Headstone (24 page)

“Leat féin.” (You too.)

Clicked off.

Lock and load.

The van opened, four figures spilled out, all

dressed in black combat gear, and on the back of

the jackets, in red………… Headstone. I thought,

fucking everybody advertises. A large combat bag

was on the ground and they began to pull out its

contents.

A fucking arsenal. Enough firepower to keep

Afghanistan lethal for a year. The two brothers,

Remington rifles, grenades, ran to the front of the

building.

The remaining two:

Bethany, appearing strung out and spaced, held a

shotgun in her thin arms. Then Bine……...fuck, I

recognized him. Ronan Wall, the swan killer, the

psycho brat, shielded by money and upbringing, to

get to this—massacre of handicapped kids.

Like fuck.

He was barking at Bethany and I felt a twinge of

sorrow for her. She hadn’t told, had shown up,

knowing we’d be waiting, and had that awful

expression of the truly doomed, nigh pleading,

“Do it.”

Mr. Macho, having torn her a new arsehole, began

to arm up. A bandolier of shells around his

shoulder, a Glock in his hip holster, and the pièce

de résistance, the Remington Pump, in the

neighborhood of my Mossberg but not as rapid.

The guy loved hardware. Starring in his own

movie, he racked the pump, pushing shells into the

chamber like a good un. I was about to send his

movie straight to video. He slammed the van door,

then marched towards the back school door. I

stepped out, said,

“Hi buddy.”

He turned around, stunned. His mind couldn’t quite

collate the scenario. He said,

“Fucking Taylor, always fucking Taylor. The fuck

is with you man, following me around?”

I said,

“I like swans.”

As they say in literary novels, a frozen tableau.

The word
tableau
gives that careless hint of

learning but not pushing it. Ronan finally got it,

turned to Bethany, said,

“You cunt.”

Shot her twice in the face. I clubbed him with the

Mossberg and he went down fast—not out, but

dazed. I moved to Bethany, cradled her head in my

arms for a moment, tried not to look at her

devastated face, muttered,

“Thank you.”

If she heard me, she gave no sign, just a soft sigh as

she let go of all the troubled existence her so short

life had been. I felt a torrent of rage escape as I

turned back to Bine/Wall/the fuck ever. He was

reaching for the Glock on his hip. I kicked it

effortlessly away, pushed his legs apart, stood

over him, the Mossberg pointed at his groin,

reached down, pulled his top aside, and tore my

Medugorje chain from his neck. He said, spitting

blood and teeth from where I’d clubbed him,

“What now, Taylor? You going to shoot me?”

Gave a harsh laugh, pushed his hand towards me,

commanded,

“Help me up.”

I put my mutilated hand in his face, said,

“Alas……………”

Added,

“All I can give you is . . . the index finger.”

I looked down on the concrete he was lying on,

said,

“See that slab you’re on? Kind of like a headstone,

you think?”

He spat in my face, said,

“Get real, Taylor. I’m connected. Like, I got juice.

So fold your pathetic tent and fuck off, I have

history to write.”

I gut shot him.

Let him savor that awhile. Moved the barrel up to

his right eye, the one the swans hadn’t taken all

those years ago, asked,

“This your good eye?”

He was finally beginning to realize that maybe

there was a court of no appeal, that no family, no

money, upbringing, class, would step in to save

him. He pleaded,

“I’m insane, don’t know what’s right or wrong, you

have to get help for me. Right, Jack?”

I said,

“The thing with your good eye is you’ll see it

coming.”

He did.

I pumped three shells in there and kicked his

fucked-up body for good measure.

Then I was moving. As if the Hound of Heaven

was nipping at my heels, thinking,

“We get out of this, I might even go back to mass.”

Heard the wail of sirens, a whole shitload of them.

Kept moving. I was near the end of Forster Street

when Stewart pulled over, the door open, the

engine still primed, he screamed,

“Move. Fast.”

I did.

Sweat teeming down my cheeks, I glanced at

Stewart. He wasn’t much better. We were past the

Meyrick Hotel, turning down by the Tourist Office

and into Merchant’s Road. Stewart, not booting it,

desperately wanting to.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I could hear the clock, not on our side. One error

and we were fucked. Outside McDonagh’s, but a

docker from the water, he pulled into a vacant

space near the hardware store. I opened the flask,

took a deep hit, offered it. He took it, coughed,

near spluttered, gasped,

“The fuck is that?”

I said,

“My own concoction, I might patent it, call it

Headstone.”

He wasn’t amused but did take another hit. I was

fingering

the

Medugorje

stones

like

an

unreasonable mantra. He asked,

“What’s that?”

I said,

“A hint of grace.”

We tried to get our respective shredded nerves in

gear.

I asked,

“How’d the Guards respond so quick?”

He stared straight ahead, said,

“I called them.”

Jesus wept.

I grabbed the flask back, hit it with ferocity, said,

“Fucking great, just brilliant, Christ Almighty.”

He continued,

“Actually, I called Ridge, said she’d find two

wannabe Columbines handcuffed to the front door.

And that two more shooters were at the rear so to

bring backup. The credit and publicity will rocket

her career.”

I had nothing, so he asked,

“How’d it go for you?”

Almost dreading the answer, he knew it wasn’t

going to be good.

I sighed, said,

“A lovers’ quarrel. Bine/Ronan Wall, he shot her

after she opened up on him with her Browning.”

