Green Hell

Part II

Owen Daglish was a guard of the old school.

Rough,

Blunt,

Non-PC,

and one hell of a hurler.

My kind of cop. Unlike me, he hadn’t walloped anyone in authority.

Yet.

But it was there, simmering. His superiors knew it, so he was never going to climb the ranks. He didn’t arse-kiss, either, so he was doomed to uniform. He and I had some history and most of it was pretty decent. A big man, he was built on spuds, bacon, Guinness, and aggression. Why we got along.

I met him on Shop Street, his day off, and he said,

“Jack, we need to grab a pint.”

“Sure, how you fixed this evening?”

He glanced furtively around. Fragile as his job prospects were, it definitely wouldn’t help to be seen with me. He grabbed my arm, insisted,

“Now.”

Anyone else, he’d have lost the hand from the elbow. I asked,

“I’m presuming something discreet?”

He nodded.

Close to the docks is one of those rare to rarest places. A pub without bouncers and probably without a license. Under-the-radar business is its specialty. That plus serious drinking. No

Wine spritzers,

Bud Lite,

Karaoke.

We got the pints in, grabbed a shaky table in a shaky corner. No word until damage was done to the black. Owen, the creamy top of the Guinness giving him a white mustache, sighed, said,

“’Tis a bad business.”

No one, not even Jimmy Kimmel, can delay a story like the Irish. The preparation is all. Bad business could mean a multitude:

The government,

The economy,

Priests,

X Factor,

The weather.

I waited.

He said,

“A young girl found murdered a few days back, part-time student I think.”

My radar beeped.

“She was. . gutted. What’s the word?. . eviscerated.”

He looked as if he was going to throw up, rallied, shouted at the bar guy,

“Couple of Jamesons, make them large.”

He wiped his brow, said,

“I tell you, Jack, like yer ownself, I’ve seen some ugly shit. You learn to shut off, like the nine-yard stare. You’re watching but you’re not seeing. Jesus!”

I’m an Irish guy, we don’t do the tactile. Keep your friggin hands to yourself. Whoa, yeah, and your emotions, too. Keep those suckers, as they said in Seinfeld,

“in the vault.”

But I reached over, gently touched his shoulder.

“The last bit, Jack, fuck, the final touch. .”

It didn’t register. He downed the Jay, let that baby weave its wicked magic, shuddered, then,

“A six-inch nail was hammered between her eyes.”

I thought,

. . Nailed!

I spotted an East European guy across the bar. We had business in the past,

Heavy,

Risky

Business.

I indicated a meet with my right hand and he nodded. I said to Owen,

“I need a minute.”

In mid-narrative, he was jolted back to where we actually were, protested,

“But there is something else, Jack.”

There was always something else and never-ever-good.

“One second,”

I said.

In the small smoker’s shed at the back, he was waiting, sucking fiercely on one of the cheap Russian cigarettes currently flooding the city. He shook my hand, said,

“Jack, my friend, you need some merchandise?”

Over the years, that had mainly been muscle and dope.

I made the universal sign of my thumb, trigger hammer coming down. He booted the cigarette, took out his mobile, spat some foreign command in a harsh tone, grimaced, clicked off, asked,

“A Ruger, is OK?”

“Sure.”

“One box of shells?”

“Perfect.”

No money exchanged. That would be later, on delivery.

Got back to Owen. He was literally wringing his hands, went,

“Jesus, times like this, I wish I still smoked. You gave up, didn’t you, Jack?”

For an alarming moment I thought he meant it literally, like on life, but focused, shrugged, said,

“Nope, still smoking.”

He cracked a smile at that, said-quoted a line from Charley Varrick,

“Last of the Independents.”

Even Walter Matthau was dead, and recently the great Elmore Leonard. Deferring the final piece of Owen’s story, I told him how Leonard’s son called around to visit, saw his wife up on the roof clearing the eaves, asked his dad why she was up there. Elmore said,

“Because she can’t write books.”

Enough with the stalling, I pushed,

“You had something else, Owen?”

Owen said,

“The American kid you were friendly with?”

Jesus, how long was he going to stretch it? I grilled,

“Yeah?”

“They’ve arrested him for the girl’s murder. As the Brits say, ‘they’ve got him bang to rights.’”

I really believed I had lost the capacity to be shocked. The life I’d lived, I could no longer really tell the difference between a shock and a surprise. Like Owen’s Brits. . I was flabbergasted, asked,

“How, I mean. .?”

He caught my confusion, cut past it, said bluntly,

“Bloodied underwear was found under his mattress. Sick little fuck.”

I finished my Jameson, hoping to blast the bile in my mouth, the acid in my gut, said,

“He didn’t do it.”

For a moment it seemed as if Owen would punch me on the shoulder, swerved, settled for,

“Come on, Jack, you liked the kid but, let’s face it, you obviously had no idea who he was or what he was capable of.”

I stared straight at Owen’s eyes. Whatever he saw there, he flinched. I said,

“You know history, buddy. I’ve looked into the faces of

Rapists,

Psychos,

Stone killers,

Priests

and

Bankers.

Trust me, I know when someone is feral.”

Owen’s eyes got that shadow tint. He wanted another drink, his blood sang for it, he just didn’t want it with me. It’s always a revelation, a short, intense chat can bury a friendship cold. He knew too we’d come to a standoff but tried to wrap, said,

“I know that, Jack, but there’s something else out there now, something new.”

I shrugged,

“Evil is never new, simply a different shade.”

He put out his hand, we shook, almost meaning it. I headed back to town, went into a hardware store. Bought a pack of six-inch nails. The guy in the store had remarked,

“Some mild weather, huh?”

Indeed.

December 1 and no rain, no real cold weather. We weren’t complaining. He asked,

“You know Mike Diviny?”

I didn’t. Said,

“Sure.”

“He caught forty mackerel in the docks this morning.”

He pronounced them in that distinctive, flat-vowel Galway tone,

Mac — ker — el.

One of the reasons I still had a gra for the town. Farther down Shop Street a group of carol singers were seriously massacring “Jingle Bells.” A woman with a collection box shoved it in my face, and not politely. I asked,

“Who are you collecting for?”

Figuring I’d gladly help the Philippines Typhoon Fund. She said,

“Girls’ basketball team.”

I had to take a breath, rein in my disbelief, then,

“You got to be kidding me.”

She was up for it, challenged,

“And what do you suggest they do with their leisure time?”

“Would fishing be out of the question?”

The Ruger was delivered that evening. I paid over the odds; helps the discretion. I was sitting at the table, cleaning the gun as Jimmy Norman’s show played on Galway Bay FM. A song rooted me to the chair,

“Mary”

by Patty Griffin.

My memory kicked in, sometimes supplying arcane and, in truth, useless information. She’d been married briefly to Robert Plant. The lyrics of the song touched me in all the broken places. Heaving the gun amid a mess of bullets, I stood, poured a liberal Jay, toasted Patty, said,

“Your voice is the perfect bridge between Emmylou Harris and Nancy Griffiths.”

I tried to get my head around the notion of Boru being a killer. Wouldn’t fly. I’d spent enough time with the kid to get his measure. Then a thought hit. I grabbed my mobile, got Owen, said,

“I’m sorry to be bothering you so soon.”

“That’s OK, Jack. I enjoyed the pints, we should do it more often.”

That hovered for a moment but we knew it was never going to happen. I asked,

“The murdered girl, you said she was a part-time student?”

“Yeah.”

“Literature, by any chance?”

“Yes. In fact I heard the professor told the investigating officers that Kennedy had been stalking the girl. A college security guard even remembered moving him along.”

Fuck, this wasn’t good.

He said,

“Leave it alone, Jack. It’s cut-and-dried.”

I had one last question,

“Who is in charge of the case?”

“A hotshot named Raylan. A man going places, they say.”

I didn’t know him, said,

“I don’t know him.”

“You might know his assistant?”

“Yeah?”

“A certain Sergeant Ridge.”

Over many turbulent years I have returned to my variety of apartments/flats to find

Ransacking,

Burglary,

Fires,

but never a. .

Goth.

Sitting on my sofa, apparently at ease, was a young woman in full Goth regalia. The white makeup, black mascara, spiked black hair, and, of course, all-black gear. I said what you’d expect me to say,

“What the fuck?”

She’d helped herself to the Jameson, raised it, said,

“Slainte.”

Her utter composure suggested she was one cool lady or on heavy medication. I stayed by the door, asked,

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m Emerald, like the isle, I suppose, but mostly I prefer Em, less formal.”

I said,

“Before I sling you out, you want to tell me why you’re here, stealing my booze?”

She stood up, I tensed. A moment, then she said,

“Relax, if I was going to hurt you, would I have sat waiting?”

“Been known to go down exactly like that.”

