In the Galway Silence

15

Then along came Harley.

Phew-oh.

Where to start with that?

The beginning, I guess.

I was outside Garavan’s, the town hopping. Sunshine and buskers. If Galway had weather all year round there’d be no room for the locals. I was watching a small film unit, with a guy before the camera. He was tall, rangy, lanky, with a breadth of long blond hair, thinking,

He is the spit of the guy who was in the Nordic noir Easy Money, then went on to play the

Junkie

Punk

Recovering addict

In the American version of The Killing,

Which led to a breakout role in House of Cards.

What the hell was his name?

He spotted me, his face lit up, and he did that throat slash gesture that means kill the film.

He strode toward me, his fingers laced to make that frame scene beloved of media people. Ordered,

Nay, commanded,

“Don’t move.”

Then to the camera guy,

“Raoul, get Jack framed against the bookshop. It is fucking downright iconic.”

I was thinking,

Hello, Jack?

He put out his hand, gushed,

“Harley Harlow’s the name and documentaries are my game,

and a privilege to meet Jack Taylor.”

Said in Brit voice interspersed with American twang.

Then aside to Raoul,

“You are getting this, Raoul?”

I said, very quietly,

“Don’t film me.”

He threw up his hands in delight, near shrieked,

“Oh, God, so butch. I love it. You’re even more... primeval than I dared to hope for. I could come right now.”

WTF?

I asked,

“Who in hell are you?”

He did what might be described as the Valley girl coy simper (a horror all its own), asked,

“You’re thinking I look like the guy in The Killing, am I right? Oh, I wish, Jose.”

The name came to me.

Joel Kinnaman.

I put a finger to his mouth, said,

“Shut... the... fuck... up. Now, who are you?”

He pulled back in mock outrage, then smiled.

“We are Hard Productions, award-winning documentary makers, noted entry at Sundance with Crystal Murder in 2003.”

I nearly smiled, albeit with bitterness writ large, echoed,

“Hard? Seriously, like a hard-core porno gig?”

He reached in his safari jacket (yes, the movie version) and took out an e-cig, vaped furiously, then grinned.

“Double entendre right there, Jack-o. It stands for Hit... and... Run... Documentaries. And that is our style: guerrilla tactics, in out, fast furious, like Clint makes his movies, no second takes.”

Since Marion’s call, I was back full-on smoking, reached for my pack of Major — yeah, those coffin nails — then a heavy silver Zippo from my days with Emerald, clunked that babe, lit up, ah...

He stared at the Zippo, drooled.

“So Waylon Jennings, you are going to love the title of this doc.”

I decided to humor the lunatic, asked,

“Hit me.”

He laughed, said to Raoul,

“I love this dude.”

Then to me,

“Gay Indian Nation.”

He couldn’t be serious if he was what I think he was intending. Our new prime minister, a doctor, was

Gay

Indian.

I said,

“Good Lord, you can’t say that.”

He seemed puzzled, asked,

“Is your prime minister Indian?”

“Well, of Indian parents.”

“And is he not of the light-of-foot persuasion?”

God, what a term. I said,

“Yes... but...”

He near roared.

“But me no buts. Aren’t you Irish supposed to be fearless in your speech, as in Bob Geldof, Sean O’Casey?”

Why was I even trying to debate with this ejit? I asked,

“What is the doc about?”

Like I could give a tupenny fuck but anything to be shot of him.

He grabbed my shoulders with both hands, a very risky move. Said,

“You, you, Jack Taylor, are my subject, my quarry, my bête noire.”

Sweet Jesus.

I said with absolute sincerity,

“You’re shitting me.”

He was on fire, started,

“But it’s so perfect, the new broken Ireland, with a broken PI. I mean, you couldn’t make this shit up, man.”

I tried,

“Like that is going to fly, a PI in Galway?”

He mock-intoned,

“Oh, ye of little faith, am I not the dude who made a doc on an anorexic girl way down in the bayou, got tones of sepia and Daniel Woodrell in there, and it got nominated for the Golden Bear in Berlin?”

I kind of wanted to know, not hugely, but in there, asked,

“What did you call that?”

He paused, threw a look at Raoul who was lighting a cig, then said,

“Pangs in the Bayou.”

“Why?”

He seemed genuinely puzzled, said,

“Like hunger pangs, you know, anorexia?”

“I know what it is.”

He slapped me on the shoulder, said,

“Lemma buy you a brew, Pilgrim.”

Added,

“My treat. Your money’s no good when you’re in the company of the Harley.”

Jesus, he actually said that.

