Galway Girl

Father Malachy’s sister,

The Duchess Jess—

I had to talk to her without Jericho around.

So I sat outside the house, waited.

Round noon, Jericho appeared with, from her demeanor, not a care in the world. She got into a dark Audi, no doubt belonging to Jess, drove off like a woman who had the world by the balls.

I was dressed in semi-respectable mode: even a Masonic tie I’d beaten off a Mason, the jacket of my funeral suit, near white shirt, 501s and the Docs with the closest thing to a sheen on them there’d ever be.

I had the look of a failed accountant who moonlighted as a morgue attendant.

I knocked on the door, waited.

Took five minutes, then the door opened to Jess.

Jess, reeking of gin and a powerhouse perfume, the make-you-gag type.

She was dressed in what seemed to be the curtains from the Abbey Theatre. She nigh whispered,

“Have you come to fix the TV?”

I said,

“Malachy sent me.”

Seemed to take a moment for her to recall who he was, then,

“Weren’t you here before?”

“Yes. Might I have a word?”

As she hesitated, I added,

“I might be able to fix the TV.”

I was in.

She draped herself on what theatrical people refer to as a chaise longue.

Ordered,

“Pour us some drinkies, like a good man.”

I poured her a sizable gin, asked,

“Ice?”

Got,

“You silly man.”

So, no, then.

I allowed myself a single malt, like a character in a serious novel, sat opposite her, waited.

She demolished the drink, asked,

“Who are you again?”

“Jack Taylor.”

I laid out the whole sorry story of Scott, Stapes, and the lethal Jericho. Took a while and I think she dozed. When I was done, I took her glass, filled it with tonic, handed it over, said,

“So, bottom line, Jericho is going to kill you.”

She seemed to ponder this, then,

“Are you married?”

I said,

“I was.”

This seemed to please her and she asked,

“Couldn’t cut it, huh?”

I tried again to get her attention.

“Your little house pet, roommate, is going to kill you.”

She made an effort to stand, motioning me to leave, said,

“I tire of you.”

I near pleaded,

“What about your TV?”

She gave a nasty chuckle, said,

“I don’t watch television.”

Outside, I stood to take a breath.

Jericho was leaning against the car, a lollipop in her mouth.

She was the essence of smugness wrapped in a sneer.

She offered the pop, asked,

“Wanna suck?”

I asked,

“You abandon your mates, leave them to rot in jail, shoot a barman, now are planning to get rid of the old lady who has been kind to you.”

I paused.

Then in a kind of desperation, asked,

“Who are you?”

She gave a wide smile, said,

“But you know who. I’m a Galway girl.”