For this I got a brilliant smile, sheer fucking radiance. It warmed something deep in my core that had been dead a long time. Whatever else, I felt she wasn’t a threat, leastways not a physical one. She was small but moved with that grace given only to dancers and felines. She said,

“See, you’re lightening up already. OK if I call you Jack?”

Before I could answer, she continued,

“Need to alert you, hombre, that I have a form of accent Tourette’s. Means I flip from down-home through posh to ni-gg-ah. .”

She stretched out the final word provocatively. Almost but not quite wetting her lips. She was a piece of work. I tried again,

“Before I knock your multiethnic arse out, you want to give me a hint as to what this is?”

She mimed a gunslinger stance, said,

“It’s all about the love, Pilgrim. . well, no. . revenge, actually, and that gig is cold, dude.”

Jesus!

I went and poured myself a drink, a large one, didn’t offer her. She had more than enough of whatever it was drove her batmobile. Was she finished?

Was she fucked.

More.

“So, Jacques, it’s all about the endgame and I’m your wingman.

“You wanna know who’re we’re taking DOWN?”

She pronounced it thus, dropping in register to the last syllable.

I said,

“Maybe before the new year, you’ll actually tell me?”

She threw open her arms in a grand salute, exclaimed,

“El Jefe, the professor, Señor de Burgo, his own badass self.”

Got my attention.

As she headed for the door, she stopped, listened, said,

“That wind they’ve been threatening is finally gathering force.”

As to whether this was a metaphor or a weather forecast, who knew? She gave another blast of the wattage smile, said,

“We’ll go biblical on the prof’s ass, right?”

She looked up at the sky, said,

“Goth in the wind.”

The death of Nelson Mandela met with a profound sadness not seen since the death of John F. Kennedy. Alas, the cash vultures were already swooping. Mandela’s famous handprint being sold for upwards of twenty thousand euros. It made you want to seriously vomit.

The week before, the incredibly affable, apparently full-blessed Paul Walker, only forty, star of the hugely successful movie franchise Fast amp; Furious, was killed instantly when the Porsche he was a passenger in was wrapped around a tree.

Some weeks it seemed only funerals marked the successive days.

December 12: the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

The Health Department, in one week, finally admitted liability in three separate cases of babies being neglected by the very medics charged with their care. All three of the little mites, as a result, had:

Massive brain damage,

Cerebral palsy,

Total paralysis.

And a very basic lack of oxygen for a few vital moments had occurred. The HSE took twelve years to admit liability in Case 1, and seven and five years in the other two cases.

The families were utterly exhausted and destroyed but they fought all those years for the most basic human right.

An apology.

The minister for health, fat-jowled and combative, muttered platitudes like,

Regret

and

Investigation.

Dare one curse-

Don’t hold your breath.

All the major charities were exposed as paying their top executives “top-ups” in the hundreds of thousands and they even sneered,

“If you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.”

And still they ran long, harrowing advertisements of dying black children with Eva Cassidy singing in the background. Shaming, bullying, and cajoling a bankrupt people into donating what few euros they retained. If the people hated any song, they now hated “Fields of Gold.”

Em had agreed to actually tell me who/what she was, if

I got wasted with her.

Her words.

Meaning, go on the piss. Twist my arm.

She insisted we go to the G Hotel. Already noted for its theme rooms, as in: you wanted peace, you opted for the purple room. Em said,

“Guy in the bar there shakes one mean, multifucking cocktail.”

I said,

“I don’t do fancy.”

She got the look, she asked,

“You want the gen on me or not?”

“Guess I could go for a frozen margarita.”

She laughed, said,

“Dress to impress, slick.”

Been a time since I hit the charity shops. With the recession, the new scandal about top executives of the leading charities on massive salaries, the people on the ground, the actual working staff, were bearing the brunt at the Vincent de Paul shop. Rita greeted me,

“Jack, we thought you’d brought your business to T.J. Maxx.”

And swear to God, she gave that Galway hug:

Real,

Warm,

Felt.

And fitted me out with a dark suit that hung a little loose but I can do loose. A Van Heusen shirt and brand new Dr. Martens. The cost-

fifteen euros.

I kid you fucking not.

Heading for the G in my splendor, I shucked into my Garda all-weather coat and was, if not hot to trot, at least ready to limp with attitude.

We were sitting, not close but not distant. From left field she just launched.

“My old man sends me hefty checks for the guilt.”

Uh-oh.

“What guilt?”

“For diddling me in every orifice until I was sixteen.”

Then she swiveled in her seat, exclaimed,

“Over there, I saw Iain Glen. Be still my heart. He’s got that intense brooding gig going.”

Then switched again, said,

“Think of me as a cocktail. You take,

Carol O’Connell’s Mallory

A note of Sara Gran’s Claire DeWitt

A sprinkle of angel dust

Shake that mojo

And

Out

Pops

Me fein (me!).”

Before I could comment she added,

“You only need to know I’m less Sylvia Plath and more Anne Sexton.”

I said,

“Or you could just be full of shite.”

We were on our second margaritas and those suckers were sliding down bad and easy. Em took out an e-cig, the green light glowing against the tequila sheen in her eyes. She said,

“I descended into a complete full madness and if you can know and accept that, you can function on a whole other level.”

I watched her exhale the nicotine-based water vapor and felt a powerful urge to smoke. A kick-in-the-gut, honest-to-God, unfiltered Lucky Strike. Em continued,

“Some people, before bed, they lay out the next day’s clothes. Me, I lay out a slew of personalities, then, come morning I wake, pop an upper, chase it with a double espresso, and see who I’m going to be that day.”

I asked,

“Isn’t that tiresome?”

Now, she was coming to it, asked,

“Jack. .”

Pause.

“Don’t you ever want to be somebody else, even for a little while?”

“I’d settle for being somewhere else, even for a little while.”

I could feel the tequila, settling then whispering, so I let it talk, said,

“Truth is, I only ever wish to be a fictional character.”

She was delighted, asked,

“Oh, do tell, and please. . sweet Jesus, don’t be predictable and do a James Bond shite song. . let it be colorful!”

I said,

“Raylan Givens, as written by Elmore Leonard. Gets to wear a cool hat and not look like an eejit, has a side that is pure mellow. He’s a U.S. marshal.”

She was disappointed or maybe the booze was on its rota of up/down swings, she said,

“You like him because of the hat?”

“No, because he legally shoots people.”

I didn’t come to. . wake would be too mild a word, to find myself naked in bed. The events of the night went blank after I’d sat on the sofa with Em.

I staggered out of bed, expecting the thundering hangover tequila guarantees, but no. . and I certainly shouldn’t have slept as soundly as I did. The norm would be the porcelain prayer, i.e., early in the morning (very early) puking my guts over the toilet bowl, on my knees, sweating like be-Jaysus. But no.

Apart from light-headedness, not unpleasant, I appeared to be fine. Fuck, even wanted coffee and a smoke. Pulling on a Galway United long sweatshirt, I went to the front room. A neatly wrapped package on the table with a note.

Lover,

I slipped you a Mickey Finn lest you attempted

to slip me some Irish. I was up early, fucked with

you a little (kidding), went out and brought you

a present. . for the Raylan in all of us.

Catch you nine sharp tomorrow. We’re heading

for Portlaoise to visit your young felon. Dress for

jail!

Meantime, I brewed fresh coffee so there should

still be some kick in it. . like your old self really.

Tootle-Pip,

The

Emerald

I poured the coffee, still hot and indeed with a punch and then opened the package.

A perfect cowboy hat, with the snap brim.

You had to love her!

Next morning, I was outside the apartment, no idea what to expect. A yellow VW Beetle pulled up. A very beat-up one. The window rolled down, Em, behind the wheel, said,

“Pickup for a Mr. Taylor?”

She wasn’t wearing a chauffeur’s hat but her voice had the vibe. She was dressed in lawyer mode again. This time a prim white suit, blue-striped and expensive, hair tied back, sensible shoes.

I got in and she eased into traffic, hit the stereo, and music surrounded us.

I asked,

“A yellow bug. . really?”

She was trying to identify the song, said,

“I know this? Why? Arcade fire?”

I asked,

“Ever hear of Ted Bundy?”

As we reached the outskirts of the city she reached down, then handed me an iPad.

“Some light reading for the trip.”

She said,

“Taylor-

Made.

“It’s Boru’s first draft of his book on you.”

“Jesus, how’d you get that?”

She was turning at the traffic circle, said,

“Young man in charge of the Evidence Room.”

“Yeah?”

“He has a Britney thing. I donned the outfit from her first video, the school gym? The wet dream of middle-aged guys everywhere.”

Skeptical.

“And what, he just gave it to you?”

She fumbled for a flask of coffee, said,

“I gave him a blow job.”

Jesus!

I poured the coffee, settled back to read, a way in, thought,

“Holy fuck!”

She asked,

“How you liking it so far, Mr. Johnson?”

