Callous

I learned Colin had been murdered from a news bulletin. It spoke, too, of the child killed nearby. I was shocked to the core. I knew Kate’s address and went ’round there, two police cars at the front. A guard blocked me, asked my business, I shouted,

“Family!”

He spoke on his intercom, looked at me a few times, then cut off. He said,

“Ms. Mitchell says her brother is dead.”

I tried,

“I’m the other brother.”

Sounding weak as piss.

The Guard looked at me for a moment, then said,

“Time to push off now. Don’t have me make you.”

Make you!

I counted to ten, said,

“Here is the address of the hotel I’m at if she wants to talk.”

He took the card, put it in his tunic, said,

“You don’t want to become a nuisance.”

There are many replies to this challenge, but none are wise unless you’re armed.

I heard an American had been wounded and a young boy murdered in Salthill.

I learned it from the most reliable source in Irish life.

A barman.

Did I worry about the amount of time I was spending in pubs?

A little.

I was at the counter in Garavan’s center city pub, working on a finely drawn pint. The barman, making chat, said,

“They tried to kill a Yank. Any relation?”

    There are so many horrors in that sentence.

I went,

“Not really.”

He gave a shrug, said,

“Now, if you were in France, you’d know they flat-out hate you but in Ireland, ’tis always a little up in the air how we feel, unless we have relatives working stateside, then ’tis no contest, we like you. What can I get you?”

I ordered a double Jameson, saw a slight hesitation on the barman’s part, but he delivered, said,

“On the house.”

I raised the shot glass, toasted,

“Here’s to family.”

I finally came across Kate in a place she might not instantly hand me my ass.

A pub.

Neachtain’s. Beloved of

Poets

Would-be poets.

Once-were poets.

Not a book published among the lot of them.

But talk.

You got it, yards of horseshit, poetically woven.

In an eavesdropped conversation you’d hear

Ginsberg.

T. S. Eliot.

Never Seamus Heaney because

Duh, he, like, major sold out.

It was vaguely amusing in a shoot-me-now kind of fashion.

Then I saw Kate.

She was sitting with a young woman, and they were deep in conversation. Kate looked wild, sad, beaten/defeated, or just Kate.

The ex-junkie.

Does that sound harsh?

You fuckin’ betcha.

The other woman missed being beautiful by about a centimeter, nose too prominent and a mouth that turned down. If the mouth turns down, run.

I approached, tried,

“Kate?”

Lame, huh?

She looked up, flinched, said,

“So?”

I thought,

It’s going well so far.

What I said was,

“Can I get you girls a drink?”

Well, fuck me, I was on fire.

Kate stood, said,

“No need, I’m getting another round...”

Pause.

“For us.”

She headed for the bar. The woman said,

“I think you get to buy your own drink.”

I said,

“I guess.”

Like I said,

On bloody fire.

The woman said,

“You’re an American.”

Indeed.

Before I could reply, she asked,

“Marry me?”

I stared at her, so she continued,

“It’s not like you’re my type, God forbid, but I want that green card.”

I went and ordered a large Jameson, gulped it down, and the bar guy drew me a slow pint, said,

“How we do it here.”

I nodded as if I understood. I was beginning to grasp that the Irish love talk, no matter if it’s relevant, just fill that silence. I turned ’round and the woman motioned me over, said,

“Grab a seat. Kate takes ages to get drinks.”

I did.

She had her hair tied back in that serious ponytail women can do without effort, and a T-shirt with the logo over her chest that proclaimed

not my problem.

She said,

“I’m Nora B.”

I hazarded,

“For Nora Barnacle?”

She looked at me with utter disdain, said,

“For bitch.”

And for some bizarre reason, she twitched her arm. I saw a tattoo run the length of it: an angel or, rather, let me lean on my clerical schooling, short as it was,

An archangel.

She seemed delighted with what she thought was my shock.

Lest she think she was running the whole gig, I decided to fuck with her, asked,

“How much would you give me if I knew the name of that angel?”

She leaned over, not quite in my face but hovering, sneered,

“I’ll pay for your night’s drinking.”

We shook on it, she spitting on her palm in an exaggerated gesture. Despite this, her hand was cool, a nice feel.

“So...”

She said.

“Spill.”

I drank half my pint, began,

“It’s Archangel Jophiel, patron saint of artists, inspiration for creative minds, and his color is yellow gold, like the middle part of your arm art.”

She said nothing for a moment, then,

“Holy shit.”

Kate returned with a tray of drinks, said,

“I’m feeling a bit drunk, so I mistakenly bought you one.”

This was aimed at me.

“A bottle of non-alcoholic beer.”

The greatest insult to a drinker there is, like, decaf coffee; what’s the fucking point?

I said, indicating my pint,

“I’m good, thanks.”

She stood back, hands on hips, eyes afire with rage. She echoed,

“Good? Of all the shite you were, good was never, ever, a part of it.”

Nora said,

“Whoa, what am I missing here, you know each other?”

Kate glared at her, said,

“Duh.”

I said,

“We’re related through drink.”

Kate grabbed a jacket from the back of her chair, said to Nora,

“Let’s bounce.”

The jacket?

I said,

“That’s Colin’s army one.”

She shook the jacket and pushed her fingers through two holes, said,

“He had a book in his jacket and it took the brunt of the shots. He is still in ICU if you cared.”

Jesus, I nearly asked her the title of the book. Fuck me.

Nora, looking a blend of...

Shock.

Dismay.

Uncertainty.

Said,

“I think I’ll hang a bit, do some more shots.”

Kate spun on her boots, stormed out. I tried,

“She means well.”

Nora laughed, said,

“Like fuck.”

We drank a lot of tequila, to such an extent that the bar guy handed me the empty bottle, said,

“You killed it.”

We staggered to the end of Quay Street, laughing at some obscure lines from Better Call Saul.

A squad car pulled up and Nora went,

“Uh-uh.”

Two seriously big guards, one looking like a very battered Russell Crowe, barked at me.

“You’re Mitchell, the American.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He continued,

“Get in the car, we need you to assist in the shooting of your brother.

Nora, instantly sober, said,

“Whoa, not so fast, Sherlock. Mr. Mitchell here has a solid alibi when his brother was shot, and as to who did it, that’s your job.”

Crowe looked at his partner, who shuffled, then went,

“We’ll need to check that alibi.”

Nora smiled, said,

“Me. He was fucking my brains out at the time.”