Headstone (16 page)

“Jaysus, enough.”

And I couldn’t stifle a huge yawn. Stewart stood,

said,

“C’mon Jack, let’s get you home, back to your

apartment.”

We left a large tip for our waitress and I could be

wrong but did she slip Stewart her phone number

and fuck, God forgive me, worse, was I jealous?

Headstones signify a lot of profound

thoughts but a drunk on Quay Street

said they meant,

You’re beyond fucked.

At Nun’s Island, as we got out of the car, Stewart

said,

“Just a second.”

Opened the trunk and took out three large grocery

bags. I asked,

“You’re moving in with me?”

He sighed, said,

“Felt you might need some provisions.”

It was such a decent thing to do; you’d be delighted

at someone’s care.

Right?

I was wondering if there was booze in there. Fuck

the other crap. He carried them up the three flights

of stairs, too. Opening the door took a time, as we

had to literally push it due to the stack-up of mail.

The usual free offers, pizza vouchers, notification

of winning millions of euros, and a letter from

Laura; I could recognize her handwriting. I stared

at it for a few minutes until Stewart asked,

“You going to open it?”

I told the truth, said,

“Maybe later.”

I turned the heat on full and Stewart marveled,

“The place is spotless. I’d have thought, and sorry

Jack, but it would be like a . . . you know, a

bachelor pad.”

Translate………………….filthy.

I didn’t tell him about the professional cleaners. I

reached in my jacket, got the envelope Gabriel had

given me, and let the contents spill onto the coffee

table. A turmoil of large-denomination notes

littered the surface, swirled to the carpet, a

whirlwind of blood cash. A treasure trove of

treachery.

Stewart gasped, muttered,

“They paid you for being in hospital?”

I could have laughed. He asked,

“How much is it?”

I said,

“A lot.”

Stewart began unpacking the goods, asking if there

was a special place for things.

I gave him the look, he figured,
no
. I went to the

overhead cupboard, pulled down the Jameson, and

said,

“I’m fresh out of herbal tea, unless you bought

some.”

Fuck, he did.

And brewed it up. It smelt like vinegar gone south.

He’d bought cookies, the healthy ones, the ones

they manage to remove everything from, especially

the taste. We imbibed our separate feasts and

Stewart asked if I’d like him to cook up

something?

I said I was good, the sandwich had been plenty.

As the latent control freak he was, he began to pick

up the money and I near shouted,

“Don’t.”

He stopped, a hundred note resting in his hand, and

he asked,

“You like to see it spread out, yeah?”

“No, I like to see it on the floor, where it belongs.”

Finally, he said he’d better make a move and

asked,

“You going to be OK, Jack?”

I said sure and thanked him again for the hypnosis

feat, reiterated it was very impressive.

He stopped his exit, said,

“Jack, there’s all sorts of things I could help you

with.”

He had an eagerness I was loath to puncture but

that never stopped me, I said,

“Yeah, you mean that?”

His face lit up. He said,

“Just name it, Jack.”

“Restore my fingers.”

I saw the pain in his eyes as I shut the door. I went

to the fridge, pulled out an icy bottle of

Hoegaarden, that blond fine imported beer that we

can never pronounce, and got the top off with my

left hand. Figured I might as well get familiar with

that hand, it was in for a lot of use. I drank some of

the beer chased with the Jay and felt, if not better,

at least energized.

Time to get ready for action. Some years ago, I’d

run into a serious hard case named Kosta. His

nationality was never established.

I’d done him a major service. He was the real

deal, never needed to shout the odds about his

nature—it showed in his eyes and his complete

ease with violence. We shared the same ideas

about justice and had become almost close. He

was a good guy to have in your debt. I was about to

call it in. Rang him. He’d told me on our last

outing, a messy affair that I’d blundered our way

out of, that his gratitude was infinite, saying,

“Jack, anything you ever need, you got it, my

pledge to you.”

Right. Let’s see how much smoke he was blowing.

If I was American, I’d have him on speed dial. I

laboriously dialed his number from my landline,

using, yeah, my left hand. I kept telling myself,

Kosta dealt in everything on one condition: it was

under the radar, i.e.:

illegal,

discreet.

He answered on the third ring with,

“Kali mera.”

Greek today, then.

I said,

“Kosta, it’s Jack . . . Jack Taylor.”

“Madonna del mio.”

That’s what I heard or something like it but it had

warmth. I can recognize that in any tongue. I

remembered then, he was one of those rarities I’d

helped—he actually liked me. He said, “My friend,

I am so happy to hear you. They tell me bad things

have been done to you.”

I said,

“Why I’m calling you, buddy.”

I remember introducing him to the collected works

of Tarantino and he was fond of quoting from the

movies. Worked for me and, I guess, Tarantino.

Never missing a beat, he said,

“Give me their names Jack, I’ll go biblical on their

ass.”

I said,

“Thank you, I need a Mossberg Pump.”

Not exactly something you can ring up Tesco and

order, least not yet.

No hesitation, he said,

“Give me your address, I’ll swing by round

seven.”

My kind of guy.

And seven, on the dot, my bell rang. I’d managed

to grab close to five hours sleep, popped some

Xanax, and was, if not aware, at least alert. I

opened the door. He was a small man with a

heavily weathered face. Now my own face, I’ve

lines you could plant spuds in, but Kosta made me

look young.

Kind of.