“Christ, everybody seems to hate me.”

She shrugged, said,

“Now you know how Sting feels.”

She asked,

“So where’s your manners, bud?”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t feel a wee mite of gratitude for the U.S. marshal hat?”

I let lots of hard leak over my tone, said,

“Rohipnol? Fucking date rape. . you really want to go there, to revisit the source of the. . misdemeanor?”

She laughed, mock-shuddered, said,

“Oh. . scary. . I think I’m a little turned on.”

No real answer to that involves any sanity. I noticed a small logo on the dashboard, read:

Go gangsta,

Go ghetto.

How non-Irish do you get? I asked,

“Might I inquire who you’ll be today?”

She used a dashboard lighter to fire up. I kid you not, a fuckin spiff, inhaled deep, said,

“Hope the fuck I don’t get the munchies.”

Offered me the joint, I said,

“One dope per car seems sufficient.”

She snorted, then,

“To answer your previous, in light of this. .”

waved the joint,

“. . I was thinking, Nancy Botwin, you know, from Weeds?”

Terse, I snapped,

“I know who she is, Mary-Louise Parker.”

She said,

“Jesus, got you already.”

Mercifully, we were approaching Portlaoise. She stopped the car suddenly, looked right at me, asked,

“Right now, this moment, what would you most like to be doing?”

“Not sitting here in a yellow bug, not a spit from prison with. . Sybil.”

Her eyes were serious, no dancing lunacy, she said,

“I’m serious, tell me.”

“Well, in my apartment, sipping fifty-year-old whiskey from the oak, watching Borgen with maybe the collected short stories of Amy Hempel as backup.”

I thought I saw a wetness touch her eyes, then she was back to biz, grabbing a battered briefcase, fixing her hair, said,

“That’s probably the saddest thing I ever heard.”

Portlaoise Prison is Ireland’s only high-security prison. Beside it is Midland Prison, a newer medium-security unit.

Built in 1830, it is notorious for the number of Provos there. Now it houses Ireland’s most dangerous criminals,

Drug gangs,

Killers,

Rapists.

Irish Republican prisoners are on the old E-Block.

Irish Defense Forces are used as Guards. An exclusion zone operates over the entire complex,

Assault rifles,

Antiaircraft guns.

Notable inmates: Angelo Fusco

Martin Ferris

Dessie O’Hare

John Gilligan

Paul Magee

In 2007, John Daly, an inmate, phoned the radio show Live Line. His call resulted in Guards seizing fifteen hundred items of contraband:

Mobile phones

Plasma TVs

and incredibly, a budgie, smuggled in by a visitor concealing it in his buttocks! Whole new meaning to “a bird in the hand” or indeed “doing bird.” Daly had to be transferred owing to the death threats from the inmates.

Released in 2007, he was celebrating with a night out and was murdered.

The Caged Bird Sang No More.

I asked,

“Who are we supposed to be to gain entrance?”

She was all manic energy now, said,

“I’m the lawyer of note and you are the beloved, elderly Irish uncle.”

“Hey, enough with the elderly.”

She nearly smiled, said,

“Least you won’t have to work hard to get into character.”

The Guards gave us the full security gig, eye-fucking as they did. Eventually, we were led into a small room, told No. 2035789 would be along shortly. Em, who for reasons best known to herself had adopted a haughty Brit accent, snapped,

“He does have a name.”

The Guard, delighted he had riled her, said,

“Not in here.”

Pause.

“Ma’am.”

The tone was,

Bitch!

We sat on hard metal chairs, a beat-up table before us. Someone had gouged into the top:

Kilroy was here

. . didn’t last

Deep.

She said,

“You never asked what my ideal moment would be.”

As the door opened, I said,

“Like I give a shit.”

“Let he who has not been stoned

cast the first sin.”

A warden, built like a brick shithouse, led Boru into the room. He was dressed in faded denims, way too large. He looked like a twelve-year-old. The warden pushed him to a chair, facing us, then moved back to stand, arms folded, against the wall. A heavy link chain circled the guy’s belt, clanked as he moved. It was the sound of punishment. Boru never looked up, his head down like a penitent’s.

Em barked at the warden in a Maggie Thatcher “Don’t fuck with me” tone.

“Some privacy please.”

Reluctantly, slowly, he withdrew. I said,

“Boru, hey buddy, it’s Jack.”

He raised his head as if it hurt. A dark bruise ran from his right eye all down to his jaw. It looked swollen. I didn’t ask.

“How are you?”

How he was, was badly fucked. I said,

“This is Em, she’s going to get you out.”

Yeah, right.

Boru said, his mouth revealing a bloody gap where his fine American front teeth had been,

“I want to go home.”

It reminded me of Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again.

I didn’t share this literary gem. Em asked,

“Besides the underwear they found, has your lawyer said the prosecutors have anything else?”

He looked at her, his eyes off-kilter, then,

“I didn’t take her. . intimate things.”

Em slammed the table hard with the palm of her hand, startling Boru and me. She snapped,

“Get with the program, kid. . man up for Chrissake.”

It focused him, he tried,

“Don’t be mean to me.”

Unrelenting, she pushed,

“We’re all you’ve got. Now I want to know if the bloody knickers are all they’ve got.”

He stammered,

“The st. . stalking, they say. . I did that.”

She waved it off.

“Overzealous admiration, no biggie.”

She stood up, said,

“I think we’re done here.”

Boru was amazed, pleaded,

“Can’t you stay a bit?”

She was already gathering her things, said,

“No offense, kiddo, but you’re hardly riveting company.”

He turned to me, asked,

“Jack, will I get out?”

He might get out but, judging by his appearance, he wasn’t ever coming back.

In the movies, this is where the good guy reassures,

“Stay strong, we’ll get you out.”

And other such shite.

I said,

“Keep your head down.”

Em added,

“But try not to give head.”

She pounded the door, shouted,

“Yo, Cruickshank, we’re done.”

I didn’t give Boru a comforting pat on the shoulder. He’d been touched enough.

Back in the car, I asked,

“You got a cig?”

She did.

We fired up, then she blew rubber as we got the hell out of there. Ten minutes in, she said,

“Saga Norén, in case you were wondering.”

The fuck was she on about? I asked,

“What?”

“Who I’d like to be. The icy, semi-autistic cop in The Bridge.”

I said,

“You’re not even blond-well, least not today.”

She shot past a BMW like a dervish, said,

“Yeah, but I got the bitch part down cold.”

We stopped in Oranmore for a drink. She ordered a toasted sandwich, like this,

“Highly grilled cheddar,

hint of mayo,

rye bread.”

The guy taking the order simply slapped a prewrapped job in the microwave, zapped it.

I took a Jameson.

No ice.

“Your treat,” she said, looking at the expensive bill.

I didn’t argue. Then she asked,

“Have you plans for Christmas Day?”

“Cold turkey.”

She was interested, asked,

“You’re giving up. . what?”

“Nothing. I’ll eat my turkey cold with a pack of Lone Star longnecks and watch Breaking Bad’s spin-off series on Netflix.”

She had no answer to that, so I asked,

“And you?”

Thinking, “Who’ll you be that day?”

No hesitation,

“I’m going to Prague with my boyfriend.”

Jesus, come on, did I feel a pang of. . fuckin. . jealousy?

I managed,

“What’s he do?”

“He’s a felon. . and a poet. A poetic felon, you might say.”

I went with,

“Sounds like a blast.”

I paid. We were heading for the car, she said,

“He’s hung like a stallion.”

Indeed.

Em’s lunacy, Boru’s fucked state, the shadow of the prison, led me to need some time alone but not on my own, if you catch my drift. To be among people but not part of them. Christmas eve, the city is on the piss so a quiet pub is a scarcity. Paddy Fahy’s in Bohermore is a haven. It has a certain dress code-no assholes allowed.

I sat at the counter. The owner, Paddy, is blessed with the gift of silence. Five people in total made up the clientele. I was working on my second expertly pulled pint, a large Jameson holding point. A man two stools away was working on his own solitude. I had the Irish Independent books section open before me. The year’s top sellers looked like this:

(1) Padre Pio

(2) The GAA: A People’s History

(3) Gone Girl

(4) One Direction

(5) Niall Horan: The Unauthorized Biography

(6) X-Factor Encyclopaedia

(7) Alex Ferguson: My Autobiography.

I sighed. The guy two stools down caught it, raised his pint, nodded. Now I remembered him. When I had a drink with Boru in Jury’s, I’d told him about the man who odd times drank there.

Always alone.

He’d done some hard time in a South American jail. So rumor said. He certainly had the lost eyes to give it credence. I’d heard too he had a minor rap going as a crime writer.

On impulse, I asked,

“Buy you a pint?”

No answer.

Pushed,

“It being the season and all that good shite.”

