Galway Confidential

33

We had rain of a biblical nature.

I was watching Sky News. The line to pass the coffin of the Queen, who was lying in state, had people standing for twenty-four hours. King Charles the Third, in his first official act, sacked three hundred staff from his former residence, Clarence House. He had stated that he intended to slim down the Crown.

As Ukraine continued to regain territory and the Russians were pushed farther north, Putin warned that he would use every weapon at his disposal.

The nuclear threat was very clear and chilling.

My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, answered,

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Taylor, this is Albert from the refugee center.”

“Oh right, what can I do for you?”

He paused, then,

“I have information I think is of deep significance for you.”

“Oh, okay.”

Another pause, then he said,

“This is where you make an offer.”

I asked,

“You want paying?”

He gave a short laugh.

“Inflation is through the roof, Mr. Taylor; we all have to pay.”

When I didn’t respond, he said,

“I’ll be in Monroe’s pub in an hour. If you don’t show, I’ll sell it to the next in line.”

He hung up.

I gathered up the cash I had, put it in my all-weather coat, dressed for a shakedown, i.e., darkly.

Said to the dog,

“You mind the house; I’ll mind our business.”

Monroe’s, along with the Róisín Dubh, provides some of the best music in the city and is a lively, hopping venue. I walked down Dominic Street and ran into Robin and his son Chris. Stalwarts of the showband era, it is a lift to the spirit to hear them as enthusiastic now as Robin was in his heyday of the dance halls.

They offered to buy me a drink, but I said,

“I have to meet a guy for a spot of extortion.”

They took that in their stride, they knew me well enough to get that I might be serious.

We agreed we’d meet up soon and I watched them walk away. I felt a pang of regret for all that the showband era had signified and how nothing had ever replaced it.

Monroe’s was busy but it was one of those pubs that always was. Albert was lurking near the big window, furtiveness enshrouding him. He had a pint glass in his hand, near empty. He said,

“Get the drinks in then.”

Turns out I knew the barman. When you know a lot of barmen, your life is not much of a mystery. I got two pints, and brought them back to Albert, handed him one. He said,

“Some Jameson would have been welcome.”

I ignored that.

And waited.

He said,

“I’ll need paying.”

I gave him a short smile, waited.

He caved first, said,

“Your friend, the hard-ass who was with you, he’d been before.”

What?

I tried to hide my shock, asked,

“What did he want?”

Albert sat back, smiled, said,

“That’s the second part of the information. I’ll need paying for the first before we continue.”

I got my wallet, pulled out two fifties, laid them on the table. He sneered,

“Worth more than that.”

Now I smiled, took one fifty back, said,

“Clock is ticking.”

He grabbed the remaining note, said,

“He wanted to know about Raftery, I told him about the priest.”

Jesus wept.

I finished my pint, moved to leave, and Albert asked,

“Fancy another pint?”

“I would, just not with you.”

I took Trip for a walk, out along The Claddagh Road, leading to Grattan Road, and we jumped down to the beach there. I let Trip off the leash and appreciated his joy in running free along the wide stretch of sand. It spurred my heart to see him fly.

There were other dog walkers about, and they greeted me warmly. A fine-looking lady, dressed in a Barbour jacket, red Wellingtons that had faded jeans tucked into them. Her hair was blond, thick, and blowing alluringly in the wind. If I squinted my eyes, it could have been a commercial for Clairol.

She spoke,

“Is the tizz su [sic] your dog?”

I agreed it was. Her dog was a Staffordshire mix and just about the ugliest creature you could imagine, his teeth protruded, giving a jolly-thug slant to his face. She gave a short laugh as I stared at him, said,

“Isn’t he one ugly little fellah?”

“I’m not sure about the little.”

I said,

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

Put out my hand. She took it in hers, nice firm grip, said,

“Rachel Worthington.”

She had one of those strong faces that American women specialize in. Her accent had a hint of Boston, overlaid with some, what was the English term, received English, as if it arrived in the mail.

She was smiling and I asked,

“What?”

She said,

“No offense but you seem like you should have a bigger dog.”

“Oh, don’t let him hear you say that, he’s touchy about his size.”

She laughed.

“How very male of him.”

We walked along the beach as the dogs chased in and out of the surf. Rachel asked,

“Are you a wild swimmer?”

“I’ve been wild at times, for sure, but not in the water.”

Wild swimming had increased massively in the previous two years. I’d resisted any temptation to follow them.

Her dog approached and she put his leash on, asked,

“Are you going to offer me a drink sometime?”

I asked,

“Will I have to go swimming?”

“No.”

She said,

“Just wild.”

We arranged to meet in Garavan’s at seven the following evening. She added as she strode away,

“Dress as if you’re excited.”

Damn. The thing was, I did feel the touch of that. The dog looked at me, shook himself dry from the water, and wet me thoroughly, cooling me, so to speak.

We were heading for McCambridge’s when a woman stopped me outside Eason, said,

“McCambridge’s has been sold.”

Another Galway institution bites the dust. At Christmas, they made up hampers that were a joy to receive. Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s bookstore was standing at Powell’s corner. I asked him,

“Don’t tell me you guys are selling up?”

He gave a rueful smile, said,

“Nope.”