Callous

Colin and his crew were taken down.

I had dropped the dime.

When Colin and the boyos entered the Bank of Ireland in Clifden, the armed response unit was waiting. Both Abbott and Costello were wounded and, seeing that, Colin surrendered.

They were held in the new jail on the outskirts of town, top security.

I didn’t visit.

Leeds was the only one who knew I was the informant. Or, as Leeds said,

“The rat.”

He was pretty much disgusted with me, said,

“Your own brother.”

I tried,

“I was trying to save his sorry ass.”

Leeds scoffed,

“So, he’ll get life in jail. I’d say he will be super grateful.”

Lamely, I shot,

“Family, it’s complicated.”

Leeds was infuriated, spat,

“You think I’m some sort of orphan?”

Before I could answer, he shook his head, said bitterly,

“I was going to offer you a partnership in an agency, like you know, PIs.”

The worst thing of all, I laughed. The idea was balls-to-the-wall insane. Leeds stared at me, then with a soft fuck you, he was gone.

Long after he’d gone, I found a crumpled card and when I flattened it out, I saw,

There were two cell-phone numbers.

Holding that battered card in my hand, my heart was shrived.

The oddest thing, I’d become a regular in Garavan’s. Not exactly my own stool but in the neighborhood. I could even call the barman by name (Sean), and I remained the Yank.

Over a few weeks, a man named Fallon had become almost a friend. I say almost because in Ireland they always kept you just slightly off balance.

It was three weeks into our friendship before he told me he was a Guard, and not just your run-of-the-mill beat cop, but a detective.

For one crazy moment, I wondered if he was investigating me.

Paranoia gets bad press, but it does keep you sharp.

When he told me, I said,

“I was a cop.”

He laughed, said,

“The whole town knows that.”

Fuck.

He said,

“NYPD is highly respected in this city. You guys are heroes because of TV shows, 9/11, and myth-making.”

I said, without rancor,

“I’m no hero.”

He smiled, asked,

“Who the fuck is anymore?”

But I had a friend and the difference between one friend and none is infinity. I think I learned that shite at priest school. It was the sort of theological horse shite we passed off as discourse.

I bought the next round of drinks, asked him,

“You know a kid name of Leeds?”

He laughed and took a sip of the fresh pint of Guinness, said,

“Your skinhead sidekick.”

Before I could confirm, he continued,

“Gay little fucker.”

What?

He stared at me, said,

“Jeez, you didn’t know? Christ almighty, how could you not know? You sure you were a cop?”

I showed him the crumpled card Leeds had given me, outlining a PI agency, and expected more sarcasm but he went another route, said,

“Not the worst idea. We had a PI here until the drink took him out, but he always had tons of work, so if you plan on sticking around, it could fly.”

He echoed,

“Mitchell and Leeds. Has a ring to it, not to mention the notion of a Nazi skinhead and a failed priest being private dicks.”

He let that double entendre simmer, then called the next round. His cell rang and he answered, glowered, agreed to something with gruff grace, ended the call with,

“I’m on my way.”

I asked,

“Work?”

He weighed this, decided to let a little seepage flow, said,

“The killing of that head honcho, with a shotgun, there might be a break in the case.”

I asked,

“A suspect?”

He looked at me, gauging my trustworthiness, gave,

“The butt of the shotgun, it had initials: an intricate carving of a falcon.”

Oh fuck.

I said, without thinking,

“N.B.”

He stopped in his tracks, asked,

“You know who it belongs to?”

I had to think fast, tried,

“Those cartel dudes, they sign their work, and that NB was about fourth in line in the vacant spot.”

He didn’t believe me but figured it was not the time to push, said,

“We’ll speak deeper, buddy.”

And was gone.

I was a drink past tipsy so left the pub myself.

Just around the corner from the pub was St. Nicholas Church, home to the Protestants, and, on a whim, I went in, lit some candles.

I lit them and couldn’t find a slot for the payment, so unlike the Catholic gig of

Give

And often

And a lot.

There was a peace in the church, a church seven hundred years old, and I lingered in a pew for longer than I’d planned.

I nearly smiled, thought,

An ex-priest sitting in a Protestant church, lighting free candles.

It was almost a country song.

The rector, a young brunette, spoke to me, asking if I needed a blessing.

She was blessing enough her own self.

When I got back to my house, I was startled to see a young Labrador tied to my door. I muttered,

“The fuck is this?”

There was a note under the dog’s collar. I bent down to retrieve it and the dog gave me a furtive lick that kind of melted my heart. The note said,

You need one friend; his name is on the medal on his collar.

I rubbed the dog behind his ear, read the medal, his name, one word,

Revie.

Who the fuck was Revie?

And, mainly, I would have to stop saying fuck.