Cracked the remotest smile, then,

“Yeah, what the hell.”

And he moved to stand next to me. I signaled Paddy, who reached for the Jameson. The man’s movements were slow and calculated as if energy was vital and spared. He raised his glass, said,

“Slainte amach.”

His voice was neutral, not toneless but more used to silence. He nodded at the books page, said,

“Guy there, last week, he tore my book to shreds.”

I took a hefty swipe of my own Jay, asked,

“That bother you?”

He gave a short laugh, said,

“They try to wipe you off the floor of a cell containing thirty desperate inmates, what do you think?”

What did I think?

The booze or the craziness of the past year made me pushy or thoughtless. I asked,

“How does a person. . you know, handle that, I mean, after, when you’re out?”

He studied the top shelf, scanning the variety of lethal spirits, then,

“You get a shitty bed-sit in Brixton, then you get an old-fashioned revolver, with the spin chamber. Every Wednesday, seven in the evening, you sit and spin that sucker.”

Christ!

Reckless now, I asked,

“Why Wednesday?”

He put twenty euros on the counter, turned up his coat collar, said,

“Never liked midweek much.”

He nodded to Paddy, indicating a drink for me. I put out my hand, said,

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

He gave me a long hard look, not threatening, just resolute, said,

“Oh, I know who you are.”

And he was gone.

Professor de Burgo had his feet up on his desk, the lion in the lair. Books scattered everywhere, potpourri overriding the smell of pot. De Burgo was on his third Americano, anticipating the young female undergraduate due in. .

He extracted his gold pocket watch from his tartan waistcoat, a theatrical, well-rehearsed gesture. Even alone, he repeated the rituals necessary to re-inform the whole

“old-fashioned, John Cheever-type

professor of English literature.”

She was due in twenty minutes. In twenty days she’d be history. He suppressed a giggle at his own wit, popped half a Valium, get the mellow gig cooking. Began to sift through his in-box. A small padded envelope called. He sliced it open with a heavy silver Moroccan letter opener and the color drained from his sunlamped face.

A six-inch nail-

The letters-ed.

Nailed!

Badly shaken, de Burgo pulled another envelope from the pile. A bright pink envelope and. . hold a mo-

Perfumed!

Fuck, yes, actually scented! He chuckled (this is a parched sound as he’d been told it made him lovable).

Figuring it to be from one of the many moonfaced cunts who adored his lectures, he opened it with a flourish and

out

tumbled

tiny white and black paper figures wearing? Mortarboards. A note on lilac paper read,

This is Sancta Muerta,

the Death Curse. . on you.

The figures amount to the number

of days until you burn in hell.

Xxxxxxxxx

Kalinda

P.S. Kalinda is PI/vengeance chick from

the series The Good Wife.

Feverishly, he counted the fragile figures.

Six!

He crumpled them in a rage-fueled dread. Reached into his desk, took out a bottle of Grey Goose, lashed into it.

A knock on the door, then a pretty girl’s head peered around the door, asked,

“Am I on time, professor?”

He flung a copy of the collected Blake at her, shouted,

“Get the fuck!”

Cambridge’s Hampers, a Galway Christmas tradition. Not cheap, but oh, so fabulous. Chockablock with every goody you could yearn for. One was delivered to my apartment on Christmas eve.

A note:

Knock yourself out Jack.

Your very own dark

Emerald

Xxxxxxx

What I remember of Christmas Day is the wild storms, not only in my head but in the weather. A falling tree killed a twenty-three-year-old who’d just passed her driving test. It came right through the windscreen.

The racing ace Schumacher was preparing his ski gear for a week of exhilaration.

I watched the original BBC series of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Alec Guinness was, as always, riveting. I spaced the day between

Snacks of cold turkey

Xanax, 2.5 mg

Single hot whiskeys

no cloves.

The mobile rang once.

Ridge.

A flood of relief that she was prepared to wish me,

“Nollaig Sona Duit” (Happy December).

She wasn’t.

Lashed,

“Taylor, you want to explain to me who that mad bitch was?”

My bile in check, I said gently,

“Need a bit more to go on. I know quite a few bitches, but mad? That’s relative.”

Heard her angry rasp in a deep breath, then,

“Don’t play the cute hoor, the supposed lawyer who showed up at our last meet.”

I had a choice. It being the season of goodwill, would I goodwill it?

No.

Went for annoyance.

“Gotta plead the Fifth.”

A beat, then,

“Don’t suppose she knows anything about the disappearance of the underwear, vital to the Boru Kennedy case?”

My heart soared.

“Good fuck, really? So you’ve no case now.”

“Fuck you, Taylor.”

Slammed the phone down.

In the early hours of Christmas morning, Boru had used a sheet to hang himself.

The case was truly CLOSED.

Late Christmas night, my mind was crawling with snakes. Desperate to distract, I had a mini Ben Wheatley fest.

Down Terrace

Kill List

Sightseers-with the line after the main character beats a guy to death and says,

“Not a human, a Daily Mail reader.”

Doesn’t come any darker or more blackly humorous. My life in disjointed glances really. Saint Stephen’s morning, my hangover was what you’d expect.

Rough.

The doorbell rang.

A group of disheveled singers, I kid thee fucking not.

Either the Wren (and do they still continue this tradition?) or the remnants of a soused hen party. I gave them a few notes on condition they stopped singing!

Two kick-ass coffees,

Solpadine,

Xanax,

And, God help me, one sick cigarette. My mind began to twist.

I phoned Ridge.

She answered with a terse,

“Taylor?”

“You know Boru Kennedy was innocent on Christmas eve?”

Sigh.

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him or did his lawyer?”

“Not my job, Taylor.”

“You cunt.”

Stunned gasp,

“What did you call me?”

“He spent Christmas eve not knowing he was clear. Terrorized, terrified. . what was he anticipating, Christmas dinner? That some big bastard would take off him. This was a kid who’d spent every Christmas safe, warm, and with a family!”

She spat her words,

“Don’t. . you. . dare put this on me, Taylor.”

“You got your wish, sergeant. You’ve become a real Guard.”

“How dare you.”

“Have a nice New Year, see the sheets you helped strangle that poor, lost kid in a dark cell.”

I slammed down the phone.

Days blundered through the post-Christmas gloom. Sales, despite the recession, had people sleeping outside Brown Thomas for thirty-six hours to secure

Gucci handbags!

The homeless just slept outside anywhere and for longer. Covered in piss, despair, and degradation.

Recession my arse, as a woman got lead story on RTE six o’clock news for buying a Stella McCartney dress for only fifteen hundred euros!

The New Year galloped toward us. Em hadn’t returned nor phoned. Maybe she’d fucked off permanently.

Did I care?

Not a whole bunch.

I was too broken, heartsick over the needless waste of Boru’s suicide. Was I to blame? I was certainly in the mix. A horrible irony wasn’t lost on me that the coveted number one song was by a prison guard.

Hang your guilt on that.

Ken Dodd on the first

sign of aging-

“When you wake up and find you’ve a bald-headed son.”

January 3, 2013.

My birthday.

Fuck

and

Fuck

Again.

I got over thirty cards. Yeah, right!

I dragged my aging body to the shower, avoided the mirror, not a mix. I was growing a beard. At that stage of weary wino, not to mention leery. I had a serious adrenalized coffee and an extra Xanax for the day that was in it.

My head was scrambled for a blitz night of TV.

A highly anticipated return of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes on BBC. Then, mid-Jameson, I switched to Sky Living to catch Jonny Lee Miller as Sherlock. After midnight, on cable, I stumbled across. . you guessed it. . Sherlock with Robert Downey Jr. in the role. I fell into bed with Basil Rathbone striding through my dreams uttering,

“I’m the real deal.”

Come morning,

I dressed like a winner.

Sort of.

Old Garda sweatshirt under a weird fish comfortable wool shirt. Black 500s over Dr. Martens. Shucked into my all-weather item 1834, looked out the window, said,

“Bring it on.”

Guilt-free for once to hit Garavan’s at opening time. Sean the barman said,

“Blian Nua go maith.”

Indeed.

Two drinks in, a guy took the stool beside me. I tried for his name,

“Tom?”

He nodded, ordered a large Paddy, no ice. Got my vote.

I knew his backstory. A rough one. His son had been killed by a nineteen-year-old drunk driver. Worse, if possible, the guy walked, on a technicality. Tom then had the horror of running into this pup fairly regularly. Galway is still a village in the worst way.

The punk, far from repentant, would smirk, even once flashing a thumbs-up.

Until. .

Six months before, the punk, drunk, got behind the wheel of his brand-new Audi. Present from Daddy for his twenty-first. A figure in the backseat shoved a single long shaft of steel into the base of his skull, right to the dumb fuck’s brain. Tom had a solid alibi.

He ordered a second drink, offered me one.

My birthday!

So I said,

“Yeah, thank you.”

