Galway Confidential

20

Ireland had now welcomed thirty thousand refugees from Ukraine. The problem was we had no place to house them. Temporary bases like large tents, arenas, were being used in a desperate effort to provide shelter.

Russia continued to bombard their country with a veritable blitzkrieg of shelling. For eight weeks, Ukraine continued to fight back.

I had to find a solicitor to defend me against the charges of assault and battery. It is generally believed, though not spoken, that if you want a good solicitor in Galway, get yourself a Protestant one, preferably with that Anglo-Irish accent.

Perhaps it is some hangover from the years of colonization, or some inbred deference to things English, but deep in our psyche we still held to the notion that, in matters of law, the Brits had an edge.

Randall Lewis Brown, there’s a name not to fuck with. He had an office adjacent to the courthouse, so his location alone told you he was a shrewd cookie. I dressed to, if not impress, then at least not intimidate.

I got a fine tweed jacket in the St. Vincent de Paul shop, with a Van Heusen shirt and boat-club tie, all for twenty-five euro.

The woman serving me said,

“You’ll impress somebody in that gear.”

She wasn’t being nasty, just observant, so I asked,

“Ah, but would I impress you?”

She gave that laugh, special to Galway women, you’re never sure if the laugh is with you or about you. She said,

“But, Jack, I know you.”

You don’t push further.

So, thus dressed, I went to the solicitor’s office. I had an appointment at twelve thirty. A secretary of the old-school type, i.e., hostile, told me to sit and be patient.

I did.

I flicked through the magazines on a table, and was vaguely considering if I might look at Country Life, when I was summoned. Told gravely,

“Mr. Brown will see you now.”

I was ushered into the 1950s.

The office had that gray dark light of the old days, heavy furniture, and reams of solemn books, containing weighty law no doubt. Brown was in his sixties, wearing pinstripe trousers, glowing white shirt, and Connacht Rugby tie. Heavy brogues completed the Lord of some manor image. He boomed,

“Mr. Taylor, a sherry perhaps?”

What?

He gave a chuckle, said,

“See, I read up on you. The demon drink has you by the balls if I’m to believe the press.”

I was at a loss, said lamely,

“Sherry would only ever be a penance.”

He liked that.

“Bravo, now tell me your pickle.”

He cleared a chair of fat files for me, and I sat, began my tale of woe. He only interrupted once, to say,

“You’re a modern-day Don Quixote.”

When I finished, he proclaimed,

“A resounding tale.”

Then he muttered to himself for a time, looked up a book, made mmm sounds, then eventually said,

“I do believe I can make this go away.”

I hadn’t expected that, asked,

“How?”

He laughed.

“Old boy’s network.”

“You mean Masons, Rotary Club, those kinds of boys.”

He gave a satisfied smile, said,

“You know, Jack, may I call you that? Good. It’s best not to know what networking really entails, just remember the word Edge.”

I said,

“Makes me want to have a bucket of sherry.”

He laughed again.

“My research on you did reveal you had a wicked sense of humor, and trust me, humor will serve you well, my friend.”

He rubbed his hands together; I was being dismissed.

I got up, reached for my wallet, asked,

“Is cash, okay?”

Now he looked offended.

“This one is pro bono.”

Surprised, I said,

“I am grateful.”

He considered that, then,

“I may need your services in the not-too-distant future.”

I was at the door, tried,

“It will also be pro bono.”

He clapped me on the back.

“See, you have the gist of the old boy’s network already.”