Purgatory (7 page)

Reardon had finally shown up in person at my apartment, insisting he treat me to dinner. He was dressed in chic grunge, scuffed trainers, hoodie, combats, but oddly these emphasized that he was older than I’d figured. Deep black splotches under his eyes testified to either work, insomnia, dope, or all three.

I was surprised when I opened the door to see him, muttered,

“What?”

“We need to talk.”

Before I could ask,

“About the fuck what?”

He glanced at his watch. Yeah, a heavy gold Rolex job and no knockoff, too fake looking to be false. Like the pope.

He said,

“The Arch, new joint in Kirwan’s Lane, do biblical steaks they tell me.”

What the hell, see if I could get a handle on the guy. Grabbed my Garda-issue jacket and he said,

“Ah, the infamous government one.”

I said what I thought.

“It’s downright creepy how much you know about me.”

He laughed, one of those laughs nurtured on Marlboro Red and Wild Turkey, so I kind of liked him a bit better. It was a short walk to the lane, buskers doing everything from

Galway Girl

To

The Undertones.

Mainly massacring any tune you ever liked. He’d a table booked. I had noticed two heavy guys a discreet distance behind. He said,

“My guys.”

“You need security.”

As we were seated at what I figured to be a table for eleven, he went,

“Guy has as much green as I do, two ain’t even enough.”

Ain’t

Pronounced with a midwest emphasized twang. Irony or just pig ignorance?

Waiters surrounded us like altar boys feeding a bishop. I asked,

“You intending to buy Galway?”

He scanned the menu, nodded.

“Pretty much.”

The wine waiter presented a bottle of some antique vintage. Reardon snapped,

“Bring two pints of Guinness, Jameson back.”

I said,

“I’m not drinking.”

He smiled. I saw the inner steel, a glimpse, the blaze that made megabucks. He said,

“Tonight you are.”

I did.

As I sipped the head of the pint, my heart hammering, I asked,

“What next—lines of . . . ?”

“Not before the dessert.”

Fair enough.

We had steaks, his blood raw, mine medium, circled by mashed spuds, blitzed with gravy. At least mine were; he went the ketchup gig. He ate with a restrained ferocity, as if he loathed the food but, by Christ, he’d get the better of it.

Like that.

I overheard the table next to us, stopped at mid-fork, focused.

They were talking about the death/killing of the moneylender.
In her own house!

Reardon asked,

“You okay?”

I snapped,

“Gimme your phone.”

Naturally, iPhone, did everything save the ironing. Got through to Stewart, asked,

“You heard?”

“You mean Peg Ramsay?”

“It’s true, then?”

I could hear his despair, anger, then,

“Yeah, in her own home, thrown from the top of the stairs.”

Christ, tried to get my head around this, asked,

“And FX, the so-called bodyguards, where the fuck were they?”

Reardon watched me with lazy interest, a small smile dancing near the corner of his eyes. Stewart said,

“In the kitchen.”

“You are fucking kidding. What? Making tea? Jesus.”

He waited, then,

“We have to do something, right?”

Yeah, sure.

Said,

“Any change in Ridge?”

“No.”

Rang off.

Reardon took his phone back, looked at the number, noting it, saving it, said,

“I don’t do friends.”

Maybe it was Peg Ramsay, maybe the pint of Guinness. I went,

“Just what exactly led you to believe I give a flying fuck?”

Stopped him. Then,

“Dude, you really are the wrath.”

Pushing his plate aside, he ventured,

“You interest me. You’re a sort of Irish Zelig, witness to the history of Galway.

The Magdalen

The swans

The tinkers

Despair of the young generation

Clerical abuse.”

Paused, drank a fair whack of Guinness, continued,

“See I figure, guy like that sees trends, and maybe can keep me up to speed on certain elements.”

The prospect of just . . . one, swear to God, Jameson lightened me. I said,

“Paid tout.”

He shrugged.

“Whatever.”

Could work. Least I could take his money. That would definitely work. He paid the bill with a platinum card, impressing the shite out of the waiters, me, half of Quay Street.

We’re shallow, so sue us.

Outside, I offered,

“Nightcap?”

He sighed, said,

“Told you about friends.”

I near shouted,

“Lighten up. It’s a drink, not a fucking commitment.”

We went to the Quays, ghosts of drinks past, bitter and recriminatory. A few guys, sitting at the bar, nodded, not in a friendly fashion, more the

“We see you”

Irish warmth with cunning outrider. We had us some shots of Jameson. Reardon holding the shot to the light, saying,

“See why it is you do this shit.”

He didn’t.

I said,

“No, you don’t.”

He wasn’t bothered, lazily asked,

“You get on with anyone?”

A young guy passed.

“Jack?”

A total

As in, total stranger. I said,

“Good to see you.”

He was lit up, like Ecstasy, with intent, rushed,

“One Direction are number one in America.”

Jesus.

Reardon gaped at him. The kid said,

“Like, hello, not since the Beatles, so this is, like,
huge
, you know?”

