A Galway Epiphany

I could imagine such a day, a day that seemed surreally perfect. I replayed that passage so many times in my head that I could smell the Gitanes.

I’d probably have skipped the 150 grams of candy.

I called Keefer; had to. Benjamin J. had issued a direct threat so I had to warn him. He answered with

“Whatever you’re selling, we got it.”

I said,

“It’s Jack.”

He said,

“What’s up?”

I told him, laid it out as it had gone down. He was silent for a beat, then,

“So what are you going to do?”

Good question, but I went with,

“What am I going to do?”

I did let a touch of granite leak over the question. He said,

“You’re there, he’s there, and it’s not rocket science.”

Fuck.

I tried,

“What does that mean?”

He sighed, said,

“Deal with it.”

I changed tack, asked,

“How is Sara, our girl, doing?”

His voice changed. I could hear warmth. He said,

“She’s a trouper, real gem, that kid. She and the falcon are a perfect storm.”

I had to think about that, asked,

“Isn’t that unusual? I mean, for a falcon that’s used to another handler?”

He said,

“All I know is they are inseparable. She even sleeps in the barn with the bird.”

The thought flashed through my mind.

Killers find each other.

Good Lord, where did that come from?

I knew I better ask for Keefer’s new lady and, for the life of me, could I remember her name?

Could I fuck?

Something to do with music, yeah, definitely. Was it Melody? No, it had some Celtic connotation? I went with

“How is your, um, lady friend?”

Lame, huh?

At least I hadn’t said “significant other.” Keefer said,

“You’ve forgotten her name already.”

I blustered,

“As if. I mean, seriously?”

He hung up.

Teddy Nuland. The name suggested someone jovial, with a playful temperament.

He was the county coroner, medical examiner. Nearing retirement, he was not jovial, but put him together with his single malt he became very chatty. Not fun company but certainly gripping.

I’d known him for years but it was only in the last few that he allowed me into his company, a small circle of friends he drank with. I’d given him a rare single malt that cost the kind of money that had you mutter,

“Fuck me.”

In Forster Street there is a small pub named Ryan’s that is so incongruous most people pass it by. It caters to select professionals. The atmosphere is subdued, a serious tone for serious drinking.

I dropped in there on a Tuesday evening, a time favored by Teddy. The barman, named Shane, looked a hundred. He kept chat to the minimum. The pub itself was like a drawing room from the fifties.

Teddy was already seated in his usual booth, reading the Irish Times, dressed in a fine suit that might have been fashionable in 1963. He was once a tall man but his profession had stooped him; thinning brown hair was styled in a very bad comb-over. His face seemed as if it were carved from the very stones of Connemara. The eyes, behind small glasses, were vibrant, hinting at a suppressed devilment and, indeed, he had a sharp cutting wit. Badly needed in his line of work.

I headed over, asked,

“Teddy, might I join you?”

He put the paper aside, took his glasses aside, said,

“Young Taylor.”

I sat and Shane arrived with my pint and a short for Teddy. I didn’t pay, you settled up when you left. Very civilized.

I asked,

“How have you been?”

He gave that serious thought, then,

“I expect to see you on my slab one of these days.”

I said with absolute truth,

“God forbid.”

You waited until Teddy hit his stride, meaning single malt number five, then his tongue threw caution to the wind. I asked,

“That book I gave you,

Herbert Lieberman’s City of the Dead,

Did you read it?”

He nodded, said,

“Fairly accurate for a novel.”

You could see his features alter slightly as he prepared to spill some trade secrets. He said,

“Strange case recently. You remember that fire some weeks back, the Americans and the miracle child?”

I said, casually,

“Terrible business.”

He was quiet for a time and I thought he’d decided not to share, but then,

“Very odd. The fire was confined to the bottom part of the building, where the Americans died from smoke inhalation but, upstairs, the boy and a middle-aged woman.”

He stopped, a look of horror on his face, and with all he’d seen, examined, he was years beyond shock. He said,

“The boy and the woman, I think she was the carer, their throats were cut.”

I tried to process this, couldn’t.

He ended with

“The devil of it is, they’d been killed at least twenty-four hours before the fire.”