His head was shaven, he had an aquiline nose, or

so he said, and large brown eyes that went to black

in a second. He wore his perennial black leather

coat and a bespoke suit. Like an out-of-work KGB

agent. That was not an impression he discouraged.

As I knew from our previous form, he spoke

Russian, fluently. He grabbed me in a bear hug and

was one of the few who I could not only tolerate it

from, but feel they meant it. A large sports bag

swung loosely in his left hand, with the logo

……………………………….Ti Krema.

I’d asked before.

It was Greek for

“What a pity.”

I hadn’t asked further. Who in his right frigging

mind would? I welcomed him to my home and,

before I could offer hospitality, he unzipped the

bag, produced a bottle of Grey Goose, handed it to

me, and said,

“Nice place Jack.”

I asked,

“On the rocks or neat?”

Silly question.

I poured two large, no ice, and said,

“Sit and let’s catch up.”

We clinked glasses and I got there first, toasted,

“Sláinte amach.”

He loved that. Responded with,

“To better days, my dear friend.”

Glanced at my mutilated hand, commanded,

“Drink.”

I did, we did. Ferociously.

He sat back on my freshly cleaned sofa, looked

round, said,

“Very clean, very neat; this I like.”

A few moments later, the Goose bit, and that warm

glow lined my stomach. He stood, glass in hand,

and began to move around, paid full attention to the

bookcases, selected the
Poems
of Hemingway,

said,

“I did not know he wrote poetry.”

I said,

“Take it, then you decide if he did.”

He smiled, that’s the kind of answer he liked. He

pointed his glass towards the sports bag, said,

“Your merchandise is in there.”

Paused, a vague smile hovering, added,

“With ammunition, of course.”

I took out the Mossberg and for a moment I was

amazed at how light it felt. He said,

“The barrel, the grip, have been sawn off, so it fits

almost like a handgun.”

He chuckled, quipped,

“Taylor made.”

Delighted at his own pun, he freshened our drinks.

He said,

“Give me the shells.”

I placed half a dozen on the table. They were

heavier than I’d imagined. He indicated the gun

and I tossed it to him; he caught it effortlessly, one

hand. Looked impressive and showed a deep

familiarity with the weapon. He muttered,

“Epharisto poli.”

Thank you, in Greek.

I think.

It didn’t, of course, mean he was Greek; it simply

meant he knew how to say thanks in the language.

He flipped the gun to his left hand, grabbed two of

the cartridges and inserted them, pumped the barrel

once, said,

“Rock ‘n’ roll.”

Handed it back to me, a man who treated a loaded

weapon carefully, a man who knew his trade, said,

“Practice with your left, over and over again, using

your right hand to prop the barrel.”

I tried, fumbled, and he moved his finger.

I.e.,

again.

I did.

Knowing there were shells in it kept me focused.

We stayed at it for a time, his eyes never leaving

the weapon. Finally as sweat began to roll down

my face, he signaled: enough. I went to put the gun

aside and he said,

“No, make it part of your hand. Until it is, you are

an amateur.” Lesson over, the steel left his voice.

He asked,

“Need backup?”

I thought about it, said,

“Maybe.”

Then I reached for a thick envelope I’d readied

and moved to put it in his hand. He shook his head,

said,

“No, but perhaps, a little further along, I might call

on your assistance.”

I assured him with,

“Ask and ’tis done.”

Words that will haunt me to my grave.

We sat, sipped at our drinks in more relaxed

fashion. Laura’s letter was on the table. He asked,

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

He could see it was unopened, then,

“Do you love her?”

With Kosta, everything was direct, to the point of

bluntness.

I said,

“I had hoped I might.”

He pondered that, staring at the remains of the

vodka in his glass, said,

“Quel dommage.”

That I knew.

French for what a pity.

I asked,

“Like a brew to go with the Goose?”

He nodded, and still cradling the Mossberg, I

grabbed two ice-cold Buds from the fridge.

Screw-off tops which are, in my view, damn smart.

Handed one to him, and said,

“To all the girls we loved before.”

He was a major Willie Nelson fan and the duet

with Julio Iglesias was a staple on his sound track,

inner and outer.

He smiled, said,

“And to those who might yet find us old guys . . .

colorful.”

Unless beige came back into vogue, I was shit out

of luck.

He took a large gulp of the brew, waited, then,

“Jack, you were a policeman but you didn’t carry a

gun. Now you are not a policeman, you do. Is that

how you define irony?”

I said,

“More like insurance.”

His mobile shrilled, he took it from his coat,

answered, said, “Abla.”

Listened, his face expressing nothing until he spat

out a staccato of some East European language.

Then he snapped his phone shut, said,

“A rumor, without a leg to stand on…………will

find………… another way to move around.”

I left it as cryptic as it was.

He stood, took me in a bear hug again, said,

“We have much in common, hermano.”

Thanked me for the book, the hospitality, and was

gone. I drank the Bud slowly, took one of the

painkillers the doctor had provided. I wasn’t

hurting but felt it coming on. Then I lifted Laura’s

letter, moved over to the sink, and, using my Zippo,

set it alight. If I opened it, her words would be

branded forever on a soul already too heavy. It

burnt quickly, like my aspirations, as I held it over

the sink. The slightly smoldering remains floated

towards the drain like the dying dance of a

disintegrating dream. Turned the tap on full, the jet