We clinked glasses, I said,

“You doing OK?”

He held his drink up to the light, as if it might reveal some truth. Then he smiled, said,

“The past six months, I’ve been fucking great.”

Amen.

Sean, a voracious reader, watched Tom leave, then put a book on the counter. It was upside down but I could read the author’s name,

Sara Gran.

Sean freshened my pint, said.

“I read an author during Christmas and you know, the critics crap him off because they say. .”

Pause

“. . Get this. He uses too many cultural references, pop music, crime writers in his books. Now, see, you know what I think of them? I might hazard. . not complimentary?”

Big grin, then,

“Yeah, bollix to them. Because for me, it grounds the story in stuff I know, that I can relate to. One fuck said he was for people who don’t read. How fucking insulting is that to readers?”

The pint was good. I sank a quarter, said,

“Thing is, Sean, critics are God’s excuse for why shite happens.”

Sean was shouted at by a small elderly woman who demanded,

“A big dry sherry.”

As he turned to go, he said,

“Hey, guess whose birthday is today.”

I tried for a humble grin, asked,

“Who?”

“Schumacher.”

Michael Schumacher was in a medically induced coma.

I reflected bitterly that in one form or another, I had been inducing a coma over my whole bedraggled life.

Back at my apartment I found Johnny Duhan had sent me a copy of his album

Winter.

The very first track might have been written by my own heart,

“Charity of Pain.”

I muttered,

“God bless your genius soul, Johnny.”

Marc Roberts and Jimmy Norman, over the past week, had been giving extensive airplay to “The Beacon.”

Serendipity?

I dunno, but later in the week, my favorite band, the Saw Doctors, were due in the Roisin Dubh.

Music, music everywhere and not a hand to hold.

Och, ochon (woe is rife).

January 5: Horrendous gales and storms continued to lash the country.

In Salthill, the sea roared over the promenade to submerge the Toft car park.

It was surreal to see the cars floating in more than six feet of water. Homes, hospitals were without power. That evening, I risked a walk to see the damage. Headed for the cathedral. A vague notion that I might light some candles for all my dead. . a long list.

The church was closed. Priests lining up for sales, no doubt. I was about to turn into Nun’s Island when something caught my eye. A figure, outlined against the heavy church door, was kicking something repeatedly.

A desperate penitent?

I have never been troubled with minding my own business. I headed over, realizing it was a guy in his twenties kicking the be-Jaysus out of a tiny pup.

I shouted,

“Hey, shithead, you want to stop doing that.”

He turned, well turned-out in a North Face heavy parka, matching combat pants, and thick Gore-Tex boots. His face was tanned, well nourished. Who the fuck has a tan in Galway in January?

He seemed delighted to see me.

You believe it?

Flashed brilliant white teeth that testified to seriously expensive dentistry. This kid came from money. He reached into his jacket, produced a large knife; it glinted off the heavy brass door handles. He said in that quasi surfer dude accent the youngsters (the stupid ones) have adopted,

“You want a piece of me?”

He actually ran it as wanna. Whatever movie was running in his head, it had a definite x-cert. The pup, whimpering, tried to huddle more into the wall under the holy water font. The poor thing looked like a refugee from Bowie’s album Space Oddity, or maybe more Diamond Dogs.

I said,

“Why don’t you come down here and we’ll see what we can do with the knife?”

He literally leaped the five steps and I sidestepped, putting all of a right fist into his gut. I kicked him in the head as he crumpled. Then I caught him by the scruff of the neck, pulled him back up to the holy water font, pushed his head in it, said,

“Count your blessings.”

I counted to ten, pulled him out, reached in his jacket, found a fat wallet. Took that. I leaned down, gathered up the tiny bundle of terrorized pup, moved him into the warmth of my jacket. The guy was groaning, his eyes coming back into focus, and, swear to God, somehow he managed a malevolent smile, muttered,

“Your ass is grass, dude.”

With the heel of my Dr. Martens, I destroyed that fabulous dental art. I turned to go and, in fair imitation of his accent, said,

“Doggone!”

I called the pup. . what else. .

“Ziggy.”

Over the next few days I spent a small fortune on vet treatment. I’d been feeding him, sparingly, from the finger of a rubber glove, blend of

Sugar

Warm milk

Jameson.

He was the quietest pup the vet ever encountered.

I said,

“He has a lot to be quiet about.”

He fitted in the palm of my hand, melting brown eyes and snow-white paws. He was, the vet said,

“A cross between a terrier and a pug.”

“A mongrel?”

I said.

The vet nodded.

“Like myself,”

I ventured.

He didn’t disagree.

The psycho’s wallet yielded a driver’s licence in the name of Declan Smyth. Credit cards (gold) and other data revealed him to be nineteen, a student of engineering at NUIG.

A member of Galway’s foremost lap dancing club. (We had a lap dancing club?).

Where?

There was a nice tidy package of coke, some “E” tabs, and close to six hundred in notes. Paid for the vet.

Google threw up that Dec lived at home in Taylor’s Hill with his father, a pediatrician of note; and his mother, a runner-up in the Rose of Tralee. The family had no pets.

Keith Finnegan was reading the news. I heard this:

“A young student from a prominent family was savagely beaten in a mugging outside Galway Cathedral as he attempted to attend midnight Mass.”

Unless they were now offering Black Masses, the Guards had failed to notice the locked doors.

To ensure Ziggy’s warmth and sense of belonging, I placed him in a Galway United sweatshirt beside my pillow at night.

I woke in the morning to find him snuggled sound asleep on my chest.

He was adapting.

A card from Arizona read:

Jack-o,

I went to the Poisoned Pen Bookshop.

Met a hot guy named Patrick Milliken and

Heard Jim Sallis read. That dude rocks.

Back soon.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Your greenish Em

Ziggy was improving rapidly, already knew where the treats were. Chewed on every available table, chair, bed leg. It was a given he would be lying next to my pillow. That was oddly endearing.

I kept up a nigh daily posting of nails to de Burgo. Oiled and cleaned the Ruger daily. Visualizing putting two rounds in the fucker’s balls.

The storms continued to lash holy hell out of the west coast. I so wanted to bring the pup to run on the Salthill beach but the ferocity of the Atlantic on Galway Bay would be too much.

He’d already had a lash of Galway ferocity.

The Guards were now saying they had an eyewitness to the mugging of the young man at Galway Cathedral.

Were they blowing smoke? I sure hoped to fuck they were.

Noon that Thursday, I opened the door to. . Em. The pup peeping from behind my legs. She was dressed. . Parisian chic? Pale leather coat, black polo, and-surely not-leather pants over black boots. Her hair was now in that elfin cute brown style like the poster of Amélie, the French movie. She greeted me,

“Bon soir mon fils et le petit chien.”

She had a rugged worn gladstone bag which she handed to me, said,

“Snap to it, Jeeves.”

Despite the nonsense, I was glad to see her. Nearly. . nearly hugged her.

She breezed in and, with one fluid gesture, scooped up the pup, said,

“Vas bon, mon chéri.”

Plunked herself on the couch, the pup already snug in her arms, said,

“So, let’s make with the beverages, Jacques.”

I built some fine hot toddies, even lit a cig, and as I handed it to her, a loud thump rattled the door. I muttered,

“. . the fuck?”

Opened it to Ridge and a new face to me, in a crisp new uniform. He looked about twelve but a mean little twelve. Viciousness already marking his eyes. She ordered,

“Jack Taylor, I need to interview you in relation to a very serious assault.”

I swept my arms wide, said,

“Do come in.”

She stopped on seeing Em, the recruit nearly colliding with her back. She said,

“The ubiquitous Em?”

Ridge always had a tell. I had tried. I had tried to clue her on it, comparing it to a royal flush. But she brushed it off as

“Drink shite talk.”

Eyeing the dog, she opened with,

“Mr. Taylor, we have a witness who describes a man resembling you as being the assailant in a vicious mugging.”

Em, slowly lighting a slim cigarette with a gold lighter, asked,

“The time and date, sergeant?”

Ridge glared at her, looked at the travel bag, played the queen, asked,

“Been traveling?”

“I was in Korea but that was some time ago, the bag is dirty laundry. Feel free to root about in it. I sense that’s your forte.”

Ridge, red color climbing up her cheeks, reined in, gave the time and day.

The recruit, whose name I learned was Costello, glared at me. I said,

“Not sure if. .”

I glanced at the pup,

“You have a dog in this fight, son?”

The “son,” rattled, looked to Ridge, who ignored him. Em said,

“Jack and I were. . what’s the buzz term?. . en flagrant the evening in question.”

Ridge went for her king, already faltering, tried,

“The witness mentioned something about. .”

Paused,

“A pup being part of the struggle. What is this pup’s name?”

Em, highly amused, dropped the remainder of the cig in the empty toddy glass, handed the glass to Costello, said,

“Be a dear, sweetie. .”

