Purgatory (14 page)

Stewart had been reasonably successful in various enterprises, made some serious wedge along the way, but this, this was a revelation. Westbury smiled, said,

“Hey kid, you wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t afford it and, let’s face it, sounds like you can’t afford
not
to be here.”

Laughed at his own line, added,

“Lighten up, sonny, this is legal humor.”

Stewart fixed him with his eyes, said,

“Let’s get on the same page. I’m not

Lad

Sonny

Kid

Any of those condescending terms. You charge like serious freaking weight, then I get some serious respect.”

Westbury considered, his legal eyes betraying little save assessment, then,

“Okay, you’re a player. Tell me, where did you do your jail time?”

Got Stewart, hard. He managed,

“You Googled me?”

Westbury shrugged that off, said,

“Nope. Your whole vocabulary, attitude, the
don’t diss me, homes
rap, screams of the Joy, and I’m not talking the Rapture, I mean Mountjoy, where, alas, some of my less successful cases rest.”

Stewart wrote out a check, asked,

“What now?”

Westbury stretched, one of those all-encompassing stretches that brook neither finesse nor restraint, said,

“I get on to my guy in the Guards, see if you’re a
person of interest
.”

Stewart stood, shook his hand, said,

“Um, thank you, I think.”

Was at the door when he heard,

“Yo, Stewie.”

Stewart, a covert fan of
Family Guy,
didn’t turn, simply raised his index finger, heard a hearty laugh.

22

I don’t see it as any fucking tragedy, my life. Everyone thought I’d be a failure and a liability.

—Shane MacGowan, in reflective mode

The table was a riot of pints, shots, bowls of nuts, and the ubiquitous iPhones, iPads. Skylar, Stan, and me own self were in the Quays, two of the Saw Doctors giving an impromptu gig of

Reels

Jigs, and, of course,

Downtown,
in that slanted Tuam fashion. Skylar was ecstatic, gushed,

“Those dudes were like on Letterman and Jodie Foster bought them a burger.”

If the two events were related, I was past caring. I was having me a time, having been convinced my spy/industrial espionage gig was as low as I can sometimes go. But, hey, go figure. I was rolling, getting with the flow, enjoying me own self. The planet of geekdom was surprisingly interesting. Maybe as Stan and I had bonded over

Breaking Bad
, Season 4

Detour through the British
The Thick of It

And

Back stateside,

Veep
.

Doing that drink-fueled dance of quoting our favorite lines to each other. Stan was ahead on
Veep
with,

“I’ve met some people, real people, and a lot of them are fucking idiots.”

Selina Meyer, the fictional VP.

He thought I’d concede there but I had Malcolm Tucker, Gothic spin from
The Thick
of It,
with

“Please could you take this note, ram it up his hairy inbox, and pin it to his fucking prostate?”

And saw Skylar’s face drop. I offered,

“You want to talk, um,
Desperate Housewives, The Real Housewives of Orange County
?”

My smile defused the insult and she said,

“What’s a black ’n’ tan?”

I presumed she meant the drink, else I’d be there a week foulmouthing the band of thugs and scum sent to terrorize the Irish. I took the chance and ordered the drink. I was about to go for it when Stan said,

“Man, I’d kill for a Saw Doctors T-shirt.”

Sometimes, rare to rarest in truth, you get the stars in line and I spotted Ollie Jennings, their manager, one of life’s real gentlemen, in nature and personality. Called him, said to Stan,

“Ask their manager.”

Headed for the bar.

Got the drinks, headed back to see Stan joining Ollie and the Saw Doctors. Skylar said,

“Oh, Lordy, he’ll be unbearable now.”

Drink or two in and she was weeping on my shoulder, her love for Stan, but how he seemed to have no interest. His sole focus, with music, was work, and then she said,

“He’d murder someone for the chance I have.”

Jesus.

Just dropped it in my lap and, worse, tomorrow, she wouldn’t even remember. I could have done the decent thing, steered the conversation in another direction. I liked her, a lot. She could have been the daughter I’d never have. She had a sweetness, almost an innocence, that held resonances of Serena but I couldn’t go there. Drained my Jay, shook the memory of that little girl’s death. Skylar, concerned, asked,

“Mr. Taylor, you okay? You seemed like you saw a ghost.”

“Fucking Black ’n’ Tans.”

I hesitated, then,

“So, you have a shot at something big?”

She did.

Spilled it all, between drinks, a crying jag, a hint of pride, and an awful shitload of indiscretion. Sometime later, Stan came back, big dopey grin, as happy as it Guinness gets, asked,

“How you guys doing?”

I gave him my best smile, the one that has as much ice as sparkle, said,

“We’re having us one of them memorable chats.”

Skylar blubbered, threw an arm around me, sobbed,

“I’ll never forget this night, Mr. Taylor.”

I said,

“I can guarantee that, hon.”

Next morning, my hangover had been curtailed by the gallon of water I drank the night before. In a bizarre way, the cold manipulation of the girl had prevented me from getting wasted. Jesus, I’d downed enough booze to fell the Irish rugby team, but one of those evenings, the more I put away, the clearer my mind became.

