A Galway Epiphany

I was at my apartment, trying not to think about

My deep friendship with Keefer.

The touching strength of Ceola.

The determination of Dysart.

The fierce beauty of the falcon.

The utter fear of the horses.

As distraction, I counted the money in the duffel bag, came to nearly 20,000 euros.

I sat back, went,

“A miracle?”

The doorbell shrilled.

More Guards, I figured.

Nope.

Monsignor Rael, the Vatican fixer.

He was dressed in a light black suit, immaculate white shirt that kind of glowed, his hair neatly cut, thin gold glasses, and his face like a shard of ice. He asked,

“Might I come in?”

Sure.

I waved my hand to signal suit yourself.

He came in, moved to the window as many did, and gazed at the expanse of Galway Bay. Then he said, without turning,

“We have us somewhat of a clusterfuck.”

I lit a cig, said,

“You think?”

I asked,

“Drink?”

He turned, adjusted his glasses as if to scrutinize me more fully, said,

“Indeed, how hospitable of you. Black coffee, please.”

I got that as he studied my bookshelf, said,

“Somewhat eclectic taste. Beckett next to Becky Masterman, Rilke next to a bio of Neil Young.”

I said,

“What can I say, I’m nuts.”

He smiled that thin smile that bespoke nastiness.

He said,

“Our chap Dysart, he was, I imagine, less than candid with you.”

I had to be careful not to pick up the jagged tempo of his speech. It was contagious, like a disease, a faint mocking tone leaking over his words. I asked,

“Pray tell.”

(See what I mean?)

He indicated the armchair, raised his eyebrows. I said,

“Sure, get comfortable.”

He did, even if comfort was not really in his catalog. He began,

“The girl/woman, Sara, is not an orphan. She was born to the remnants of a cult who worshipped the cobra, on the run from authorities in the U.S. and U.K. They settled in the south of France briefly, where Sara was born, then some of them fled to Guatemala with the girl. Needless to say, they were not exactly model citizens and rumors about dark acts were numerous, but they had one vital ace, money, lots of it, and some government ministers were not disinclined to participate in their doings, especially child abuse and any sordid activity involving sex and drugs. But eventually they got bold, went too far, and a death squad wiped out most of them. Sara blended into the train of refugees fleeing the country. She had quite the reputation for tricks of light, languages, and a predator’s skill of camouflage. But a bloodlust appetite would always surface and a number of bodies of young boys lined her passage.”

He took a sip of the coffee, went on.

“Ouch, bitter.”

Of course.

He said,

“She is incendiary. If she goes public, as well the crazy bitch might, the Church will be deeply compromised. I can see the headline: ‘Miracle Girl Goes on Murder Spree.’ We can’t let that happen.”

I said,

“I know where she’s going.”

He was astonished.

He lit up, asked,

“Good man. Get us something stronger to celebrate, you’ll be full rewarded from the Church, my man, and you’re gold.”

As I poured two stiff Jays, he looked like he might hug me, God forbid. He stood, we clinked our glasses, and he said,

“To the inscrutable Mr. Jack Taylor.”

I let him savor the moment, then I hit with the rider, said,

“Before I reveal her whereabouts, I need something from you, from the Church.”

His smile lost some luster, but he gamed on, said,

“Name your figure.”

I let the drama build, then,

“I need a week in one of your hideaways, the houses where you stash the wounded priests, the fallen, and, if you deny having such, all bets are off and you can, as they say in the best churches, go fuck yourself.”

He sat back down, considered, then chuckled, said,

“Haven, you can stay in the Haven, and it’s just down the road so to speak.”

I was a little surprised he caved so easy, then pushed,

“I need to be left alone there, with a course of Valium for the duration.”

He said,

“We can manage that. May I ask why? Not the Valium but the need to go there at all.”

There were many bullshit reasons I could offer but I decided to go with the truth, see how that tasted, said,

“I am shattered.” My mind a whirling cesspool of

Burning horses.

Murdered friends.

Mutilated falcons.

“And I am bone sick to the point of falling down. I need a week to be, if I don’t sound too much like an asshole, still.”

He mulled that over. I expected some sarcastic reply, got this:

“Burnout. I get it. I’ve been there. Few years back, when we first heard rumors of Sara, I followed a false trail that revealed horrors involving children and I lost it, my mind shut down, I was a walking basket case.”

“Did you go to the Haven?”

He gave a bitter laugh, said,

“Yeah, right. The Church is not big on compassion for its, let’s term them, dark ops team.”

You might think we’d have bonded over our shared trauma but, no, there was something slithery about him. But I did concede,

“You’re okay now, I guess?”

He gave me a calculating look, then,

“I read Deepak Chopra’s The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success.”

I could get a copy in Dubray’s or Charlie Byrne’s. I said,

“It helped a lot, then?”

Another chuckle with a definite overriding of nastiness. He said,

“To quote a Galway philosopher, like fuck.”

I did warm somewhat to him. I showed him my arm, the tattoo of the dove, the figure 3.5, asked him if he had any idea what it meant.

He took my arm, peered intently, asked,

“You got a tattoo and you don’t know what it signifies. Jesus, you do need the Haven.”

I lamely offered,

“I was drunk.”

Now he gave a full deep amused laugh, said,

“If you get a tattoo every time you’re drunk, you’ll have more of them than David Beckham.”

My bonding, albeit small, was gone already. I snarled,

“You know or not?”

He let my hand go, wiped his glasses like Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws, said,

“We’re going to need a bigger boat.”

Saw the anger in my face, apologized.

“Sorry, I just love that movie. The dove is, I think, to represent the Holy Spirit, the 3.5 is from Proverbs. Trust in the Lord.”

Fuck.

I said,

“I can see why you love Jaws; you’re the spit of the main character.”

He was chuffed, beamed, asked,

“Really, Robert Shaw?”

I allowed him to savor, then answered,

“The great white.”

So it was arranged. I’d be picked up in five days by Father Pat, the former driver of Malachy when Malachy had been bishop-in-waiting. When he was demoted, he lost not only his dignity but Pat, who had turned out to be a smart little bollix despite initially acting like a religious prick.

I’d given Pat a taste for Jameson and he was now a daily devotee.

God knows, I’ve ruined many a priest, as indeed priests have ruined many a man.

I needed five days to attend funerals: the deaths from Saoirse Farm.

Ceola’s father had turned up and taken her home to Scotland to be buried under Ben Nevis. She’d like that. She might hear the melody of violins along the wind from Edinburgh.

No one claimed Dysart. He was to be consigned to that indignity I recalled from a bitter Irish past of

Magdalene laundries.

Tithes.

Rent men.

Evictions.

Pauper’s graves.

Not if I could fuckin’ help it.

And I didn’t even like him but a poor man’s burial, no.

Took some maneuvering but eventually I was able to get Joe Irwin — I can’t say my undertaker, lest I draw witchy drama on my own self. Plus, I had twenty large to splurge so burying Dysart with class wasn’t a stretch. I donated another wedge to the Simon Community.

I bought a new pair of 501s.