Then, back to Ridge.

“Not sure you were entirely paying attention earlier, sergeant, but I did mention my recent sojourn in Korea.”

Ridge looked fit to explode, snapped,

“Is there a point to this little. . detour?”

Em gave her most beatific smile, said,

“Alas, I did, to my shame, pick up on one of their culinary customs. .”

She stroked the pup’s ears.

“I never name something I may later eat.”

Quote from the Sunday Times:

Samantha Ellis believes that heroines such as

Scarlett O’Hara and Sylvia Plath’s

Esther Greenwood are appealing precisely

because they behave so badly.

“I’d had so many good girl heroines,” writes Ellis.

“Plath gave me a heroine who was anything but. .

As Esther gets suicidal, she also gets mean.

She releases her inner bad girl, she picks up sailors, reads scandal sheets, howls at her father’s grave.”

After Ridge left, I let out a long breath, said,

“Em, you know she will check the airlines.”

Em pulled out her iPhone, five minutes of elegant, furious texting, and she smiled, said,

“’Tis done and best if t’were done well.”

I asked,

“Seriously, who the fuck are you?”

She was nuzzling her face against the pup’s ears, said,

“The girl who just saved your ass from arrest. A thank-you about now might be good so feel free to jump in. .”

Instead, I made her a kick-heart coffee, even lit her cig, asked,

“Were you in Arizona?”

She savored the coffee, said,

“I’d like it a bit more Sara Gran, you know, New Orleans, hint of chicory. . yes, I went to rehab there.”

Jesus wept!

“For which of your many personalities?”

“Jack, I have a near genius for math, tech stuff, but they say I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

She laughed, no humor touching her eyes, added,

“As in Cowboy Junkies, I am your skewed Misguided Angel and I need you to help to off the monster that is de Burgo.”

“You have always managed to evade, like so much else, your motive, your hard-on for him.”

Her phone buzzed. . she read a text, put the pup gently aside, gathered her things, said,

“I’m Gone Girl.”

Pecked me on the cheek, said,

“Catch you up for dinner, my treat tomorrow evening, and, oh. . de Burgo. .

he’s my dad.”

Using Google Search

Friends Reunite Ireland

I found Em’s mother. She was living in a cottage in Kinvara. She was a “home-keeper,” whatever the fuck that is. She was now using her maiden name, Marion McKee. Google Maps even showed me the cottage. The old adage:

“You want to know what the daughter will

become, meet the mother.”

Worth a shot.

I went to Charley Byrne’s Bookshop and wished Vinny a happy new year. He smiled ruefully at that. Then,

“So, what do you want, Jack?”

I did mock-offended.

“You think that’s the only reason I’m here?”

“Pretty much.”

I took a breath, asked,

“Could I borrow the van for a few hours?”

“You going into the book business, Jack?”

“Well, research of a sort.”

He rooted around, then handed me the keys, said,

“Second gear needs a bit of cajoling.”

Smiled at that, said,

“I will of course pay for the petrol.”

“Yeah, like that will happen.”

Em had only ever once referred to her mother, a throwaway quip:

“Good old Moms is a rummy.”

The last time I read that description was in the early works of Hemingway. This in mind, I made a pit stop at an off-license, bought a bottle of brandy. The owner, handing me the bottle, asked,

“You want to buy a bundle of books?”

“Excuse me?”

He nodded at the van, which had a sign on the side:

CHARLEY BYRNE’S

NEW AND SECONDHAND BOOKS

I said,

“Not really.”

He seemed surprised, pushed,

“Some James Pattersons in the bunch.”

Jesus, how could I resist?

I found Marion McKee’s cottage easily. Just look for the closed curtains. Alkies don’t do light. I had a briefcase and my Garda coat, and looked like someone collecting the Household Tax. That is, like an asshole.

Took some banging on the door until she finally answered. A small woman in what used to be termed a housecoat,

or

camouflage.

Badly permed blond hair was sorely in need of help. Her eyes were tired, a little bloodshot, and her face, despite makeup, showed the savagery of alcohol. A stale reek of alcohol, nicotine, and fear emanated from her pores. I said,

“I need a few minutes of your time, about your daughter.”

Saw the alarm, rushed,

“Nothing bad. . quite good in fact. If I may?”

Indicating,

Let me in?

She did, reluctantly. The living room was small but obsessively tidy. Your life’s going to shit, you try to hold something in place. She pointed to a chair that was forlorn in its loneliness. She sat on the couch, asked,

“May I offer you something, Mr. . ?”

“Jack. No, I’m fine.”

I put the briefcase on the table, pulled out a stack of papers, the bottle of brandy seemed to slip out. I smiled, said,

“Whoops, Christmas leftover.”

And placed it on the table. Then, as if struck by a thought, said,

“How about we baptize this bad boy, to mark the good news about Em. . or do you prefer Emerald?”

Her eyes locked on the bottle.

A beacon.

She fetched two glasses, heavy Galway crystal tumblers. I poured a passable amount into both, said,

“Here’s to your daughter.”

A fleeting dance across her eyes, fear chasing anxiety. She drained the brandy like a brawler. I stood up, glanced at her bookshelf, asked,

“May I. . peruse? A compulsion of the trade.”

Giving her the window. And, like a pro, fast, she replenished her glass and, I loved it, took a swig of mine. Oh, she was mighty, almost noble in her ruin. The books were like a legion of female artillery:

Germaine Greer

Naomi Wolf

Betty Friedan

And like a lost black sheep among the strident women, that out-of-favor, poor quasi-hippie, Richard Brautigan’s

A Confederate General from Big Sur

and peeking optimistically from a corner, Elizabeth Smart’s

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept

Indeed.

I said,

“We are expanding the shop and wish to appoint Em as manager.”

Marion tried to rouse some enthusiasm but blurted,

“She had been such a promising child.”

I spied a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and, as I handed it to her, topped up her glass. She was rolling on a short recovery high, continued,

“But her father. .”

deep brandied sigh,

“He claimed Emmy’s dog had bitten him and she found. .”

mega gulp of brandy,

“The dog nailed to the shed door. He claimed some passing lunatic did it.”

I was smart enough to stay quiet. I knew the stages of rapid morning drinking, and brandy? Well, fuck, it adds an extra dimension of apparent energy to a false alertness. She didn’t as much smoke the cigarette as absorb it, her cheeks sucked to the bone as if the nicotine would grant absolution. Cresting now, reaching the anger stage,

“And the affairs, parading floozies in front of us, the renowned literary professor.”

She looked at me as if I’d just appeared, dismissed me, said,

“I had money, you know, oh, yes but he. . had something better, a shyster lawyer.”

I looked at the bottle. Christ, how much had she drunk?

She hit a brief cloud of severe clarity, said,

“When she was seventeen, she went to him, after years of no contact. You know what he did? He hit on her! Isn’t that the term nowadays and, when he realized who she was, he laughed and said, ‘Roll your own.’”

I got out of there. Had put a blanket over her as she lay on the couch, called an ambulance. Driving away, I felt as low and dirty as any of the scumbags I’d ever laid a hurly on.

When I returned the van to Vinny, I said,

“I might be able to get you a deal on a batch of James Pattersons.”

Got the look.

He said,

“Perfect! I’ll add them to the five hundred copies of John Grisham adorning most of the Crime Section.”

I was about to go, said,

“Hey, I believe you were on TV. . that series, Cities?”

A rueful smile, then,

“It’s all showbiz, Jack.”

As he refused petrol money, I bought a shitload of books.

Jason Starr

Gerald Brenan

Eoin Colfer

Adrian McKinty

James Straley

Stanley Trybulski.

Asked,

“Any chance, Vinny, you can deliver them?”

He tipped his Facebook hat, said,

“Why we have the van.”

Outside, I ran into Father Malachy, shrouded in cigarette smoke. I said,

“According to the papers, half the country’s smokers have changed to e-cigarettes-vapors, as they’re known.”

He glanced at me, said,

“I’d rather be electrocuted.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Father.”

Dinner with Em.

She’d booked a table at Cooke’s. The family who not only run a superior bookshop but probably the best restaurant in the city and bonus. .

Pure Galway.

Billy Idol-

“White Wedding”

Yeah!

I had a Jameson. For the record, here’s what Em ordered. .

She opened with,

“Will you marry me?”

Never knowing when/if ever she was

(a) Herself/selves?

(b) Taking the piss.

I said,

“You’re not pretty enough.”

And fuck. . her face fell, before I could say, “Hey. . kidding.”

She ordered a large vodka tonic and I began my Jameson march. After we got some of that knocked down, we both pulled back a way, physically and emotionally. She asked,

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I know, I know, you’ll run with,

“You. . dear.”

The Jameson said,

“How it would be nice if just one person would fess up to 12 Years a Slave as eleven years too long.”

