Galway Confidential

23

Sheila Winston came by, demanding to know how another attack could have occurred. I said,

“We thought we had a suspect, but it was a false alarm.”

She was very angry, snapped,

“What does that even mean?”

Phew-oh.

I said,

“It means we fucked up big time.”

That didn’t help. She asked,

“What are you going to do now?”

I told her the truth, said,

“I’ve no idea.”

I wanted to say the Guards had huge resources, but they had made no progress. I felt it sounded very much like an excuse.

Which it was.

I offered her coffee as a distraction.

“I’m too upset to drink coffee.”

I did have Jameson but kept that thought to myself. She gave a resigned sigh, turned to leave, said,

“You’ve been a disappointment, Jack.”

I wanted to shout,

“Like that’s the first time I ever heard that!”

Randall Lewis Brown.

The solicitor with a name that rolled off the tongue like class. He phoned me, asked,

“Remember me, Mr. Taylor?”

As if I’d forget. I said I did, and he continued,

“I mentioned that we might prevail upon your services sometime in the future?”

“Yes, and I offered them pro bono.”

He chuckled.

“Precisely.”

I waited, then he said,

“We have a matter of some delicacy we need amending.”

Amending!

What a splendid term, covered all kinds of nefarious activities, and delivered in his baritone Anglo-Irish, you could almost look forward to it.

Almost.

He said,

“One of the partners in our little firm is being pressured by a predatory young lady and we’d like her to go away.”

I nearly laughed, asked,

“In the American sense of the term?”

He was horrified, near shouted,

“Good Lord, no, we don’t do that, least not outside of a courtroom. You gave me a turn there, Mr. Taylor.”

I waited for more. He continued,

“Her name is Sheila Winston.”

Fuck and fuck again.

He took my stunned silence as some form of assent, continued,

“Let’s meet and I’ll give you the details. We don’t want to discuss this on an open line.”

I didn’t want to discuss it at all, but he went on,

“Let’s meet at my club.”

He had a club.

Course he had; he was Anglo.

“Where is it?”

He chuckled, said,

“Sorry, how could you possibly know?”

There’s the thing, when you’re insulted by an accent, it doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe it’s a genetic hand-me-down after five hundred years of insults.

He said,

“The Codicil is located at the rear of the courthouse, number ninety-one, and you’ll appreciate this, there is no number ninety or indeed ninety-two.”

And this seemed to amuse him greatly. It made no sense but perhaps it’s legal humor.

He asked,

“Are you free round seven this evening?”

I said I was, and he added,

“Wear a suit.”

That didn’t sound better in any accent.

I did wear a suit, if one from a charity shop still qualified.

The shirt, a Ben Sherman, also from the charity outlet, a Galway United tie, and my Doc Martens. Difficult to wear the Docs anymore as the fashionistas had discovered them and are issuing them in every shape and color under a trendy sun.

I hadn’t shaved for a few days so let the father of Jason Statham look remain. I was good to go.

Found the club without too much difficulty, was confronted by a heavy oak door with a bronze knocker in the shape of a gavel. What the Americans might term cute. The door was opened, sounding like heavy bolts being withdrawn, and there stood a very large man in a suit not unlike my own.

“Yes?”

I was very tempted to ask him if he’d been to my charity shop, but sometimes, you just must let the good lines slide. I said,

“My name is Jack Taylor and I believe I’m expected.”

I didn’t say by whom.

Why should I do all the work?

He moved back, a lectern behind him with a heavy-duty ledger on it. He flipped a page, said,

“You’re late.”

“Story of my life,” I tried.

He moved aside, said,

“Go down the stairs, wait to be seated.”

I did.

Brown was sitting in a well-worn leather armchair and another empty one faced him. He beckoned me. Of the many things that irritate me, being beckoned is in my top ten. I ambled over, no hurry, and he indicated I should sit. An elderly waiter appeared beside me; I mean he literally seemed to come out of the woodwork. Why are these club retainers/butlers always centuries old?

