Galway Girl

From nowhere, we got another ten days of sweltering heat wave.

Joy indeed,

But—

In Ireland, we always include the but—

Humidity.

The fuck we know about humidity?

Left us with a dilemma:

We daren’t complain about the heat, God forbid, you may as well diss the pope, but this wet, corrosive temperature did fray nerves.

We muttered,

“Grand weather.”

As rivers of sweat immersed us.

Sheridan, the supercop, joined me as I had a pint in Garavan’s. He was dressed in a light linen shirt, already creased in the heat, and shorts. Sunglasses propped on his head, he ordered an iced tea.

The bar guy stared at him, asked,

“You do know this is a pub?”

Sheridan, never noted for his patience, snapped,

“Give me a very ice cold Coke then.”

Got that and rolled the bottle across his forehead, said,

“Phew, that’s better.”

I was wearing a T with cooling material, light fawn jeans, and, have to say, looked like this weather was no surprise to me.

He was kind of impressed, said.

“Cool guy.”

I nodded, said,

“We have our moments.”

He let me savor that, then said,

“Hate to rain on your coolness.”

“But you will.”

He drained the Coke bottle, making a spectacle of it, then,

“You know we have the Guard killer?”

I did, and was astonished they were charging Stapleton, but I went with,

“Alleged, surely. Alleged killer.”

He gave a wry chuckle, said,

“We have, literally, the burning bullet.”

I had nothing to add, so he pushed,

“But here’s the best bit...”

And he waited.

I ordered a round, no intention of playing his game, so he caved, said,

“He wants to see you.”

“No,”

I said.

Sheridan was still in the flush of mind fucking, said,

“He promises to deliver the real killer if you go to see him.”

I looked at him, asked,

“Are you asking for my help?”

He mulled that, then,

“Not really asking. Think if it as a veiled threat.”

“Veiled? Sounds almost benign.”

He snarled.

“It’s anything but fucking benign.”

Stapleton looked more than the worse for wear when I visited him. We were in the green room, so named not because of its hospitality but rather to imply intimidation.

Puke green.

Stapes had a complexion to match and a dark bruise under his left eye. He also appeared to have lost some teeth and a lot of weight.

The smart-arse cocky fuck I’d met before was long gone. A Guard who weighed at least 320 pounds sat on a chair very close to us. He was reading the Daily Mirror. I swear, his lips were moving as he perused the sports page. I asked,

“Could you back it up a bit, some privacy maybe?”

He looked at me with deep hatred, said,

“He’s a cop killer.”

I said,

“So that’s a no?”

He put down the paper, recognition lit his face, said,

“I know you.”

This would not, I felt, be to our advantage.

I tried,

“Good to see you.”

He got to his feet, said,

“You used to be a Guard. What are you doing talking to this piece of shite?”

I said,

“He might be innocent.”

He sat back down, glanced at the wall clock, said,

“You have five more minutes.”

I could have argued but let it slide. The guy added,

“Children keep getting killed around you.”

Did it piss me off, incline me to action?

I bit down, looked at Stapes, asked,

“What’s the story?”

In a low whisper, he told me about:

Scott

Jericho

Even the barman being shot.

I asked,

“You were part of all this?”

Searched for a term, tried,

“You were part of this gang?”

He rolled his eyes, managed to actually sound offended, said,

“Man, for fuck’s sake, I was playing along until I could call the cops.”

Before I could pour scorn on this, he added,

“That’s why they set me up.”

I sat trying to take all this in, then stood up.

He asked,

“What do you think?

“I think you are completely fucked.”

It wasn’t hard to track Scott down.

His father had been a supercop and Scott, not exactly following the family biz, did two years in jail.

He lived in the family home, off Taylor’s Hill, the posh side of town — or used to be. I broke in early in the morning, figuring Scott wasn’t a guy to be up doing chores.

He wasn’t.

The house had indeed once been grand but was now threadbare, anything of value sold. I went quietly up a fine old staircase, found Scott snoring loudly in what seemed like the master bedroom.

Empty bottles scattered all round, and discarded clothes.

A minimum of searching revealed the gun; it held one bullet.

I pulled up a chair beside his bed, settled myself, then kicked the bed, hard, repeatedly. His face contorted in fright, he looked at me, the gun, muttered,

“Oh, fuck.”

I let him hear the cylinder click, said,

“Stapes sent me.”

Horror ran across his face like the prayers you knew were never going to be answered. He looked around for help, there was none, so he asked,

“Are you going to kill me?”

I said,

“I think so.”

He cried.

I mean, he really bawled.

The author Jilly Cooper recently asked,

“What is it with new men, they’re always weeping.”

Mind you, a gun in your face could be a good excuse.

When that subsided, he asked,

“Can I put on a T-shirt, some jeans?”

Did that with trembling fingers. His T had the logo

Women Are the New Black.

Cute.

Sensing I might be relenting, he pushed,

“Can I, like, get a shot of booze?”

I slapped him twice upside the head, hard.

Dazed, he whined,

“What’d you do that for?”

I asked,

“Why’d you kill the Guards?”

I think he told the truth, said,

“To get back at my father.”

I found his bottle of Southern Comfort, let him have a glass, and the effect was near instant. He sat up straight, said,

“I’ll tell you about Jericho if you don’t kill me.”

She was, he said,

“My soul mate.”

I sighed, indicated he continue.

Jericho was planning on getting rid of the old actress, taking the house, killing Jack Taylor as he was responsible for the death of Emerald, her soul sister.

(Lots of soul shit, I thought.)

But,

Stapleton had fucked everything up by sleeping with Jericho, then Jericho, tired of him, set him up.

I reached into my jacket, clicked off the recorder.

Scott stared at me in horror and, get this, betrayal, whined,

“You recorded this.”

I stood up, said,

“You have a choice.”

Tears again, God almighty. He asked,

“What?”

“Run or turn yourself in.”

I stood up, put the gun in my jacket. He asked,

“How am I going to defend myself?”

I said,

“Try foul language.”