Callous

Kate heard of the murder of Michael Shaw on

Galway Bay FM.

And she went

Like, seriously fucking lost it.

Like this:

Smashed her grandmother’s Galway crystal goblets.

In Irish lore, that is serious shit.

Just lashed those beautiful babes against the far stone wall of the kitchen.

She howled like a banshee.

“Yah fuckin motherfuckin’ murderous piece of shite.”

Then turned to see Raymond Givens leaning against the jamb of her traditional half door.

An indication of Kate’s frame of mind,

(given that she based her life on Claire DeWitt, a fictional character)

saw a cowboy in her home, leapt to an Elmore Leonard character, famed in the TV series Justified,

and was only disappointed he’s not wearing the hat.

He’s older than that character but is chewing on a matchstick.

He drawled,

“Sure didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am, but you was a little preoccupied venting with that fine crystal.”

Hands on hips, fight mode, Kate snarled,

“Who the fuck are you?”

He tipped an imaginary hat, said,

“U.S. Marshal Mason, recently seconded to Homeland Security, and I need to speak to you ASAP.”

He then outlined the hunt to nail Dio and how she would play a part, and before she could object, he added,

“Even as we speak, the NYPD have found a pound of heroin in your apartment; that’s fifteen years right there. Or you could work for us.”

A wave of tiredness hit Kate, she sighed,

“Fix us some kick-ass drinks there, hombre, if you can find any intact glasses.”

He settled for two mugs, poured her a healthy dollop of Jameson, asked,

“Ma’am, you got any sipping bourbon?”

She sneered, said,

“You’re in Ireland, drink Jameson, and don’t even think of asking for ice.”

He aimed an imaginary gun, said,

“Loud and clear, ma’am.”

Kate got on the other side of her second drink, felt the jolt, felt feisty.

Mason leaned against a bookcase, a fairly sparse case, as Kate had yet to find her way to Charley Byrne’s bookstore.

She said to Mason,

“You carry a gun?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was definitely up for some mind blitzing, asked,

“What’s a girl got to do to see it?”

He could play, said,

“Flout the law.”

Kate sprang up, rooted in a cupboard, lit a spliff, asked “They rammed a crucifix into Shaw’s eye?

“Yes, ma’am.”

She felt hot rage spread through her heart, near spat,

“Just like my auntie’s?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She rounded on him, snarled,

“You say yes fucking ma’am one more time, I’ll find a crucifix for you.”

He moved toward her and she fell into his arms and, despite all the regulations, proprieties, and God knows just decency, they made out on the wooden floor like who gives an unholy fuck.”

It was hot.

Almost violent.

Loud (very).

And so damn fine, they hit that sucker a few more times.

Eventually, Mason sat up. Whooped,

“Damn, girl.”

They say a man begins to lose interest as soon as he scores.

Kate, precarious as usual, wanted him to leave immediately.

She said,

In not too bad an imitation of trailer trash — all she lacked was the bubble gum,

“Hon, that was fine. Not the best but not too shoddy, but let’s not get all ‘Islands in the Stream’ on it. You owe me nothing, but the big enchilada here is, you’re not the clingy type, right?”

Well, Mason felt fucked in every which way he’d not encountered.

Drawing on his best U.S. Marshal’s gravity, he said,

“Sit your ass down. I have some things to lay out for you:

“One: Dio is going to kill you. He has already begun building an ugly, gem-encrusted cross to display you on.

“Two: Dio is the biggest meth manufacturer we have seen in a decade, and he is going to flood the west coast of Ireland for starters.

“Three: No matter what we have tried and — trust me, sweet cakes — we have pulled out every trick in the black ops, we got nada.

“Four: For some bizarre reason, he sees you as the incarnation of Maria Callas.”

He wiped his brow, looking like he was sitting over the campfire telling the Pilgrims the Indians were en route.

Then he literally put his finger in her face, said,

“We want you to...”

Pause.

“How shall I say, reengage with him and find a way to steal his phone. It’s the one that has all his data and it’s made out of solid gold. When we manage to download his files, heck, we might even let you have the gold.”

She asked, reasonably enough,

“You guys have a freaking government backing you and you can’t freaking steal one lousy phone?”

“Three agents, deeply embedded in his crew, real professionals, failed.”

Kate said nothing.

He asked,

“Thoughts?”

She said, very quietly,

“Don’t ever call me sweet cakes.”

Mason said,

“Get him to trust you, try to think Maria Callas.”

Kate laughed, said,

“I already have callous down cold.”

He didn’t disagree, said,

“If you turn out to be his go-to chick, we’re gold.”

Kate stared at him, said,

“You call women chicks? How can you still be single?”

Mason was learning to let most of her barbs slide on by. He said,

“Arianna Huffington’s book on Callas is like,”

He took a deep breath, continued,

“The Bible.”

Kate, showing as much uninterest as she could, asked,

“Is it on Netflix?”