Headstone (9 page)

“We’ll start you at the top, work yer way down.”

Pegasus Descending.

A line in that book pierced her soul.

“……………………Marry up, screw down.”

And the titles, like poetry in their own selves:

In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead,

The Tin Roof Blowdown,

and her absolute favorite,

A Stained White Radiance.

Pushed by an almost irascible need, she got out of

the car. So, OK, maybe Jen had a new lover or

would simply slam the door in her face. But she

had to try. When she reached the path, two guys in

hoodies seemed to materialize from the shadows.

She saw the glint of a very large knife in the

nearest one’s hands.

She cautioned,

“Whoa lads, back up a bit, I’m a Ban Garda.”

The second hissed,

“You’re a fucking dike is what you are.”

The nearest one lunged, fast. She sidestepped

easily, swung around, almost balletic, rammed her

right foot in his balls. The second one whined,

“Jesus, no need for that.”

And launched at her. She did a twirl, enjoying her

own self, used a high left kick to smash his nose,

followed with a right kick to his gut. Then she was

pinned to the ground by the fucking dog walkers!

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A girl

appeared from, like, nowhere, helping the hoodies

to their feet, saying to the local heroes, the dog

guys,

“She tried to attack those young men, I think she

had a knife.” She could hear a siren in the distance

—coming for her?

Ah, for fooks sake.

A bank is a place that will lend you

money

if…………………………………

you can prove you don’t need it.

I needed to visit me money. So many banks were

going down the toilet and, like the clergy, being

exposed for every abuse possible. With Laura

arriving soon, I wanted to be able to show her I

was, am, viable, at least financially.

I went to my local branch on Eyre Square. I

managed to secure a face-to-face with one of the

asssistant managers. He had a small walled-in

space and a very harried look. I put out me hand,

said,

“Jack Taylor.”

He was in his mid-thirties, with a posture that

suggested a hundred. He took my hand, one of

those dead fish shakes. He had his shirtsleeves

rolled up, just one of us working stiffs. He said,

“I’m Mr. Drennan.”

Mr.!

You have to be at least seventy and somewhat

affable for me to call you Mister. But I rolled with

the play, asked,

“How is my account?”

He had my file before him, peered through it, said,

“You have a very healthy balance, Mr. Taylor.”

I said,

“Show me.”

Threw him.

He asked,

“You want to see it?”

“My money, my call.”

He pushed it over reluctantly.

It was looking good. I was very relieved. He said,

“You are earning very little interest in that savings

account.

Might I suggest some shares you could buy?”

“No.”

He was confused, asked,

“You don’t want to make some money?”

I looked him straight in the eye, said,

“If I wanted to make more money, you think I might

have mentioned it? I want to see my money. The

newspapers, they seem to think you guys have

stolen every euro in the land.”

He looked around but help was not to hand, tried,

“You’d like a printout of your account?”

Unheard of in banking circles it seemed, so no

wonder they were getting away with frigging

wholesale larceny.

I sat back, relaxed. You get to fuck with the banks,

enjoy.

I said,

“Unless you want to bring me the actual cash—and

I have no problem with that, believe me. Put it in a

bin liner and I’ll stroll out of here as happy as a

Galway oyster.”

He rose, said,

“I’ll get right on it.”

I don’t think he meant the bin liner.

I got the readout and said,

“You need to chill mate, get out, have a few brews

and tell yer own self, tis only money.”

He didn’t wish me God bless.

No wonder the fucks are in trouble.

It was pissing like a bastard, rain that is.

My dad was a lot on my mind those days. Probably

the only hero I still had. I’d given up on wanting to

be him. But it was a comfort while living in a new

land of vultures and predators to think of him. He’d

worked on the railways and to my surprise taken

early retirement. I never asked him about it but I

knew it weighed heavily on his mind.

He’d said to me one time, when per usual the

banks were threatening the wrath of God as our

mortgage fell behind,

“Jack, if you owed the bank fifty quid, they’d take

the house from under you.”

I never forget that.

I never forget him.

Stewart was sitting in one of the very few authentic

vegan cafés in the city. Situated but a lovely grilled

T-bone steak from the Augustine Church, it was

fundamental in its strict no-meat policy. Word was,

a guy was turned away for wearing a leather

jacket. Urban myth.

And footwear: canvas was, dare I utter, kosher.

Stewart was wearing his winter crocs, differed

from the summer style in that you wore socks.

A guy telling me about the Irish wardrobe during

the summer, said,

“Roll up the sleeves on your sweater.”

Stewart was intent on his new venture. Investing in

the growing boom of head shops. Legal highs in the

High Street
. He had a wedge of cash invested in

one and was fretting about the government threats

to close down the loopholes that allowed the shops

to sell dope in all varieties. But clouds were

gathering. Two students had died as a result of the

products and the public was becoming volatile

about the virus of new outlets.

One had even been burned out in Dublin.

Plus, the dope gangs were mightily pissed off

about the loss in revenue this was costing them. He

was seriously considering cashing out before the

axe fell. That was his main gig, getting out before

the shite hit the fan.

A shadow fell across his notes. He looked up, a

heavily built man in his fifties was staring at him.