Brown said,

“Mr. Taylor will have a G and T.”

I looked at the waiter, his expression was one of mild contempt if he could be bothered to assess me at all. I said,

“Mr. Taylor will have a Jameson, double, no ice.”

Brown gave a tight smile.

“G and Ts are the preferred beverage of the club.”

I gave him an even tighter smile.

“But I’m not of the club, am I?”

His face said,

And never will be.

We sat in silence, awaiting the controversial Jameson, not so much surveying each other as biding our time. Brown was in what I hazard might pass as casual wear for the club.

He had loosened his tie and his waistcoat was open, revealing a hefty stomach, straining against the buttons of what might wonderfully have been a Ben Sherman shirt. My drink came and, yes, on a silver tray. I took it, muttered,

“Ta.”

As pig-ignorant as it sounds.

I raised my glass as Brown raised his, and he toasted,

“Cheers, pip pip.”

Pip?

I said,

“Sláinte.”

He smiled at me. If a lawyer smiles at you, head for the hills. He said,

“I’ve been working on your case.”

And waited.

I think I was meant to show gratitude, so I went,

“Great.”

He laughed.

“Not a ringing endorsement, but righty-oh, let’s not dwell on bad manners. I’ve been in touch with the plaintiff’s legal team, and they agreed to back off. I think the mention of a man being burnt to a crisp by their client did sway their decision and, without blowing my own trumpet too much, they know I’m a fucking Rottweiler in court.”

The f-word was so unexpected that I nearly dropped my glass. He was happy with that reaction and continued,

“Now, the matter to hand.”

He reached for a battered briefcase that had his initials on the front, rummaged in there, said,

“Oh, I forgot to eat my lunch.”

And flipped a bacon roll on to the table.

Whatever I felt about him and liking him was never part of it, he was entertaining. He raised his hand, a gold Rolex sliding elegantly along his wrist, and the waiter/butler appeared. He said to him,

“Another round, my good fellow.”

As I said, entertaining.

He placed a yellow legal pad on the table, glanced through it, then looked at me.

“Thing is, Taylor, as I might have said, one of my colleagues finds himself in a bit of a pickle.”

I nodded as if pickle was a normal part of my world. He continued,

“This...”

Paused.

“A woman was involved with my legal partner, they had their moment in the sun, and he ended it but she is not dissuaded. She feels she has been used and wants to tell my friend’s wife and generally make a bit of a scandal.”

I echoed,

“He is married?”

And got the look from him. He downed the freshly arrived drink, gulped, snapped,

“Is that a problem?”

“Not for me,” I said.

“Ted, Teddy as we know him, Edward Deauville of the Ougherard Deauvilles, wishes this to all go away, for her to go away, and is prepared to pay her a not unreasonable sum to do so.”

Phew-oh.

I drank my Jameson, it had ice in it, the heresy of that. I said,

“I know her.”

He looked startled, recovered.

“Splendid, maybe you can persuade her to desist in her folly without any financial recompense.”

I doubt it.

I continued,

“The money will only annoy, not to mention insult, her, and she has a streak of stubbornness that might prove difficult.”

He waved this away as if it were so much trivial nonsense.

“Make the offer, she’ll jump at it. And of course, we’ll need it in writing that she won’t bother us further.”

I was almost amazed at his naïveté, leaned over to get his full attention, said,

“This is not a woman who’ll respond well to threats and God only knows how she’ll react to an offer of money.”

He seemed to consider, then,

“You seem to have confused our roles a tad. I tell you what I want and you...”

Pause.

“You deliver.”

You fucking believe it?

He finished his drink, belched, said,

“I saved you from a trial that might have put you in jail, so I expect some loyalty.”

I was lost for words, least any words that didn’t contain many expletives. I stood up, said,

“Thank you for the drinks.”

He gave me a radiant smile.

“Get it done, asap, there’s a good chap.”