

“You have a visitor.”

Caz, a Romanian who managed to avoid the

periodic roundup of nonnationals for deportation.

Ten years he’d been in Galway and had learned, as

Louis MacNeice wrote,

“…………………all the sly cunning of our race.”

And I figure he was no slouch to begin with. He’d

even acquired a passable Galway accent and was

more native than a Claddagh ring. I never knew if

we were friends. He was too elusive but we’d

known each other a long time and had an

arrangement: I’d give, he’d take.

But he was one of the most reliable sources of

gossip in a city that thrived on stories. Add to that,

he worked with the Garda as an interpreter for the

Romanian community, so he had the ear of the

powers that be, sort of. True, he was as

trustworthy as the eels that swam in the canal, but I

liked him.

Mostly.

He was dressed in a Boss leather jacket. I know

that item as my surrogate son had once given me

one. Both were gone.

A white sweatshirt with the logo

“Don’t Sweat It.”

He said,

“I’m sorry about what happened to you Jack.”

“Thanks.”

He reached in the fine jacket, said,

“I brought you something.”

Now I sat up, this was a first, said,

“If it’s fucking grapes, I’ll strangle you with the

fingers I’ve left.”

He produced a half bottle of Jay, checked the door,

handed it to me, and to my left hand. I said,

“Take the seal off .”

He did.

I drank deep and gratefully, handed the bottle to

him. He still had the moves, didn’t wipe the neck;

that’s class. He took a fairly decent wallop

himself, grimaced, said,

“Sláinte.”

We waited a few minutes to let the Jay do its biz,

warm the stomach, promise false hope, and then he

asked,

“How bad is it?”

“Two fingers.”

He nodded. He’d literally escaped from a country

that was awash in every atrocity known, so “two

fingers” wasn’t as stunning to him as it was to your

average citizen. We had another drink like two

settled friends, the bottle going back and forth. I

gave him a brief outline of the Headstone outfit and

he pledged to ask around. The Jay and an earlier

shot of morphine were taking their toll and he

stood, said,

“It pains me to see you hurt, my friend.”

I think he actually meant it.

I hoped I said thanks.

I do remember he squeezed my shoulder and said,

“For now, rest. Later, we’ll extract the vengeance

of the Romanian.”

And I did—rest that is.

Till I came to, a single night-light burning near my

bed. I’d dreamt, of my dad and Laura.

The kind of awful dream that’s so real you can

taste it. Everything is OK till you wake and . . . it

ain’t.

My dad was holding my hand, looking at my

fingers, soothing, saying,

“They’ll heal son, don’t worry.”

And Laura, she was in the distance, her hand held

out, saying softly,

“But Jack, you have no fingers I can hold.”

Yeah, like that.

Jesus wept and then some. I think, I don’t know,

but there were tears on my face. Loss is sometimes

so palpable. You can almost touch it.

Almost.

The single night-light threw an eerie glow across

the room. I struggled to sit up, still half caught in

the wish desire of the dream, phantom pain in my

destroyed hand, and my heart did a jig as I saw a

dark figure rise from the chair in the corner. Maybe

the light-bringer was back to claim his own. He

stood, moved into the dim radiance, and I thought,

“Yeah, the devil all right.”

Being afraid is natural.

Being afraid to do something about it

is an insult to life.

—C

Father Gabriel.

Looking immaculate as usual. If the pope can wear

Gucci slippers, then no reason why Gabe shouldn’t

have his clerical suit made by Armani; it had that

cut. His white collar seemed to gleam in the half-

light, matching his perfect teeth and discreet tan.

He moved like an athlete. He leaned over me,

asked,

“How are you, Jack?”

Like he gave a good fuck.

I said,

“Been better.”

He made the sign of the cross over me. I wish I

could say it was a comfort but, from him, it was

like a curse. He smelled of some great aftershave.

Man, this guy was a player.

But at what?

He said,

“The Brethren have been praying for you.”

What? That I’d croak?

I nodded, trying to appear appreciative. He

reached in his elegant jacket, produced a fat

envelope, left it on the bed, said,

“Your bonus, and I think you’ll find it more than

generous.”

I asked,

“You found Loyola then?”

He gave a radiant smile, gave more illumination

than the measly night-light, said,

“Your information was spot on. A job well done.

Your church will remember the great service you

performed on its behalf.”

I pushed,

“So, what happens to Loyola now?”

The smile was still in place but it had eased. He

said,

“Back in the flock. All is well in God’s world.”

Fucking guy didn’t get out much it seemed.

He added,

“Now Jack, don’t concern yourself anymore with

that. You must focus on recovery and bask in the

task you did so admirably for Mother Church.”

He was so slick, so polished, you could almost

believe him. I kept at it, though,

“The money that Loyola nicked, got it back, I

guess?”

He touched my shoulder, said,

“Jack, you fret too much. Be assured, all is

restored.”

His touch was like brushing against a cobra, the

venom just waiting to be released, and his eyes had

hardened. I asked,

“You ever read Tim McLaurin?”

The tolerant smile. He said,

“Oh, Jack, if only we all had the time to read as

much as you, but no, I haven’t.”

I figured accounts sheets were more his forte. I

said,

“Esse Quam Videm.”

He finally took his hand off my shoulder, leaned

back, said,

“Latin? I should really know the meaning but one’s

memory is not what it was.”

This fuck remembered how much he got on his

First Holy Communion and who gave what. I

smiled, said,

“Don’t fret! It means, to be, rather than to be seen.”

He considered that, then,

“Meaning?”

“My doctor, Dr. Boxer, told me that and my

meaning is, do I get to see Loyola? Let’s call it a

vested interest?”

I nodded at the fat envelope, continued,

“Be nice to actually meet the dude who got me

such a fine payday.”

He looked at his watch—yeah, you guessed it: not

a freaking Timex, a fine slim gold job—said,

“I must run Jack, I’ll try and visit soon.”

And he was gone.

He made no sound as he slipped from the room. A

clerical stealth bomber and, no doubt, this guy was

incendiary. I glanced uneasily at the envelope. I

should be delighted. Few things give me the blast

like counting money, especially if it belongs to me.

But the term
tainted
was rooted in my head.

Something was off center and I knew in my heart

that, whatever else, I hadn’t, as he said, performed

a great service for Mother Church. Betrayal

touched my tongue like blood in my mouth.

My favorite nurse came in to settle me, said,

“Isn’t that a lovely aftershave? What is it?”

“Treachery.”

She looked at me, said,

“The names they give these new fragrances these

days. Men are getting better aromas than women.”

Like I’d know.

She had gotten me a sleeper and I said,

“You’re an angel.”

“Ah, go away with that. You wouldn’t know an