Purgatory (11 page)

“Your oul wan, she gave us a pup one time.”

I’d finished my pint, said,

“All heart, she was.”

He’d blessed himself, said,

“Lord rest her.”

Yeah.

I was stopped almost still in the middle of Shop Street by this memory, hated her all over anew. And to add insult to memory, along came the cloud of nicotine, posing as a priest, Father Malachy, my nemesis for most of my bedraggled life. My mother’s tame escort, pious widows collected these bitter, soured bachelors, passing as priests and spreading bile.

“Taylor,”

He boomed.

Hard to believe but I’d not long ago saved his miserable arse, and was he grateful? Was he fuck?

A dedicated smoker, he had a cig between cigs and the attendant gray-yellow complexion. His loathing of me bothered me but little any more, though at odd times I relished the chance to rile the bollix.

Malachy reached into his dandruff-flecked jacket, found a crumpled pack of Carrolls, fired up, amid a shocking fit of coughing. To think I missed this addiction? I said,

“Still smoking?”

Got the look and,

“Bastards are saying I can’t smoke in me own house.”

His face was a picture in held rage. I pushed,

“Bastards. Your house?”

He stared at me like I was thick, said,

“The church, and the house is me home.”

I said,

“I thought the parish owned the house.”

He seemed to be on the verge of a coronary, spat,

“Wouldn’t be in this state if your mother had done the right thing.”

WTF?

So many things wrong with that sentence, I was almost lost for a reply until I got out,

“My mother? . . . The right thing?”

He was on his next cigarette though he seemed unaware he was even smoking, said,

“She was supposed to leave me the house.”

My astonishment was equaled only by his sheer blindness. I said, very quietly,

“And her
son
, you don’t think he had a shout?”

“
You
? You were a thorn in her side. She had to offer you up for the souls in purgatory.”

I was tired of him, his whining, said,

“You have to laugh, though.”

“What? You pup you, what do you mean?”

“She pissed on your bogus piety and your brown-nosing got you the same result as me in the end.”

I’d turned to leave, he demanded,

“Result?”

“Yeah . . . fuck all.”

Go Fish: How to Win Contempt and Influence People
by Mr. Fish.

Stewart pushed the book aside, just couldn’t get his focus right. He tried to ground himself. When one in three families was three months behind in mortgage payments, he should be glad he owned his home. This form of tit-for-tat gratitude never worked for him. Decided he needed to bite down, latch on to something.

C33.

The papers had given it some play but their tone was: This wasn’t connected, just a series of random psycho acts and with the country being pulverized by a crazy government, who in truth really gave a fuck if someone was offing
bad guys
?

“Hey, maybe the killer could take a look at the guys running the bloody country?”

Called Jack, arranged a meeting, see what they could shake loose; they’d done it before. Ridge wasn’t shaping up to be much help but at least they had a Garda source. His car radio was playing and he caught

“ . . .
The Red Hot Chili Peppers are restoring funk and taking the piss out of wankers who hijacked it and then didn’t know what to do with it
.”

Stewart stared at the radio, asked,

“The fuck are you whining on about?”

One thing guaranteed to drive him off his Zen game was
experts
on rock ’n’ roll. He turned in to Merchants Road, paused, thought,

“Not too far from the last killing.”

He maneuvered his car into a space, surprised he’d managed to find a place, was getting out when a tall skinny guy came,
galloping,
shouting,

“Hey, you can’t park there. Move that car.
Now
.”

Stewart took a deep breath, drew on his extensive Zen techniques, asked quietly,

“What?”

Mistake.

Dealing with minor authority, never concede an inch, they’ll skin you alive. The guy was dressed in some sort of long yellow coat, like a uniform. He looked at Stewart with derision, said,

“Yellow lines, and what . . . What do they tell us, eh?”

Stewart summoned the dregs of his dwindling patience, then gave the guy a slap in the mouth, said,

“They should tell us to mind our own freaking business.”

* * *

Stewart was still rubbing his knuckles when he sat opposite me in Java. I’d ordered him a chamomile tea and a double espresso for myself. I asked,

“Hit someone?”

He grinned, said,

“Yeah.”

Not sure if he was kidding, I let it slide, said,

“Chamomile tea, that’s good, right?”

He was different, not in any noticeable way, but the energy, it was now somewhere else, leading him on a whole alternative dance. I asked,

“How is Ridge doing?”

He sipped at the tea, his face not showing any love for the beverage, said,

“She’s, as you would delicately put it,
fucking off to Australia
.”

His face had taken on a shadow, blend of anger, sadness, and, I don’t know, loss? I went,

“But why?”

And now he held my gaze, said,

“You read the papers, watch the news, and you have to ask that?”

I’d finished my coffee without even tasting the bitter bite I relished, the empty cup was . . . empty and I asked,

“What will we do?”

He gave me a radiant smile, lit with insincerity, said,

“Have to catch C33 before she goes, you think?”

17

Any library is a good library that does not contain a volume by Jane Austen. Even if it contains no other book.

