A Galway Epiphany

Keefer and I were sitting on the rocks overlooking Galway Bay. It was one of those fine crisp March mornings, you almost felt optimistic. We’d a flask of one of Keefer’s sour mash whiskeys and, like old cowboys, were sipping it from tin cups.

Why?

Why, indeed?

Because Keefer had shown up at my apartment with the above items and suggested we sit by the dock of the bay. He was dressed in a seriously battered fringe suede jacket — something Fleetwood Mac might have used in their heyday — battered waistcoat, Willie Nelson bandanna, motorcycle boots. As usual, he looked like an extra from Easy Rider.

He had covered all the musical genres with old Hollywood movies riding point.

He said,

“I’ve been reading.”

Showstopper.

What do you say but

“What?”

He pulled out a battered paperback from one of his numerous pockets, handed it over.

Honky Tonk Samurai, by Joe Lansdale

I knew enough to know it was about book twelve or so in the Hap and Leonard series, featuring a white trash guy and a large black gay man who solved crimes in glorious and violent fashion. I said,

“It’s a TV series now.”

He looked at me, said,

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope, with James Purfoy and Michael Williams.”

He savored that a minute and found nothing to like, asked,

“Purfoy — isn’t that dude English?”

Before I could reply, he said,

“Anyhow, talk about serendipity or such shit, the preface to the book is like spooky. Here, take a look.”

Having no idea what he meant I took the book, read this at the beginning of chapter 1:

I said,

“It sure is odd.”

Lame, right?

The rocks we were sitting on are about a swim from the main beach. The small stretch of sand below us is usually empty but a young man appeared, held up a stick, threw it, shouted,

“Fetch!”

Nothing unusual there save there was no sign of a dog. Then he walked to the stick, said, “Good dog,” and picked up the stick, repeated the process.

Keefer said,

“See that there, one of the reasons I love this city. You can be stone cold insane, bonkers, as they say in the country formerly known as Britain, but as long as you keep the craziness to your own self no one bats an eye.”

The guy spotted us, stared at us a moment, asked,

“Why are you drinking out of tin cups?”

I nearly said,

Same reason you’re walking an imaginary dog.

But sense prevailed as it’s never a great idea to fuck with someone’s illusion; no good comes of it.

Keefer said,

“We’re worried about the environment. Styrofoam ruins the ecological balance.”

The guy was distracted by a sign near the main beach that warned,

“No dogs allowed on the beach during the summer months.”

He looked at me, asked,

“What month is this?”

I said,

“You’re good, summer is ages away.”

He switched his eyes to Keefer, asked,

“You do realize your mate is not all in it.”

Keefer, enjoying the whole episode of weirdness, said,

“But it’s Galway, madness is okay.”

The guy shook his head as if freeing it from us, then turned on his heel, parting with,

“If you find my dog, there’s a reward.”

Keefer and I were in the GBC, the only real restaurant in the city if you wanted a serious fry-up, the whole carbohydrate neon nightmare, the type of food that you believe soaks up the booze. Well, you don’t really buy that but you have the false appetite that early-day drinking provides.

I knew Frank the chef from way back. He had two dogs and tended to them better than most anyone I know. We were sitting at the window table, the city up close and almost personal.

The waitress approached with caution. Keefer has that effect but then he smiles and charm ensues. He said to her,

“How are you?”

She blushed.

When do you ever see that anymore?

She managed to say,

“I’m well, thank you.”

I said,

“Could I get

Eggs, fried soft.

Sausages.

Rashers.

Toast.

Pot of tea?”

Keefer let out a sigh, said,

“Dude, that’s hard core.”

Then to the waitress,

“I’ll risk the same with an ambulance standing by.”

She stood for a moment, then walked away, uncertainty in her stride.

Keefer asked,

“Tea, really?”

I tried to explain to him that with a fry-up tea is the only rider. He wasn’t convinced but let it slide, asked,

“You ever coming back to the country?”

I said,

“I’d like to find those kids of the so-called miracle.”

Keefer thought about that, said,

“That leaves three cases — the abusive murdering husband, the arsonist, and the troll who caused the death of the teenager.”

“Two,”

I said.

The food came. It looked like a veritable avalanche of food. Keefer said,

“Fuck, wish we’d stayed on the rocks.”

He made a halfhearted attempt to eat but the sheer amount seemed to defeat him. He asked the waitress for a pot of strong black coffee, then to me said,

“You took care of one of them. I kind of hope it wasn’t the arsonist. I’d like to deal with him personally.”

I said,

“The troll.”

He drank some coffee, seemed restored, asked,

“How?”

I really didn’t want to relive it due to a blend of guilt and horror over the lengths I had gone to, so I said simply,

“I marked her card.”

Benjamin J. prided himself on his car, a black Bentley, over twenty years old, in pristine condition. He kept it in a garage off the Grattan Road. He rarely drove it as it did tend to draw attention. Alongside it was a very battered pickup truck, so beat-up it was hard to even gauge its color. This was, as he termed it,

“His business truck.”

If he ever got nicked, the pickup contained all the evidence necessary to convict him. The risk of that added to its faded allure. Connie stood beside him now as he put various items in the truck. He watched her as she admired the Bentley.

He handed her a set of keys, said,

“Knock yourself out.”

She looked at him, asked,

“Really?”

He gave her the wolf smile, said,

“What’s mine is yours, dear.”

She got behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and felt a stirring as the engine roared. Since meeting Benjamin J. she was in a haze of simmering heat.

She looked at the truck, asked,

“You planning on some building?”

He laughed, said,

“Exactly the opposite. This is more about destructing.”

Yet again she’d no idea what he meant but loved the way he said it. He gave her a smile of utter malevolence, asked,

“So want to burn shit down?”

She thought,

God help me, I’m up for everything, even the sacrifice of Brid.