She frowned, said,

“It’s a masterpiece.”

I sighed, tried,

“If I want torture porn, there’s the Saw franchise.

Her starter arrived, she asked,

“Wanna share?”

“Like. . our lives?”

By the time she reached dessert, she asked,

“Did you ever, like once, feel real love?”

“I feel it right now.”

Had to rush,

“for that little waif, Ziggy.”

Then the image of Em’s puppy nailed to the shed door arose and I said,

“You should go visit your mother.”

A mischievous dance in her eyes, she asked,

“And you, Jack, . care much for yours?”

Truth.

“She was a walking bitch, awash with piety, cunning in her constant cruelty. . if there’s a hell, I pray she roasts in it.”

Em did a mock wipe of her brow, said,

“Phew, don’t feel you have to hold back.”

She reached across the table, touched my hand. I didn’t recoil or flinch so some progress. She said,

“Jack, I am truly sorry for your young friend Boru. I really believed we could have saved him.”

I had no answer.

Her hand still resting on mine, she held my gaze firmly, asked,

“I need a solemn pledge from you, Jack.”

Fuck, it wouldn’t be good. I tried deflection.

“Didn’t we do the marriage gig at the start of the meal?”

Slapped my hand, stressed,

“Be serious, Jack.”

“I’ll give it a shot, what is it?”

“Next Friday, you have a table booked for two at Brannigan’s. Be on time and don’t leave until eleven o’clock. Make yourself. . felt.”

WTF?

“Sounds like I’m setting up an alibi.”

Her hand withdrew. She said,

“Once, just once, don’t be a stubborn bollix. Just humor me.”

“What the hell, OK. Who am I dining with?”

Now got the pixie smile, made her look twelve, vulnerable, and, oh shit, I don’t know. . deeply exposed. She said,

“Part of an extended birthday buzz. You really need not to overthink this.”

I nearly smiled, clichéd,

“Go with the flow.”

She signaled for the check, snapped,

“Don’t be a fuckhead. Just blew your shot at getting laid.”

Through Boru’s actual solicitor, I obtained his parents’ address, bought a Mass card, had it signed by a priest in the Augustinians who was a human being, said,

“I am sorry for your loss.”

More like him and the Church might have less to fear from lynch mobs. He was that rare to rarest man, one who by pure simplicity made you glad to be alive. Plus, it didn’t cost an arm and a leg (limping or otherwise). I enclosed the following note:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy,

No words can convey the loss you have endured. Forgive my enclosure of a Mass card but here, it’s our sole feeble attempt to demonstrate our care.

Your son was a true gentleman, shining with intelligence, warmth, and utter charm. I was graced, honored, and humbled to be his friend. Know that, despite his brief time in our city, he became a true Galwegian. He will always live here in our hearts and we walk with deep respect the streets he grew to love.

He is a credit to you and a terrible loss to the very meaning of “life extraordinary.”

With deepest sorrow,

Jack Taylor

If you want to know about spirituality, look into the eyes of a dog. So said William James. Ziggy was growing apace, already quirks of personality asserting themselves. He liked to nap on my Garda coat. Some long-lost tenuous connection to protection. He had brown velvet eyes that seemed to weep with emotion.

Acquiring a dog may be the only

opportunity a human ever has to

choose a relative.

Cheeky little bugger too.

Already knew my favorite part of the couch for TV so he’d get there first. Like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, he seemed to have adopted the mantra

“I will not be ignored.”

Times, too, he seemed to withdraw, his tiny body curling in on itself, emitting a deep sigh and ignoring all treats.

I’d done that gig my ownself.

I was currently watching the boxed set of

Van Veeteren

Maria Wern.

The latter was like Saga Nordén from The Bridge, without the icy autism.

Maria was a shade too fuckin whitebread.

Nordic noir rules.

I told Ziggy. He seemed unimpressed. Had the makings of a canine critic.

I wondered who Em had set me up to meet at Brannigan’s. I’d given my word, so show up I would. Crossed my mind it might be de Burgo. Now that would make an interesting evening. Friday rolled around with the winds finally easing. The latest scandal was the Irish Water Board. Millions paid to a bunch of carpetbaggers to plan the installation of water meters in every home. First we endured years of poisoned water, now they’d charge us by the drop. The minister in charge of this fiasco, Phil Hogan, told us with his smug expression. .

“You can’t make an omelet without. .”

I mean, he actually fuckin said that!

Brannigan’s was off Kirwan’s Lane. Had a reputation for great steaks. Ziggy whimpered as I prepared to leave. I told him,

“You guard the apartment. . you know, do dog stuff.”

He ignored me.

I walked down Shop Street, trying to adjust the tie I’d worn. Under my Garda coat I had my sports jacket and, from a distance, might even have passed for respectable. Just past Easons, a man stepped out of the lane. Young, in an expensive Burberry coat, so it wasn’t until he spoke that I realized who he was. The gap where his previous magnificent teeth had been. The punk who’d been beating on Ziggy. He snarled,

“You think you got away with it, Taylor?”

He kept a distance, so he had learned something from our encounter.

I asked,

“You want something?”

Bravado and caution fought in his face. He said,

“You stole my wallet.”

I smiled, said,

“Put it down to a fine for disorderly conduct.”

His hands were in his pockets and a debate was raging in his mind. He settled for,

“You’ll pay for it, Taylor.”

I shook my head, said.

“Hey, I’m here now, why wait?”

He turned, scuttled back into the lane. I said,

“That’s what I thought.”

I was standing in the reception area of Brannigan’s. A pleasing aroma of charcoal/grill/barbecue gave me that rare but fleeting feeling,

An appetite!

Throw in a hint of anxiety/anticipation and you’re, if not raring to go, certainly on the precipice.

I saw Ridge approach, a puzzled expression in place. She was dressed for an evening out. An almost too-tight little black number, semi-killer heels, highlights in her hair, caution in her eyes. We almost said in unison,

. . What are you doing here?

I checked with the maître d’. Hard to even write that with an Irish accent. The reservation for two was in the name of Semple (or if you wanted to push buttons, Simple.)

Ridge got there first.

“Someone thinks we should meet?”

I rolled, said,

“Maybe to help us rekindle a friendship.”

Raised her eyes, said,

“Take more than a bloody dinner.”

I wanted to slap her, pleaded,

“For just one fucking time. . chill.”

A waitress approached, asked,

“Would Mr. and Mrs. Semple care for a complimentary cocktail before dinner?”

Ridge nearly relented.

I said,

“One drink?”

She agreed.

The barman was one of those people whom Kevin Bridges described as

“Never having been punched in the face.”

His enthusiasm to see us was grating. He beamed,

“And what can I tempt you fine folk with this evening?”

Mario Rosenstock would have loved him! All that plastic blarney. Ridge snarled,

“Assault and battery.”

I interceded, said,

“Two frozen margaritas.”

Add more ice to the chill Ridge trailed. I made a T gesture to the guy, indicating

“Large amount of tequila or trouble.”

I think he’d already caught the gist of the latter. I said,

“Ridge, you look nice.”

Didn’t fly.

She said,

“I thought my ex-husband was surprising me.”

The drinks came, I raised my glass, said,

“Slainte.”

“Whatever.”

She took a lethal taste, color rising to her cheeks. I realized she might have had a preparatory one. . or two.

I tried,

“Perhaps dinner would go some way to us reconnecting?”

She ignored that, asked,

“Where’s the psycho bitch?”

I gave her a tequila smile, said,

“Good title for a self-help book.”

She studied me for a long minute, gave a mock sigh, said,

“You can’t rile me anymore.”

She was oh, so wrong about that. It was simply that goading ran so close to deep hurt that I backed off, asked,

“No way back to our former friendship then?”

The barman approached with a fresh pitcher, asked,

“You folks like to go for broke?”

I nodded.

Tequila is a sly son of a bitch. Tastes so good, you truly believe. . briefly. . it won’t kick. I coasted on that lie, rode the fake euphoria, risked,

“I miss you.”

She was lost in some other thought, then snapped back, said,

“We were scattered with the ashes of Stewart.”

Fuck!

I spat,

“Damn near poetry.”

She gathered her things, threw some notes onto the bar, tip for the barman, said,

“No, Jack, poetry was Stewart with his insane belief in you. What we’ve got is ashes in the mouth.”

And she was gone.

The barman took her empty glass, dared,

“Tough cookie.”

I finished my drink, said,

“If you only knew the half of it.”

Checked my watch, we’d managed all of forty-five minutes, not a moment of it civil.

My mobile rang at two o’clock in the morning. The pup, sound asleep on my chest, simply moved to the warm part of the bed. I growled,

“What the fuck-”

“Jack, it’s Em.”

“Christ, this is a surprise. Don’t you sleep?”

Her voice had urgency.

