Galway Girl

The heat wave subsided.

An old woman had said,

“If there is a yes to the abortion referendum, Ireland will be visited by a tsunami of grief.”

Is a forty-degree heat wave in that category?

I was sitting on Eyre Square, soaking up the remnants of the sunshine. The grass was scorched dark brown and little did I know a tiny tsunami was within a few yards of me.

I noticed a young woman — in her early twenties I’d guess but she was dressed like a woman caught in a fifties warp — wearing a tweed two-piece suit, like you might have glimpsed on Mad Men.

Her face could have been pretty save for a slight twist to her features that suggested she was elsewhere.

She approached me, said,

“Mr. Jack Taylor.”

As if she were presenting me.

She immediately gave me a very uneasy feeling.

I nodded, asked,

“Was there something?”

She asked,

“May I sit down?”

Produced a dainty handkerchief (people use them anymore?), wiped the seat, then very delicately eased herself down, said,

“I’m Alice.”

Then she gave a nervous laugh, added,

“My mum said,

‘Alice doesn’t live here anymore.’”

I thought,

“Bitch.”

She had a bag, more satchel really, that, like the hankies, you never see, opened it, and threw back the flap, said,

“See, Jack, I have all your requirements.”

So okay, I looked.

I saw,

Bottle of Jameson Zippo

Pack of Camels Shot glass Packet of Rich tea.

Rich tea?

She giggled, said,

“The biccies are for me.”

I took a deep breath, said,

“Very impressive but what do you want?”

She gave a heartaching smile, said,

“Why, Jack, I want you to find me.”

The very air seemed to hold a pause in time.

I wondered if there was a neon sign above my head that proclaimed,

“All ye crazies

Lunatics

Dispossessed

Neurotics

Gather here.”

I decided to momentarily swim in the insanity, asked,

“Where would I look for you?”

She said,

“I have a room with sheltered accommodation.”

I said,

“That’s great, Alison.”

Her face became a riot of anger. She screamed,

“Alison? Are you fucking kidding me? My name is Alice! How hard is it to just remember my name? I mean what kind of detective are you going to be if the basics are beyond you.”

Okay.

I stood, said,

“I’ll let you know if I find you.”

I heard her shout that I had forgotten the satchel.

I muttered,

“Find a gift horse to throw it on.”

The mayor’s ball.

A resounding success...

Not.

Began in a semi-okay mode. The car collected me and we managed to pick up Jess without too much drama.

Insofar as she barked at the driver to

“Get the goddamn door for me.”

She was wearing a gold dress that was way too small, so all the bits of her you might not wish to see gushed forth, plus she’d had a bath in some perfume that had you instantly open all the windows.

I handed her a single red rose.

Nice move, I thought.

She snarled,

“One fucking flower. You couldn’t rise to a bunch?”

I bit down, hard.

She examined my tux and, in truth, it was not a perfect fit, like one of those scarecrows that have been neglected. She asked,

“You rent that?”

I told the truth, said,

“The Church provided it.”

She scoffed,

“A freaking charity case, this is who I have as an escort.”

She leaned over, tapped the driver, not gently, barked,

“This might be a good time to break out the liquid refreshments.”

Turned to me, said,

“When they pick me up for my role in the new Dynasty the limo has a wet bar.”

The driver, not missing a beat, handed back a flask. I took it, uncapped it, used the top as a cup, poured freely, and handed it to her.

She smelled it, muttered,

“Cheap shite.”

Drained it.

She glared at me, demanded,

“Tell me one interesting thing about you.”

Sneer leaked all over her tone. I said,

“I went to jail for the murder of the mayor’s son.”

The driver almost crashed.

Admiration colored her face. She looked as if she might embrace me.

Shudder at the thought.

The driver, to maybe lighten the tone, asked her,

“Might I have seen you in anything?”

She sighed, turned to him, said,

“Google me.”

Managed to inject it with unsettling suggestiveness.

Back to me, she asked,

“You, you ever see me in anything?”

I said,

“Yes.”

Absolute delight, and,

“Pray tell.”

“When the psycho was staying at your house?”

“Yes?”

“I saw you in jeopardy.”

The ball was packed, the mighty and the wannabes.

The mayor ignored me but was all over Jess.

I found a relatively quiet corner and mostly was mistaken for the help.

Fairly surly help, in truth.

I vaguely heard introductions as the egos clashed with the alcohol.

One intro registered, a woman who was name checked as being “responsible for sheltered accommodation.”

She was in her fifties, face well flushed from champagne.

I headed toward her with two drinks, handed her one, she asked,

“You are?”

“An admirer.”

Sufficient.

And she was sufficiently drunk that she wouldn’t hit my queries with the new Irish “get out of jail free card.”

Data protection.

No matter whom you asked.

Where,

Why.

The catchall reply was DP.

A classic case of bolt the door when the horse had galloped into oblivion.

The banks, health gang, gov, all let info leak like a screaming wind, then shut down when things got hot and produced this new blank answer.

I decided to try a tactic I was in short supply of:

Charm.

I sleazed,

“Your husband must be crazy to leave you alone.”

Fuck.

She tittered, a horrible sound, said,

“I don’t have a hubband.”

We both laughed at the attempt to pronounce the word. What’s a slurred word when you’re having a bit of a time?

Now for the hook. I said,

“Alice sings your praises.”

She peered at me, asked,

“Alice Bennet?”

I sure hope so, pushed,

“Just awful what happened to the poor girl.”

She bit.

Said,

“That animal that attacked her, he got off scot-free.”

I waited.

She was into it, continued,

“Sean Garret, his family’s money kept him out of jail.”

Jess came flouncing up and I do mean flounce, as if she were fifteen, at her first hop, and I’m not even going to mention the giggling.

She said,

“Your services are no longer required. A member of the Rotary Club will be escorting me further.”

I looked at her, asked,

“As in further afield?”

She looked at me, then at the woman, sneered,

“You can have him.”

The woman, actually gasping, asked,

“Was that Fionnula Flanagan?”

I nodded,

She shook her head, said,

“What a bitch.”

As you left the ball there was a table with the Irish version of the goodies bag, said to contain

A signed photo of the mayor,

A sliothar (the ball used in hurling),

And a free pass to the plowing championships.

I lined up for my mala, Irish for bag, and was refused.

I asked,

“Why not?”

The answer,

“Only for the significant invited.”

I slouched out to the car, was about to climb into the front, when the driver said,

“No can do, Jack.”

Aw, for fuck’s sake.

I said,

“’Tis the night that keeps on giving.”

I gave the tux jacket to a homeless guy, who used it as a bed for his dog, said,

“Didn’t suit you anyway.”

Quite.