Callous

The family summit, with Mason and Leeds in attendance, had come to three decisions:

Kill Keegan.

Well, not really. It was what we wanted, but we settled for:

1. Find Keegan and where he lived.

2. Confront him

3. Kate would continue to lure Dio.

Pretty lame.

All of it.

Those who knew Colin — that is, Kate and me — knew he was not into any kind of diplomacy and the above shit-poor resolutions were like Muqaddams whispering on a Galway breeze.

Or,

As the Texans say,

“All hat and no cattle.”

   The following day, I came out of my new apartment to see the Porsche idling in gear, Nora B in the driver’s seat.

She asked,

“You like adventure?”

What fool would say no?

I had barely got in when she took off like the proverbial bat. She gunned that car like lethal intent. I had to ask,

“Maybe slow it down a tad?”

Sounding like an English wanker.

She laughed, said,

“You need to lighten up, padre.”

Padre!

Man, I hated that, said so.

She moved one hand from the wheel, said,

“I have a surprise for you.”

I have never quite drawn a line between a shock and a surprise; they seemed to ride together.

She hit a dial and The Pogues filled the car. She said,

“Kind of old-school, just for you.”

I asked,

“And you listen to...?”

She gave a slight smile, said,

“I need Metallica to jump my system.”

I said,

“I never got the lure of head-banging music.”

She made a gesture, indicating,

I rest my case.

Said,

“See? Old-school.”

She continued to drive like a contender for some lunatic-of-the-year award.

“My dad, who left me a shitload of money, God bless his tight heart, liked to listen to some dude named Rory Gallagher.”

Heresy.

I said,

“After I left the priesthood, I listened to the Ramones. Might be a New York thing.”

She asked,

“When you were in the priest house, did you guys chant or some gig like that?”

I laughed, said,

“No, chanting wasn’t part of the vibe.”

She threw me a look, so I knew a question was coming. She asked,

“Why did you quit? I mean it’s hot, but isn’t it, like, hard to get out?”

I said,

“I couldn’t hack it anymore.”

We were entering Cong, said so on a signpost. I asked,

“What’s in Cong?”

She said,

“My brother is buried here.”

We bypassed the tiny village of Cong to a castle a few miles farther on. She said,

“This is Ashford Castle.”

We drove up a long, impressive drive, stopped at the front of the castle. A valet appeared, greeted,

“How yah, Nora?”

She tossed him the keys of the car, said,

“Mind with your life.”

He gave a high laugh and when we got out, he hopped in the driver’s seat, took a moment, then drove off at speed.

I asked,

“They know you here?”

She gave a tiny smile, said,

“They know me most places. I’m a very generous tipper.”

She said,

“Let us take the tour.”

I do not know much about castles, they were scarce in Brooklyn, but this, even to my untrained eye, was absolutely fabulous. We walked through archways, fantastic gardens, and then came to the stables.

She asked,

“Wanna ride?”

She laughed as she said it.

Ride in Ireland has but one meaning.

Sex.

I could play, said,

“Maybe later.”

We moved on to what Nora described as her

Favorite part.

Falcons.

Nora said, as she hugged the man caring for the birds,

“This is Brad; he’s our falconer.”

Two falcons were on a perch, their heads hooded. They seemed to give off a controlled ferocity, still but vigilant. Brad said to me,

“Our Nora here, she’s a natural falconer. You ever had any experience with them?”

No.

Nora put on a thick, heavy glove, took one of the falcons on her outstretched arm, said,

“Let’s fly this beauty.”

We went into a meadow, with woods close by. Nora took the hood off, the falcon stared at me, staying perfectly still.

Then Nora muttered something, raised her arm, and the falcon flew.

It climbed impossibly high, until it was little more than a speck. I asked,

“How do you know she’ll come back?”

Nora showed me pieces of meat, laid them on her arm, said,

“She knows me.”

She used her left hand to point, said,

“Watch, she’ll make her body fold into itself, dive with fierce speed in a straight line.”

Nora braced herself. I was shitting myself. The bird seemed to be coming at me, all fierce power, deadly focus, then it veered, landed on Nora’s arm. I went,

“Fuck me.”

Nora said,

“Maybe later.”

We spent three hours with the falcon, and three mesmerizing hours it was. The utter stealth and perfect predation of the bird were awesome.

Then we went to the hotel proper. The receptionist asked,

“Usual room?”

I looked at Nora, asked with more than a little cynicism,

“Your usual?”

She took a key card from the receptionist, said to me,

“I come here to chill.”

I wanted to snarl,

“And to fuck.”

She read my mind, said,

“No, you’re the first. This is my private space. I’m wavering even now as to whether I should bring you.”

I asked the obvious.

“Why me?”

She was heading for the elevators, me trailing behind, said,

“You’re

“An ex-priest.

“Ex-cop.”

She paused.

Then,

“What’s not to fuck?”