“How did the evening go?”

I nearly smiled but stayed in hard-ass mode, asked,

“You seriously thought you could get us to reconcile?”

More urgent.

“What time did ye stay until?”

“Hmmm. . she stayed, I think, almost forty-five minutes.”

Rage.

“What? You left within an hour? You stupid bastard, couldn’t you do one bloody thing right?”

“Hey. . hey. . take a fuckin breath. She left, I didn’t.”

Hope.

“You stayed on?”

“Sure, even ordered steaks for two. Got them to do a doggy bag-reluctantly I might add. Ziggy will be having prime for the next few days.”

Relief.

“And so you were noticed, right? I mean people remember you?”

My brain kicked in, I said,

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were giving me an alibi.”

Dawning.

“Em. . Jesus, is that it?”

Dead air.

The Irish Water Board, continuing to threaten, bully, and intimidate the population, refuses to release details of massive bonuses and perks. It does emerge that three hundred of its staff attended a “laughter yoga” workshop in Croke Park in 2013. The theory is you guffaw for fifteen minutes and this is good for body and mind.

The people haven’t had much to laugh at for many years. A workshop seems out of their reach.

The Guards came early. A heavy pounding at the door. The pup trailed at my heels as I went down to open it. Two in uniform. Number one was vaguely familiar to me as a hurler. Number two was of the new gung-ho variety. Number one gave me a nod, not unfriendly, said,

“Jack, they want to talk to you at the station.”

They followed me in as I threw on some clothes. The pup took an instant dislike to number two, yapping and nipping at his ankles. The guy said,

“Control that animal or I’ll give him a kicking.”

I snatched Ziggy up, put him in the bedroom with some treats, closed the door, said,

“Trust me, it would be the last kicking you’d give.”

He looked at number one, then blushed,

“Is that a threat, sir?”

Number one said,

“Ah, shut up.”

We drove to the station in silence. I let my mind go into the zero zone, focusing on nothing. I’d been this route many times.

I was brought into Superintendant Clancy’s office. In full regalia, he was behind his massive desk. A scowl in place. Sitting to his left was Ridge, no smile of welcome. The two Guards stood behind me. Clancy adopted a fake warmth.

“Ah Jack, good of you to come.”

I said,

“I’d a choice?”

Clancy flipped through some papers, then,

“Professor de Burgo was found murdered on Friday evening. Can you account for your whereabouts between eight and eleven that evening?”

My mind tried to grasp the implications but, before I could answer, Ridge leaped to her feet, shouted,

“He has a bloody alibi. . it’s me. I was with him.”

And she stormed out of the office. A silence followed, then Clancy paced.

“Lovers’ tiff?”

I asked,

“How was he killed?”

A beat before,

“A nail through his forehead.”

Then waved his hand, dismissing me. I said,

“You can cross another suspect off your list.”

His head moved, slight interest.

“And who might that be?”

“Boru Kennedy.”

He shook his head,

“Not known to me, I’m afraid.”

I turned to go, said,

“Of course not. Why would you remember a young man who hanged himself in prison on Christmas eve? He had been cleared of putting a nail through his girlfriend’s head.”

Em vanished. As if she’d never been. No e-mails, texts, nothing. I missed her. But the pup filled the void. I bought him a small Galway United scarf and he seemed delighted with its fit.

I took him, or rather he took me, for daily walks and I became reacquainted with my city. Feeding the swans was, of course, on our agenda. Oddly, after a few visits, the swans tolerated him. He could move along the shore and the slipway without them hissing. I kept a wary eye. Best not to fuck with these beautiful creatures.

He didn’t.

The evenings were getting a stretch to them and I’d see Ziggy, outlined against the bay, his scarf blowing gently, the swans dotted around him. He’d stand on the pier watching them glide. I could see his sharp mind thinking,

“Shit, I could do that.”

One evening, on our way back, standing on a wall by the Claddagh was the thug whose teeth I had removed. He was staring, dead-eyed, not at me but at the pup. Then he turned to me, made the cutthroat motion slowly across his neck with his right hand

. . and smiled.

The teeth had been replaced. I shouted,

“Now all you need to get is a set of balls.”

But he was gone.

As spring slowly began to creep up, we got back to the flat and in the middle of the kitchen was. .

A tiny green emerald.

Manchester United continued their losing streak as they made a record-breaking bid to buy Chelsea’s Spanish, Le Meta. I said to Ziggy,

“The Six Nations Cup will begin soon.”

He seemed more rapt in Paul O’Grady’s series on the Battersea Dogs Home. The pup disliked cigarette smoke so I took the odd cig outside. Too much drink and he sensed my loss of control, responded by whimpering. I cut way back. He was whipping me into shape.

Tuesday morning, St. Anthony’s Day, I was sitting on a bench in Claddagh. Ziggy was down on the shore, his sense of smell in overdrive from all the different stimuli. A well-dressed woman approached and sat on the bench. Her handbag? I saw an article in the Galway Advertiser quoting some lunatic price for these suckers. Plus a six-month waiting period to purchase! Jesus, you could order a Harley in less time. She obviously had not been among those who had to wait.

She smiled, said,

“That your little dog on the shore?”

I nodded.

She said,

“He keeps checking you’re still here.”

I gave a noncommittal smile.

Then she put out her hand, said,

“I’m Alison Reid. I already know you’re Jack Taylor.”

I took her hand, noting the thin gold Rolex, said,

“Nice to meet you.”

And waited.

She cleared her throat, said,

“My husband died a long time ago and all I really have is one brother.”

I wanted to say,

“Fascinating, but should I give a fuck why?”

Went with,

“My condolences.”

No maneuver room there. But she tried,

“My brother was killed recently and the Guards appear to have abandoned the case. A Superintendent Clancy suggested you might help. Said you were a form of a forlorn St. Jude. For hopeless cases?”

Clancy fucking with me. I whistled for Ziggy, stood, said,

“I’m very sorry but I’m temporarily out of the business.”

I was putting the lead on Ziggy, she handed me a card, said,

“If you might reconsider, I would reward your time generously.”

I shoved the card into my jeans, said,

“Nice talking to you.”

We’d gotten about five yards when she called,

“That’s my business card, it’s my maiden name.

I didn’t snap. .

Whatever!

That evening as Ziggy and I shared a pot of Irish stew with a hint of Jameson, the card slipped out of my pocket. Picked it up, read:

Alison de Burgo.

The sound, the feel of some words linger in my mouth. There is almost a joy in uttering the Danish TV series,

Forbrydelsen,

a current favorite. The translation now seems bitterly apt on that wet, stormy Saturday. I had the lead ready for Ziggy but the sound of the storm discouraged him. Maybe he had flashbacks to the evening I found him. So I said,

“It’s OK, buddy. You snuggle up on the couch, I’ll get the shopping and be back in jig time.” Earlier, when I’d been playing with him, the joy in his little body so overwhelmed him that he lay back, gave a yawn/sigh to release it. I tickled his ears, then headed out.

The wind was fierce, with a cold rain lashing across the streets. I’d gotten the shopping and stopped for brief shelter near Garavan’s. A ne’er-do-well named Jackson coerced me into a fast pint.

I did delay a bit. The chat was lively and the pub was warm, whispering:

“Stay a little longer.”

Guilt-ridden, I pushed out of there, way past my intended plan. Struggled against the wind, got my keys out, juggling the groceries. My front door was wide open. A hard kick had taken it completely off the hinges. My heart lurched.

The pup literally had been torn apart. His tiny head was left on the arm of the couch. A sheet of paper underneath, awash in blood, but clearly scrawled on it was:

“Doggone.”

Em had said to me one time,

“Yo, Dude (sic), if I’m not, like, around, and you need me, e-mail me at

Greenhell@gmail.com.

Sick and near broken, I did e-mail her and outlined the events of the last few days and ended with

“Sometimes there’s just no justice. The bad guys do live, if not happily ever after, then certainly conspicuously.”

She didn’t reply.

At least not by e-mail.

You might say her reply was more biblical, and definitely more colorful.

At the tennis championships in Melbourne, one of the players had a tattoo in Celtic print. From Beckett, it read:

I can’t go on, I won’t go on. . I’ll go on.

A month later, almost to the day, the head of a young man was found, wrapped in a blanket, outside Galway City’s dog shelter.

Newspapers variously described the blanket as dark blue and dull green, but one tabloid, in a fanciful piece, described it as “emerald green.”

Identifying the young man was proving difficult as his teeth had been removed.

Returning to the flat on a fine Sunday evening, I found a small Labrador pup in a box at my door. I cried,

“I can’t. . Jesus, I just can’t!”

Can I?

I bent down to touch the warm little head. He was sleeping soundly on my Garda coat. Then I noticed he was wearing a shiny new leather collar.

Green.

A medallion attached had his name. I had to squint to read it.

BORU.