Reardon looked at me, then,

“That makes me feel old, so fuck can only guess how ancient you’ve got to be feeling.”

I shucked into my jacket, said,

“Been fun but, you know, enough.”

He walked out with me, palmed me a phial, said,

“You got five pills there. Ease that hangover right easy tomorrow but, like my job offer, it’s a one-shot deal.”

I said,

“As opposed to One Direction.”

We were standing in Quay Street, crowds of people swarming, the constant search for the
craic,
Irish party time. Involved gallons of drink, some blow, and who knows, that evasive all-encompassing fulfilling moment. No sign of the brutal economic austerity. Drinks on the
Titanic
indeed. Reardon’s mobile shrilled again. He moved into Kirwan’s Lane to take it. I moved with him but with enough space for privacy. And saw,

Top of the lane, Ma.

The Feebs.

First, I thought it was an urban illusion, the booze, rush of Quay Street but, no, here they were, myth on foot. Five teenagers, green T-shirts with

The Feeb

Logo.

F.B.I.

Fucked

Boozing

Irish.

The logo on the green T-shirts now being sported by a new phenomenon. A gang of feral, vicious teenagers who specialized in urban mayhem, inner-city terrorism. They were underage, but the courts seemed reluctant to send them to the young offenders units, owing to the lack of money available for staff. Knowing this, the
Feebs
were growing bolder.

Looking indeed feral, up for it. Three guys, two girls, the guys holding bottles of cider and wine spritzers. Moving with intent.

To us.

I nudged Reardon, who, engrossed in the call, waved me off. The gang moved closer, one of the girls making sucking noises. They spread out; bad idea. I pulled Reardon’s arm, snapped,

“Pressing matters!”

He looked up and, I swear, smiled. Grasping the drift instantly. First guy said,

“Hey, fuckheads.”

Reardon laughed, said,

“Love it.”

And he was moving. Took out the first guy with a kick, moved to the second, a chop.

Down.

The third, two rapid slaps, then to the girls,

Said,

“Ladies.”

Moved.

Lashed, with his open hand, the ears of both, swung round, sank his trainer in the arse of the first, looked at me, asked,

“Want some?”

* * *

Five hangover pills. A cure is a blessed reprieve but a loaded gun, too.

Next morning, the hangover phoned it in.

The pills kicked ass. I vaguely remembered hitting some late-night clubs and, oh fuck, scoring some dodgy coke off an even dodgier dopehead. Getting home, I was wired and drunk, bad combo, watched TV.

I kid thee not, a documentary on teenage pajama girls. That went viral. The two girls, featured, wear pajamas, in and out, all day.

Smoke forty fags

Use the c-word incessantly

Drink strong cider

Search for any . . .
any
kind of drugs

And were both

Fourteen years old.

In deep shit at school

No job prospects

Worked at being
hard

As in

“Hey c . . . what’cha looking at? Want yer head kicked in?”

And yet, maybe it was the Jameson, they seemed to possess a sweetness that they fought like little bees to hide.

This was Ireland’s youth.

And I do recall wanting to weep.

Oh.

And swearing off

The drink.

Stewart had always tried to rein in the worst excesses of Jack’s temper. Jack was so . . .
extreme.
Truly believed that the courts gave out the law, and alleys dispensed justice. He favored the latter, with a hurley. Over the years, Stewart had been part of some horrendous violence but never, Jesus, God forbid, gratuitous, and fuck no, never got a kick out of it. He was beginning to suspect, albeit reluctantly, that there was a part of Jack that relished acting outside the law.

And, whisper it,

. . .
liked the rush.

He’d seen the light, a dullness become radiant, as he lashed into some thug. More, he seemed now to seek out the cases where it would end in a purity of bloodletting.

With Zen, his martial arts iron training, stepped up, he was trying to purge his own self of the charisma of violence. The dark thrill of control, meting out punishment. But the last twenty-four hours had shaken him. He loved Ridge.

No question.

They’d shared a house on the last case, seen the horrors up close and personal, and together shared the bond of futile attempts to redeem Jack. Only Stewart’s feelings for his dead sister even came close to the elusive love he swore he didn’t need. Prison had scorched granite into his being, had to, to survive. Found that same shell vital for an entrepreneur.

Dragon’s Den?

He rented them the fucking den.

Sources, the fuel of information, were key. Lots of minor characters, like those in a novel, chorusing the narrative, spurring the impetus, never less than essential. Bit players in the clubs, pubs, street of Galway.

And, oh, they loved to talk.

Tell a story.

Any story.

And sometimes, the truth was in there, just a wee bit tangled. As in the late call to his mobile last night. The voice saying,

“Brennan, father of the brat who stole the statue of Our Lady, he’s the one who fucked up Ridge.”

Click.

The line went dead. Google search. Brennan, a beaut. Thug city

In a suit.

If a good one, Louis Copeland no less.

Brennan had come quietly from Dublin, smartly avoiding the roundup of the original psycho drug dealers.

The General

John Gilligan

The Monk