Callous

Diogenes Ortiz

Styled himself

As

  A

    Benign

      Thug.

His father was Colombian, and his mother?

Long gone.

He’d been six when he watched his father stab his mom in the eye with the crucifix from her special rosary beads, blessed by Pope John the twenty-third, not that that provenance much helped her, really.

Dad got shit-rich from coca, cocaine.

Sent his only son stateside for education and protection.

Señor Ortiz had most of his business dealings with the Gentlemen of Cali, who, despite their description, dispatched his daddy in brutal fashion.

Using the “Colombian necktie,” which involves pulling your tongue out and the face pulled back.

   You get the drift.

Diogenes disappeared into the American Midwest soon after.

Resurfaced as an adult, in Galway.

Made his appearance in

   The fall.

September 2019, the month of his mother’s anniversary.

Autumn, if you will.

Dio, as he became known, suggested a somewhat down-home boy, mellow even.

Phew-oh.

Nothing could be further from the predatory truth.

In appearance, he cultivated the style of an ascetic. Tall, gaunt, bald head, intense burning eyes, dressed always in black, hand-crafted black leather long jacket. Silk T-shirts, black brogues made in London.

He had few passions, but chief were:

Maria Callas.

Philosophy.

Rumor had it he’d studied metaphysics at the Sorbonne, been a brief tutor at Yale, but the most deadly rumor was he’d been embedded with the Zetas.

The Zetas were the most ruthless of all the cartels, possibly the only outfit the cartels feared. Composed of ex-Mexican Special Forces, hardcore mercenaries, they brought ruthlessness to a whole other level.

Whatever the truth in this, it was around this time that Dio enlisted an ex-CIA black-ops guy, name of Keegan.

It was Keegan who introduced Dio to the water gig: pour gallons of water down a victim’s throat. Drowning on dry land, he called it.

Dio brought his crucifix-in-the-eye signature to the mix and they joked they almost had a religious form of killing.

Mostly, they enjoyed the combination of the two bizarre methods.

Their plan for Galway was to bring crystal meth to the city, envisaging a megafortune in jig time.

Unknown to Keegan was Dio’s other main reason to stay a time in Galway.

Love.

Obsession.

Passion.

For a girl who looked like Maria Callas.

When he and Keegan had first tried by normal means to buy the cottage from Mary, Dio was transfixed by a photo on Mary’s mantelpiece.

He gasped in near wonder,

“Is that Maria Callas?”

Mary had scoffed at him in the fashion only a Galway woman can, answered,

“Don’t be an eejit, ’tis my gorgeous niece Kate, and if anyone was to get the cottage, t’would be Kate.”

Her name was

Kate Mitchell.

Sister of the ex — priest/cop/ile.

Dio had intended staying only long enough in Galway to set up the meth houses, but now a whole new idea blitzed him.

He’d kill the old bitch who called him an eejit, and that had to bring Maria Callas to Galway, where he’d woo her.

As he and Keegan walked away from the old woman, she shouted,

“Nil aon blain ag fanadh leat!”

This is difficult to exactly explain in English, but approximately it means,

“You have fuck-all time to live, you shithead.”

(It doesn’t actually have “fuck” or “shithead,” but it gives a nice zing to pretend it so.)

Dio asked Keegan,

“What is she saying?”

Keegan thought,

The fuck would I know? It’s Gaelic.

But

Said,

“I think she was sending you an Irish blessing.”

Dio stopped, looked at Keegan with his reptile/lizard eyes, warned,

“You’re my go-to guy, but don’t ever...”

Pause.

“Ever think you can jerk me off.”