The man had a face of sheer granite, with old acne

spots across his upper jaw. Heavy tissue around

his eyes testified to some time as a boxer. The

broken nose confirmed it. He was wearing a very

smart Crumby coat, collar turned up, with a fedora

perched rakishly on his head. He asked,

“Mind if I join you?”

Pause.

“Stewart.”

Stewart nodded and the man sat, his heavy bulk

straining the chair. A waitress appeared, asked,

“May I get you something sir?”

He gave her a lazy look, full of total uninterest,

said,

“Yeah, coffee, black.”

He unbuttoned his heavy coat to reveal an ill-fitting

brown suit with a puke green waistcoat, said,

“I’m Mason. Been looking for your boss, Taylor,

but he seems to have disappeared. Probably

sleeping off his latest piss-up?” Took Stewart a

moment to grasp the cadence of the accent, British

but muted. He answered,

“He’s not my boss.”

Mason actually raised an eyebrow, then said,

“You seriously believe that?”

The coffee arrived, Mason took a sip, spat, asked,

“The fuck is that swill?”

The waitress beat a fast and faster retreat.

Mason pushed the cup aside, said,

“Trust me sonny, I’ve done my research; you’re the

gofer.”

Stewart applied all his Zen mastery, tried to

envisage a sunlit meadow, but the sheer bulk of

Mason blotted out the light. He asked,

“Who are you?”

Mason gave a deep smoker’s laugh, full of phlegm

and venom, reached in his jacket, produced a

wallet with a gold badge, said,

“I’m a private investigator. The real deal. Not like

your employer’s half-arsed attempt. I used to be

with the Met and after retirement took full

accreditation as the real deal.”

Stewart was tired of the guy, tried,

“And you want to see Jack, why?”

He fixed his flat eyes on Stewart, steel glinting on

the rims, said, “I’ve no fucking interest in that has-

been. I’ve been employed by the family of Ronan

Wall to look into his disappearance. You’re a

messenger boy so deliver this to the alkie. This is

my case and he’s to keep well clear of it. You got

that, son?”

Stewart was still grabbing for some serenity.

Working it wasn’t, but he managed,

“Jack has no involvement in that case.”

Mason snapped his wallet shut. You could see the

slick movement had been practiced before the

mirror a lot. He said,

“Good, keep it that way. There’s a world of hurt

for those who fall foul of me.”

He stood up, buttoned the coat, asked,

“Ex-con, right?”

Stewart didn’t feel it warranted a reply and Mason

smiled. No warmth had ever touched that smile and

it certainly didn’t now.

He said,

“Good lad, you sniff around my case, I’ll have you

back behind bars in coke time.”

Stewart had finally found a place, deep within,

where he could trust his mouth, asked,

“Your intimidating manner get you a lot of

results?”

Mason had been on the point of leaving but turned

back, leant right across the table, into Stewart’s

face, his breath an acrid blend of nicotine and

belligerence, hissed,

“Dipshit, I eat the likes of you for breakfast. I can

stitch you up in ways you’d never imagine.”

Then he patted Stewart on the head, said,

“Now run along, there’s a good lad.”

He was done, set to head for the door, when

Stewart said,

“I did learn a thing or two in prison. The louder the

mouth, the bigger the target.”

Mason laughed, said,

“Next time we chat, I won’t be so cordial.”

And was gone.

Stewart tried to imagine such an encounter

between Mason and Jack.

Phew-oh.

The Dylan album came to mind, he’d been listening

to these old guys at Jack’s probing. The album was

Blood on the Tracks.

You say to me that there is more to

life than hurling. But if you

want to carry on like a fella who is

not interested, then there will

be lots more than hurling.

But there won’t be hurling!

That’s the reality of it.

—Kilkenny hurling manager

Ridge was standing before Superintendent Clancy.

His main hatchet man, O’Brien, was standing

point, smirk in place. Ridge marveled that Clancy

once had been Jack’s best friend and now was his

sworn enemy. She’d tried to probe Jack on it, he

said, “Shite happens.”

Her alliance with Jack was a permanent black

mark in her file. Clancy kept her waiting, poring

over papers, making odd grunts of assent.

Who knew?

He was uttering,

“Hmphh.

Mm….”

By the holy!

Finally, he removed his reading glasses, gold

rimmed, of course, sat back, surveyed her. His

eyes were slabs of pure slate. He said,

“You were arrested by two citizens.”

She started to say,

“Sir, it was a . . .”

“Shut the fuck up. Did I ask you to speak?”

O’Brien gave a wide grin. She took some solace in

knowing that Jack had once beaten the living

daylights out of him. Clancy continued,

“If the media got hold of this, we’d have a cluster

fuck on our hands.”

She longed to say something but bit down.

Hard.

Clancy said,

“As a favor to your husband, I’m not going to

launch an official investigation.”

He stared at her.

What?

Was she, like, to say, “Golly gee, thank you so

much yah prick?”

He continued,

“You’re suspended without pay for a month,

confined to desk duty, you can handle a phone, I

presume, without aggravation?” He returned his

reading glasses to his burst-veined nose, said,

“Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

As she slunk out, she began to better understand

Jack’s loathing of the man.

Anthony was waiting outside, dressed like the

country squire, all pomp and damn little

circumstance, and was that a cravat . . . with the

emblem of the Galway Hunt? He barked,

“Get in the car.”

Ridge, never the most tolerant of individuals,