A line of poetry unreeling in my head,

. . .
your first betrayal was the coldest one.

I had a mug of black coffee, sat in my armchair, looking out at nothing save the nasty act I danced along. Reardon had been clear about what he’d do.

“Destroy the fucker.”

Being one of the mildest terms he’d employed about the kid who was selling him out. And true, the deal Skylar had been offered by Rogue Tech was a showstopper. She’d indeed be set for life, and all she had to do was score a sizable hit on Reardon’s research. It would, she’d said,

“Put Reardon back at least eighteen months. In the tech world, that’s like a death blow.”

I had no doubt of my own capabilities. I’d done worse, with little aforethought.

I phoned Kelly, asked,

“How are you on moral dilemmas?”

She laughed, said,

“Shaky. You need help?”

Did I?

I said,

“Be nice to buy you a late morning breakfast.”

She said,

“We call it brunch.”

“Yeah, well, here we call it a cheap lunch.”

23

Hysteroid: term describing the tendency to exaggerate the emotional component. To an ordinary person, what is sorrow would, to a hysteric, be grief; or again, to an ordinary person, what is agitation would, to a hysteric, be interpreted as a major trauma.

She always stole what had been freely offered.

—Kelly’s doctor

A new hotel had opened off Eyre Square just as the boom died; the hotel died soon after. Kelly asked if I’d meet her in the lobby there. I said,

“That hotel has been sold.”

She laughed, said,

“Yeah, to Reardon, like most of the town, sooner than later.”

I’d some time before our meeting so caught up on the football. Bad to saddest worst. Irish style. Out, after three games. All the hopes, aspirations, the Trapattoni worship, ashes now.

1. Croatia beat us three–one.

2. Spain beat us four–nil.

3. Italy beat us two–nil.

Jesus.

And the rugby, somehow, we’d pull consolation out of the European fiasco with them but, against the Kiwis, we had an all-time record-breaking defeat.

Sixty . . .
nil
.

Dazed, I’d watched England against Italy go to a penalty shoot-out and, argh, the Brits lost. My sympathies had been with Hart, the English goalie. To have to watch the ferocious Balotelli bear down on goal was to see Armageddon in a blue shirt.

But, hey, you take comfort where any crumb is available. Right?

The European bridge championships were being held with considerably less fanfare and we were in the quarterfinals.

That mattered, didn’t it?

Preparations for the Volvo Ocean Race were in full pace, the race terminating in Galway in a few short weeks. As I waited in the hotel lobby for Kelly, I read through the city preparations to receive the yachts. Meant a sizable payday to the city. No wonder Clancy and the city hotshots refused to entertain the concept of C33, a vigilante running loose, with world media lurking. No, had to keep that bogey under wraps.

Heard,

“Yo, sailor.”

Kelly, dressed in tight white jeans, tight black T-shirt, her face radiant. I felt the stir, if not of echoes, then yearning. She leaned over to do that ridiculous air kiss, then suddenly veered to a kiss, her tongue deep in my mouth, then withdrew, said,

“Suck that.”

Jesus.

A waitress appeared, looking all of sixteen and suddenly making Kelly seem . . . extreme? Kelly snapped,

“Lolita, get us a pot of coffee before the yachts arrive.”

I said, recovering some tarnished dignity,

“You have the essentials of leadership down.”

She gave me a mischievous grin, asked,

“What would they be, mon amour?”

“Rudeness and hostility.”

She laughed as the coffee came, said to the girl,

“Put it on Reardon’s tab.”

The girl was confused, waited,

I said,

“He owns the hotel.”

She lit up, went,

“Oh,
Mr.
Reardon.”

Kelly sat back, said,

“Take a hike.”

I asked,

“Are you working on being a bitch, or is it, you know, natural?”

Gave me a long look, asked,

“Long as the bitch is in your corner, what do you care?”

I told her about my dilemma, Skylar being headhunted and her selling out Reardon. She gave me an odd look, asked,

“What’s the dilemma?”

Truth to tell, I wanted to look like I was at least having a struggle with this, that somewhere in me was a streak of decency. I said,

“Well, she’s a nice kid. Seems like she
confided
in me and to just sell her seems
cold
.”

She laughed out loud. Said,

“How the fuck do you know what’s she like? She didn’t confide in you, she got wasted, shot her mouth off.”

Jesus, was I sorry I’d asked, said,

“Betrayal is not only a shitty thing to do, it’s . . . it’s . . . un-Irish.”

She loved that, tapped my head, said,

“Fess up, buddy, you want to look noble while being a cunt.”

The sun had come out, maybe in anticipation of the Volvo Ocean Race. Kelly said,

“Walk with me.”

We headed down toward the Corn Market. Kelly said,

“I love this city. It’s so walker-friendly.”

I sniffed,

“Tell it to
Lonely Planet
.”

She stopped, said,

“You have the weirdest thought processes. I mean, whammo, you’re off on some side trip, like a Seth MacFarlane with Irish sensibility.”

Fuck,
Family Guy
I wasn’t. I said,

“
Lonely Planet
stuck it to the city, big-time.”

She gave that enigmatic smile, signifying little, said,

“Those dudes handed you your ass, right.”