Galway Girl

I was a little over the limit, truth to tell, and asked my own self,

“Who gives a fuck?”

Looked out across Galway Bay, all the way to the desired U.S., and the ocean rolled back a resounding

“Nobody.”

One of the few lights in my befuddled life was living in an apartment that was opposite the bay. I never ceased to stare and yearn.

I got home after a few fumbled drunken attempts with my key, and was immediately alert.

Somebody had been in again.

My nine-mm was hung in a pea jacket near the door. I slipped it out and ratcheted a round, then, holding it two-fisted like the movie guys, I entered the living room.

What I saw spooked me fast and hard.

In the center of the coffee table a gleaming crystal skull.

I scanned the room. Moonlight cast its beam and gave an eerie glow to the skull. I let the nine rest in one hand, headed for the drinks table, uncorked a bottle of Laphroaig, a present from Johnny Depp.

Kidding.

I got it from the manager of McCambridge’s at Christmas.

It takes a practiced dipso to get the cap off, splash a shot or two into the tumbler, knock it back. It’s a finely tuned act with one hand and even more impressive without taking my eyes off the skull.

Fortified, I approached the table and, fuck me, was I seeing things?

Embedded in the center of the skull was an insignia—

Of the Garda Síochána.

Scott had inherited his father’s house, a rambling mess of overgrown garden, built from old Galway granite, and it had an Edgar Allan Poe vibe.

Suited Scott to a maniac T.

His mother, Valiumed to the hilt, asked.

“Is it okay if I stay in the west wing?”

Scott laughed, a malicious, glee-free sound. He said,

“West wing! How very fucking Anglo-Irish.”

His mother tut-tutted, scolded,

“Language.”

Scott glared at her. She didn’t have her husband to back her passive-aggressive taunts. He moved right in her face, asked,

“How polite is this? Get the fuck out of the house by close of business, meaning this evening.”

A mournful dirge she began was interrupted by a special delivery package

Addressed to:

Scott,

Son of prominent dead Garda,

Taylor’s Hill,

Galway.

The courier remarked,

“Odd form of address.”

And lingered on the doorstep

For a tip/explanation?

Scott hit his head in mock exaggeration, said,

“Oh, silly me, you’re waiting for a tip.”

The courier gave an attempt at a modest grin. Scott said,

“Here’s a tip: mind your own fucking business.”

Scott bounced the package in his hand, puzzled.

Opened it carefully.

A disc fell out with play me inscribed.

He did.

A shaky video that showed him crossing the street, shooting Nora McEntee, then hurrying away. The camera panned to reveal a man in a top-floor apartment with a shocked expression. There was a short music track to accompany the shooting.

“Galway Girl.”

By Steve Earle.

Scott then noticed a sheet of paper, read,