—Mark Twain

C33 fucking hated Jane Austen.

With ferocity. Even Hollywood was in on the act. How many fucking times and in how many fucking ways could you

Adapt

Pride and Prejudice
?

Standing in the living room of the next victim, C33 wondered,

“Hey, what happened to the fun gig?”

The target was what once used to be termed
slum landlord.

But in Ireland? Believe it, the recession had brought all kinds of nasty shite and this twist was just part of the rabid package. Dolan, an apparently gentle, slightly built landlord, was cleared of intentional killing when one of his houses burned to the ground, taking a mother and two children with it. All fire safety features were glaringly absent but during the investigation, money slid its lethal way to an investigative committee, vital papers were lost. Benefit of the doubt?

Until

The second fire and the death of an elderly teacher. And this time, blamed the teacher, and a candle! So was Dolan now out of the real estate biz?

Nope.

But he was about to be retired.

Permanently.

C33 had settled in an armchair, fixed a gin and tonic, might as well get comfortable. Had gone to a lot of grief to find the old model .45. Almost like a western one. Took the six bullets, which C33 had modified to a DIY hollow point. The barrel spun nicely, almost cinematically, and, better, had a resounding click. The drink was sliding down nicely when Dolan arrived home.

A shot just past his left shoulder convinced him this was no joke. C33 asked,

“Any idea why I’m here?”

Dolan, shaken to his core, shook his head, and C33 offered,

“Want a drink? Chill?”

No.

C33 waved the gun toward the bookshelves, frowned, asked,

“The Jane Austen shit. I mean, seriously?”

Dolan looked around his own room, seeing his bookshelves as if they were a recent addition, he muttered,

“You’re pointing a gun at me because of my taste in books?”

C33 loved this, might even have felt a pang about having to waste the dude. Said,

“Excuse my misquoting Plath, but,

Paused,

“
I kill because it because it makes me thrill

I kill because it fits
.”

Laughed.

“Indeed, it does truly make me feel real.”

Dolan tried to get a handle on the complete lunatic in his home, wondered if there was a window to do something, heard,

“No, bad idea. I’d shoot you in the gut, belly shot. The torment of the fucking ferociously damned as the Celts might put it.”

Dolan veered, tried,

“That drink?”

C33 was up, displaying an agility, lightness of foot, that showed a vibrant fitness, said,

“Let me do the honors.”

Did.

Handed the drink to Dolan, the .45 loosely dangling like the ultimate lethal tease, then, too late, C33 was back in the chair, said,

“Here’s the game, fellah.”

And in one swift moment raised the barrel of the gun, put it against the right side of the temple.

And

Pulled the trigger.

Hammer hit on empty, and

C33

Blew

“Phew.”

Dolan’s mind careened from fear through shock to disbelief and he whispered,

“The fuck are you doing?”

C33 smiled, even managed to feign sheepishness, said,

“Thought I might lighten the load and act like you’re not the scum you are.”

Dolan, again speechless, then tried,

“Scum?”

C33 drained the gin, burped, said,

“Whoops, excuse me, where were we? Oh, yeah, you being an arsonist who rents firetraps to those who’ve no choice, I figured you’d enjoy Russian roulette, seeing as you’ve been doing it to your tenants for years so, in the light of fair play, I went first and now it’s your turn.”

Handed over the gun but Dolan, wary, didn’t take it. C33 made a sad face, said,

“Ah, c’mon, here . . .”

Spun the chamber.

“Now, you’ve an even better . . . shall we say . . . shot?”

Dolan lunged for the gun, grasped it in both hands, leveled it at C33, said,

“You psycho bollix, play this.”

Squeezed.

And squeezed.

Nothing

Nada

Zilch.

C33 said,

“I lied.”

Unity,

Thought Stewart.

What is the one unifying factor tying the four C33 killings? Had to be something, if they were random, then fookit. He had converted his living room into, almost, an incident room. And he was thus immersed when Ridge called around. She’d brought old-fashioned lemonade and handmade scones from Griffin’s Bakery. She also brought a hangover and a book.

Handed it to Stewart.

Days and Nights at Garavan’s.

He looked at her face, asked,

“You were on the razz?”

She gave a bleak smile, said,

“If you mean, did I down some vodkas and slim-line tonic, then, yes.”

Then a memory surfaced, she said,

“Oh, and I was talking to the young Garavan heir and he introduced me to Morgan O’Doherty, who wrote said book.”

Stewart wanted to roar.

“And I give a fuck, why?”

Way too close to a Taylor line. She stared at the walls, lined with names, photos, the three victims accusing her from the frame. She said,

“Either you should have been a Guard or this is, like, seriously creepy.”

She swayed, said,

“Shite.”

Sank into a chair, said,

“Forgot to eat.”

He couldn’t help it, spat,

“You were drinking on an empty stomach?”

Heard the prissiness leaking all over it. She said,

“Jesus, Mom, sorry, I did have a bag of Tayto, cheese and onion.”

He offered,