Callous

I was sitting on the prom, my legs hanging over the edge of the path, watching the sea crash in the distance against the rocks. I felt something I rare to rarest experienced.

Peace.

The peace that passes all understanding.

Well, not so much. Let’s not go wild, here.

A man walked by, holding what seemed to be a dog’s leash but no dog, or none I could see. He was smartly dressed, if not, in fact, the most suitable beach wear.

A smart blue linen suit underneath what my dad used to call a Crombie coat. My dad did not use the description in any flattering sense. He was a street cop, tough as they come and contemptuous of civilians.

Alas, he saw his own family as that.

I digress.

A tedious tendency I learned in Theology 901, urged,

Digress on matters of faith.

Of course, with the crew of pedophiles, they moved from digression to disappearance.

The man’s shoes were a money shot.

Oxford brogues!

Like an escapee from Brideshead Revisited.

He was in his fit late sixties but hale and, who knew, maybe even hearty. I asked,

“Lose your dog?”

He said,

“You’re an American?”

In a hostile tone.

I nodded and he snarled,

“Just can’t mind yer own fucking business.”

Phew-oh.

I shrugged, said,

“Move along, fella.”

He considered this, then,

“I don’t have a dog.”

I was tired of this nonsense, stood up, felt a presence behind me, half turned. A man, wearing beautiful, well-tested cowboy boots, like Eastwood in High Plains Drifter.

The dogless man said,

“God bless, and look out for a black collie.”

I turned to the man with the fine boots and near fell back as he was the spit of a cowboy:

The boots.

Jeans with a heavy buckle.

Waistcoat.

Black duster coat.

And a face so weather-beaten you could rent out the lines on there.

He flipped open a wallet. It had the badge of a U.S. Marshal. He literally drawled,

“I just fucked your sis.”

Showstopper.

I swung with my right hand.

Without seeming to move, his open palm came up, stopped my fist, and with his other hand he delivered a brutal shot to my gut. I was on my knees, puking an Oirish breakfast.

Sausages.

Fried egg.

Mushrooms.

Bacon.

Fried tomatoes.

Black pudding.

It had looked a whole lot better on the plate.

The marshal said,

“Sucker-punch. Surely as a former cop, you’d watch for that.”

From farther down the beach, the dogless man shouted,

“Hoi, leave him alone or I’ll set my dog on you.”

Marshal said,

“My name is Mason and what do you say? Lemme buy you some shots of bourbon, we’ll maybe bond, shoot the shit, sound good?”

I was slowly able to stand, managed,

“Fuck you and the horse you must have somewhere.”

He threw back his head, gave a full-throated laugh, said,

“I like you. Like your sister, you have cojones.”

I touched my stomach and, oh Lord, the pain. Maybe some ribs cracked. Mason said,

“Would you feel better if I said, Your sister and I made love?”

He waited but I was still trying not to retch, so he began to stride away, ordered,

“Come on, Mitch, you wanna know what the darn heck is going down.”

And fuckit.

I did.

Did want to know.

He led the way to a small pub named, ingeniously, the Prom. It was busy due to the TV having a live sports channel. Stepped up to the bar, a young, pretty woman serving. She asked,

“Get you fellas.”

Mason gave her the smile, asked,

“Got Maker’s Mark?”

She did.

He ordered two and Buds as point. Then he leaned against the bar, shitkicker pose, looked at me, said,

“That is a fine coat.”

My stomach hurt but I managed to get the whiskey down, sipped some Bud, asked,

“What do you want, apart from a serious kick in the face?”

He laughed, said to the woman,

“My buddy here, he’s a riot.”

Then he took his drink, motioned we should move to a table in the rear. Did that and he swallowed the shot, turned the small glass upside down, tapped on its base, said,

“For the record, your sister jumped me.”

I said,

“Well, she’s a junkie, so any sex means extraordinarily little to her.”

He pondered that, said,

“Whoa, family dysfunction, not my gig.”

I waited and he took a deep breath, laid out the whole narrative on Dio, Keegan, and Dio’s obsession with Maria Callas, how Kate, might be able to dance the psycho to some serious move that would finish him.

I was horrified, asked,

“She agreed to this?”

Mason laughed, said,

“We left her with little choice.”

I wanted to slug him so badly, it ached.

He toasted me with the Bud, said,

“Yeah, it’s a mind-fuck when you want to lash out and...”

Pause.

“Can’t.”

I said, letting conviction leak over my tone,

“I can wait.”

He said,

“Oh... oh, how threatening.”

I did the hand-signal thing to the bar lady, as in, Same again.

Her expression soured; she must prefer the more traditional route of haul yer ass up to the counter.

I thought,

Tough shit.

My mind was jittering with snakes of violence and mayhem. I tried again, asked,

“Why my sister?”

The drinks arrived, the lady pointedly ignoring me, had a mega smile for Mason. She said to him,

“Check the bottom of your glass when you’re done.”

He drank fast then upturned the glass. A phone number on notepaper on it. He smiled smugly, carefully folded it, said,

“We are dealing with a psycho who is about to flood this country with crystal meth. Important folk in DC have a fond attachment to this land.”

I pushed,

“And my sister agreed to do this?”

He lied,

“Jumped at the chance to be a patriot.”

He’d already told me she had no choice, so he was full of shite.

He did those neck twists, side to side, that assholes do to demonstrate their fitness, then he gave me a studied look, said,

“You remind me of my dad.”

I wanted to smack him until that smugness was beaten down. He said,

“Like you, he was a failure, cut and run, that was his gig, which brings me nicely to the real issue here.”

I waited, not expecting anything good. He said,

“You have twenty-four hours to get out of town.”

I laughed, said,

“Get real.”

He stood, put a rake of euros on the table, said,

“We can’t have you sniffing around, generally being a giant pain in the butt.”

I stood up, tried,

“And if I don’t leave?”

He stared at his fine boots, then said,

“Well then, asshole, you will be in a world of hurt.”

And he was gone.

The bar lady came over, clearing the table. I said,

“He’s married with four kids.”