A Galway Epiphany

Time to go shake up the arsonist. Google Maps showed his house just off Threadneedle Road; this was an area that never could decide if it was

A. Part of the elite of Taylor’s Hill

Or

B. The shady environs of Salthill.

Benjamin J.’s house was impressive, one of those new mock Georgian piles that exuded money, if not class. Solar panels on the roof to showcase green credentials made me think of the recent European elections. The Green Party won big, Sinn Féin, not so much. A wit said they could unite to be

“Guns and Roses.”

A vintage Bentley in the driveway. I knocked on the door, waited. Opened by a young man wearing a boiler suit, like a would-be mechanic. He had blond hair, soft features, one of those moon faces that echoed steroids. His eyes were askew so that though he looked at you, it was as if he were seeing something in his peripheral vision. I figured some heavy drug dosage had scrambled his brain. He asked,

“Yes?”

I said,

“I’m here to see Mr. Cullen.”

This seemed to confuse him, so I added,

“Benjamin J.”

He considered this, asked,

“What’s the ‘J’ for?”

I guessed,

“Jerusalem?”

His face lit up. He asked,

“Really?”

God only knows how long this inane chat would have meandered on.

Benjamin J. appeared behind the man, touched him on the shoulder, said,

“James, go and see to the dogs.”

James looked at him, confusion writ large, said,

“We don’t have dogs.”

Benjamin gave a tight smile, snarled,

“Clean up the kitchen. Just go.”

Reluctantly, he did.

Benjamin managed to rein in his annoyance, asked,

“Mr. Taylor, how may we be of service?”

I said,

“A wee chat would be good.”

His mouth curled up at the idea. He said,

“Perhaps you might ring, make an appointment.”

I stepped toward him, said,

“It’s about fire insurance.”

He faltered but only briefly, made a show of looking at his watch, a Rolex, said,

“We can manage that.”

I followed him inside to a living room lined with books, the type of books for show, not tell, a large oil painting over the fireplace, and, no surprise, The Great Fire of London.

I said,

“Bit obvious that, no?”

He smiled, gave it a long appraisal, said,

“One of the greats, the pinnacle we might all aspire too.”

I said,

“For psychos, I’m sure.”

He frowned, as if seriously disappointed, said,

“I expected better of you, Jack. May I call you ‘Jack’?”

I gave him a look, asked,

“If I call you ‘Benny’?”

He did a twirl on his heels, turned to a drinks cabinet, said,

“I’m going to change the energy of this whole meeting. I feel a certain hostility from you so, to start over, let me fix you a drink. Jameson work?”

He poured two fine measures, handed me one, then moved to a high-back chair, said,

“Chin-chin.”

I thought,

Like people actually say this shit?

I was about to speak when he held up a finger, said,

“One moment before we get to what I feel will be unpleasant. Let me ask you two pertinent questions.”

Somehow, he had gained the upper hand in this sparring but I could run with it for a bit, said,

“Fire away.”

Got a brief bitter smile for my pun, then he asked,

“Your biker friend, the Rolling Stones chap, does he still have his farm outside of town?”

Letting me know he knew where Keefer lived. I said,

“Yeah.”

He mulled that over, then,

“Good, that’s excellent. Now the second question is...”

Paused.

“Have you ever watched a sheep burn?”

I let out a deep breath, asked,

“Are you threatening me?”

He stared at me for a long moment, then,

“Good Lord, no. Would I be so reckless?”

I stood up, walked over to him.

With a supreme effort, I didn’t wallop him, said,

“You really don’t want to fuck with Keefer. We have a witness who saw you bolt the door to the house where four people burned to death.”

He was unfazed, asked,

“And will this witness testify?”

When I didn’t reply, he pushed,

“Rather awkward case to actually prove, I would think. A judge would throw it out.”

I said,

“You’re making a basic assumption here that is wrong.”

He was relishing this verbal chess, asked,

“Pray tell.”

I said,

“You think it would be judged in court, we have a whole other method of dealing with a killer.”

He mocked,

“Vigilante justice? How film noir of you.”

I shook my head, turned to leave. James was standing behind me, asked,

“What’s film noir?”