And fuck we did.

Turned out we were staying the night.

Go figure.

I had no idea of exactly what the endgame of all this was. It certainly wasn’t just a few days in the country to relax. Especially as Nora B for all her banter seemed to be under enormous strain. You grow up in a dysfunctional family, you know stress like you know your prayers in Irish.

Ingrained.

She was able to provide me with a clean sweatshirt and jeans that nearly fit me.

Her brother’s, I presumed, but I did not ask.

Next morning, we had the full Irish breakfast.

Bacon.

Fried eggs.

Mushrooms.

Black pudding.

Sausages

Toast.

The country air had given me an appetite, but Nora B just drank black coffee and gave me looks of...

What?

Assessment?

Disappointment?

Breakfast done, with the staff tending to Nora like she was family. Me they gave cold veiled attention.

Efficient but ice.

Nora asked,

“You want to go shooting?”

In truth, I wanted to go home, but my small apartment hardly qualified as that, so I said,

“Sure.”

During my year on the streets as a cop, my partner and I hit the shooting range nigh every weekend, with six-packs to jack up our adrenaline. My partner asked,

“How’d you get to be such a hell of a shot?”

I said, mostly truthfully,

“I pretend they’re family.”

The hotel had its secluded area for clay shooting. The armorer, a jolly man named Theo, provided us with shooting jackets, explained how the shoulder padding softened the recoil, handed me a heavy, long-barreled shotgun and a roll of cartridges, asked,

“Need help?”

I said,

“Loading guns is the one skill I have.”

I loaded up, shouted,

“Pull.”

Out of eight discs, I hit seven. Theo gave a low whistle, said,

“Way to go, boyo.”

Then Nora took her turn and hit all eight.

I said,

“Remind me not to piss you off.”

The gun Nora used was a Remington. The stock had a silver motif, looked like a bird, the falcon perhaps. It was a beautiful weapon if “guns” and “beautiful” can coexist in the same sentence, never mind in the same breath.

On the butt were the initials “N. B.”

I said,

“That is one impressive weapon.”

Theo smiled, said,

“Specially made for our Nora.”

Noticed the our.

Had to wonder about a world that makes shotguns for girls, but I kept that thought to myself.

She handed the shotgun to Theo, said to me,

“You’ll be fine as long as I’m unarmed.”

Words to live by.

We thanked Theo and I slipped him forty euro. He protested,

“There’s no need.”

I said,

“It’s not about need, it’s about respect.”

And it was, kind of.

Nora said,

“Here’s the final part of the tour and then we can get drunk.”

I liked the sound of that a bit too much. Since arriving in Ireland, it seemed everything was the spur:

“To grab a pint.”

I was not complaining; stopped me from wallowing in the old familiar guilt.

We walked as far as an impressive oak tree, a single white cross beneath the massive branches. We stood before the cross and she said,

“My gorgeous brother lies here.”

What to say?

I said,

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at me, near snarled,

“What are you sorry for? You didn’t know him.”

Word.

I felt that I should offer something, so went the stale,

“May he rest in peace.”

A pause.

Then she snapped,

“Pieces.”

WTF?

I thought I misheard, said,

“What?”

“Pieces. Twenty-five of them, if the autopsy was correct.”

Jesus wept.

I staggered with,

“What/how/why?”

She looked right in my face, her expression pure granite, said,

“I guess they didn’t like him much.”

Before I could push, she said,

“Drink time.”

And strode toward the hotel.

The hotel bar was huge. You could have fitted an AA meeting there and still have room for the undecided.

The barman, like all the staff, seemed delighted to see Nora. Me, not so much. He asked,

“The usual, darlin’?”

She said,

“Two of them. My friend here used to be a cop, then he was a priest.”

The barman gave me a look of derision, said,

“Whatever floats your boat.”

He began to build frozen margaritas. Don’t get me wrong. I like the drink, but before noon? She read my mind, said,

“Lighten up, padre.”

I had been struggling with my feelings for her. She was

Gorgeous.

Funny.

Unpredictable.

But I was tiring of her continuous efforts to shock.

Right then and there, I did not like her.

The barman was named Brad, same as the falconer’s — what the hell? — and had a supercilious air. He put Nora’s drink with great care on the counter and mine he literally plonked down, so it spilled. He looked at me, said,

“Whoops.”

I was about at my limit of shit-taking. I grabbed his wrist, said,

“Brad, I did the night shift in Williamsburg and they spat out the likes of you for recreation, so go build me a fresh drink, then fuck off.”

Nora touched my arm, said,

“That is so hot.”

I moved away from the counter, said,

“You have both drinks; I think you need them.”

And...

And I walked out.

Of the bar.

The castle.

An ice-cold rage caught in my chest.

On the main road, I stuck out my thumb and, lo and behold, the first vehicle stopped. It was a white van, the worse for wear, and even more of a shock was the driver.

“Leeds!”