He asked the most inane question, an indication of

how madness, gunplay, adrenaline affect people,

“She had a Browning?”

“She does now.”

Part of him wanted the details but most of him

didn’t so he went with,

“And you think the Guards are going to buy that?”

I nodded, said,

“Sure, wraps it up nice and tidy.”

The booze had calmed him. He leant back, his head

on the seat, then asked,

“OK, you think if we get past this, you might really

tell me how it went down?”

I considered for all of two seconds, said,

“I seriously doubt it.”

Ridge was on the front page of all the newspapers,

banners proclaiming:

“Hero Ban Garda Prevents First Irish Columbine.”

The accounts narrated her overpowering the two

brothers but despite her valiant efforts, she was

unable to prevent the deaths of the ringleaders who

apparently had, in a bizarre pact, killed each other.

Sales of
We Need to Talk About Kevin
went

through the roof. Gus Van Sant with
Elephant
and

Michael Moore’s
Bowling for Columbine
sold out

of HMV and Zhivago.

The papers speculated on the weird deaths of

Bethany and Wall and concluded:

…………………………A love affair,

fuelled on drugs and would-be celebrity,

gone berserk when faced with the actual

enormity of what they were about to

undertake.

Yada fucking yada, on they went, fuel for the

talking heads.

Most of the editorials called for Ridge to receive

the President’s Medal of Honor. Promotion was a

given.

She called me, demanded,

“We have to talk.”

“I don’t think so.”

A pause, then,

“Jack, I can’t accept credit for what I didn’t do.”

Jack!

I weighed my words, let loose,

“Stewart gave you shelter when you needed it. You

open this can of worms, he might go to jail. Trust

me on this, he would not be able to do time again.”

Slam dunk.

I hoped.

Then,

“Jack, I need you to tell me the truth on something.”

“Fire away.”

Tentative,

“Did you have anything to do with the deaths of the

girl and Ronan Wall?”

I could see Al Pacino in
Godfather Two
as Diane

Keaton asked him something similar, said,

“You get to ask me this just one time, right?”

“OK.”

“No.”

Did she believe me?

Did she fuck.

I could feel the cluster fuck of questions she had

but she let them slide, said,

“So, I’m indebted to Stewart, then.”

“More than you know.”

“Jack……Bhi curamach…………be careful.”

“Leat féin…………..you too.”

* * *

and got the number of the new private investigator

in town, Mr. Mason.

Rang and he answered with,

“Ultimate Investigations.”

I said,

“I’ve heard you are a great PI.”

Let him bask.

He did.

Then,

“Well, thank you, we do our best or, as our slogan

says, our Ultimate.”

Jesus.

I said,

“I’ve some hot information for you.”

“Your name please?”

“David Goodis.”

He was all biz now, barked,

“So David, let’s hear it.”

I gave him Kosta’s address, said he was about to

move a major mountain of coke at seven o’clock

that evening but to be careful, he carries a Glock

always and is extremely dangerous. “He was

involved in the killing of that Ronan Wall.”

Rang off before he could quiz me.

Then called Kosta, opened with,

“It’s Jack.”

He didn’t sound surprised. If anything, he was

almost friendly, said,

“Thanks for returning my car.”

I launched,

“You helped me in so many ways so, to clean the

slate, I wanted to warn you that a guy posing as a

PI is going to arrive at your home at seven. He’s

been hired by the Romanians to avenge Caz’s

death. I don’t know how they manage to get their

information but they do. Maybe, the daily threat of

deportation has them on constant alert.”

He digested this, then,

“Thanks Jack, maybe after this . . . matter, we can

be friends again?”

I let that dance, said,

“We’ll always be close.”

He laughed, said,

“A bottle of Stoli is waiting in the ice bucket, my

friend.”

On ice.

I said,

“Works for me, hermano.”

He finished with,

“Del corazón, mi amigo.”

Pick battles big enough to matter,

small enough to win.

—Irish saying

Kosta phoned the following evening, just after the

Angelus bell had tolled. Outside, a fierce storm

was blowing, one of those sudden blasts of terror

that come without warning. The windows in the

apartment shook from the power of it. He said,

“Yesterday evening was as you had forewarned

me, thank you.” I already knew how it went down.

Had called the Guards’ hotline and told them a

crazy man was going to try and trespass on Kosta’s

property. They were waiting for him and he was

now in custody, trying to Brit his way out of a gun

charge and various other violations.

“You are all right?”

He laughed, said,

“I am but my visitor—let’s say he won’t be making

house calls for a time. The police were not exactly

gentle in their handling of him.”

As if it just occurred to me, I said,

“Come pick me up, we’ll celebrate.”

Now the trace of caution entered his voice, he

said,

“Jack, it’s blowing up a hurricane now.”

I laughed, went with,

“It’s Galway. If you let the weather dictate your

life, you’d never go out.”

His intuition battled with his machismo and he

conceded, said,

“OK, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

I was waiting outside, being blown to freaking bits

by the wind. He opened the door of an Audi, urged

me in. He had certainly dressed for the elements: a

long Barbour coat, navy wool cap pulled over his

ears. Now for the tricky part. I suggested we go to

Blackrock, the area of beach passing on from the

Salthill promenade. Before he could protest, I

added,

“It’s the best view and, trust me, buddy, no more