Callous

Ex-cops hear stuff all the time.

My sister, being marginally targeted in not one

But

Two

Fucking murders in Galway.

Jesus wept buckets.

I flew over lickety-split.

I didn’t tell her.

She’d have blown me off, fast.

Maybe the ex-cop, even the ex-priest in me, screamed caution.

So I took a week to lie low. Explore the city.

I found a cheap hotel on the Salthill Promenade.

Nearing October, it was cold; very.

So, I found myself in Garavan’s Bar most evenings; warm, convivial, very Irish.

Perfect.

Few times, a grizzled old drunk nodded but left it there.

I paid for his drinks some evenings.

He asked,

“You a Yank?”

“Yes, sir.”

He mulled on that, then: “You can’t afford a coat?”

I told the truth, said,

“I had a priest’s coat, but I gave it to homeless guy.”

Not impressed.

He muttered,

“Get the poor bollix killed if they know it’s a priest’s.” Showstopper, that.

A Friday, he left before I did.

God forgive me, I thought,

Good riddance.

Closing time, settling the bar bill, I involuntarily shivered at the weather outside. The barman handed me a parcel. It was heavy and I protested,

“Some mistake.”

The guy, tired, asked,

“You the Yank?”

“Yeah?”

Pushed the parcel at me, said,

“Then it’s for you. Now, I really got to close.”

Outside, cold, I opened the package.

A splendid navy all-weather coat.

It fit like a decent rosary. There was a book in one of the pockets.

The Bird Boys by Lisa Sandlin.

An inscription.

Like this:

   No excuse being cold

    The novel is very fine

      Bhi curamach (look it up, yah ex-priest)

He signed it with,

   Jack Taylor (ex-cop like yourself).

Not all my cop time was futile; I knew about surveillance.

So.

So, I followed Kate, trying to man up, tell her I’d come to help. Like that would happen.

I stayed in her background, like the one prayer on your beads you never recite. It is called

The fall prayer.

Meaning, if you’re down to your last plea, then you are fucked nine ways to hell.