I turned, went into Garavan’s. He followed, as did the bold Raoul. Seamas, I hadn’t seen in donkeys, was tending bar, greeted,

“I thought you were dead.”

“No, I was in England.”

He sighed, answered,

“Same thing.”

Harley motioned to Raoul, Keep frigging filming.

He nigh leaped to the bar, ordered.

“Two boilermakers, my good fellow.”

Seamas was never, ever anyone’s good fella. Maybe shades of Behan’s The Quare Fellow. But good? No way.

Harley added, in a snotty tone,

“You do know what a boilermaker is?”

Fuck.

I grabbed his arm, snarled,

“Rule number one: never antagonize the bar guy.”

For one fleeting moment, something crossed Harley’s face that showed there was something darker beneath the hail-fella-well-met bullshit, and, you know, that softened my view of him, not a lot, but in there.

The pints came and Seamas, God bless his Galway soul, deciding to play along, put the Jay in shooters, the shot glasses. Harley said,

“Let’s do this thing.”

As if we were heading into battle, which, in some ways, we were. He took the creamy top off the pint, then dropped the shot glass in.

It’s all a movie.

Was I going to do similar? I knocked the shot back solo. Harley seemed crestfallen. I asked,

“How exactly is this doc going to go down?”

He had half his drink gone, and it seemed to agree with him as he smiled, said,

“It’s already going down, partner.”

I rubbed my fingers together, said,

“Cash.”

Took some of my pint for effect, then,

“Partner.”

He said,

“Let’s not mess this up with finance.”

I took out a ten, tip for Seamas, looked directly at Harley, said,

“Good luck with that.”

Fucked off outa there.

16

The bland song “The Sounds of Silence”

Had been reinterpreted by a band named, appropriately enough,

Disturbed.

Channeling Metallica, it is a brutal, beautiful, nigh-biblical threat.

In the new version, a black-and-white video accompanies this; it could be a scene from a John Sayles movie.

Almost on its heels I heard

“Human.”

The singer of this called himself

Rag ’n’ Bone Man.

The wonderful thing about these ballsy singers is they are so far from the current range of pretty boy whiners. Made you feel hope in a Trump universe.

Then, less than two weeks after the Manchester horror, came a concentrated three-pronged attack in London, but the consolation at least was the police shot and killed the three lunatics in just eight minutes.

My phone rang. Owen, my friend in the Guards, said,

“Jack, Clancy has been hit by a car.”

Superintendent Clancy, my nemesis.

I snapped,

“I didn’t do it.”

I could nearly see his guilty smile. He added,

“He is in hospital, in a coma.”

I asked,

“You think I should bring him grapes?”

Pause.

Then,

“I think you should bring a solid alibi.”

While I mulled this over, the phone rang again.

Tevis.

He said,

“Jack, my colleagues decided to do you a biggie, to show that Two for Justice has your best interests at play.”

Oh, fuck, not good.

I asked,

“Why would they do that?”

He snorted as if suppressing a giggle, said,

“To ensure you leave the investigation of the twins’ father alone.”

I said nothing.

He pushed.

“Don’t you want to know what they did?”

Not really.

I said,

“Sure.”

“We settled a score from your past, an irritation that has plagued you down the years, and to think you once were friends.”

Clancy?

I asked,

“Superintendent Clancy?”

Now he laughed, said,

“You’d think a Guard would be more careful on the road.”

And hung up.

Each

Angel

   Is

    Terrible.

This was the title of a quasi-memoir put out by Scott Harden. A crime writer living along the canal. He was in his fifties but looked older; an alleged stint in a South American jail had given him preternaturally totally white hair.

Tall and thin to the point of perhaps illness but his olive skin created a false sheen of health.

He liked to drink.

Jesus, don’t we all?

His tipple of choice, and sales permitting, was tequila. Due to the South American influence?

Who the fuck knows and, in truth, cares?

We weren’t friends but we’d crossed paths often enough to allow us to drink on occasion without sweating it. This time, we’d met on the prom. He was staring out at the ocean, a practice I’d enjoyed my own self. What did he see?

America?

Jail?

Failure?

He was dressed as always in battered brown leather jacket, dark jeans, off-white trainers. I thought,

“I could be looking at me fein” (myself).

He sensed me. I guess if you survive prison in a hellhole, your sense of preservation is acute. He greeted,

“’Tis yourself.”

I answered,

“Buy you a pint?”

Not of tequila, no.

We went to Sally Longs, quiet midafternoon. I ordered the black and he opted for two bottles of Bud, no glass, explained,

“I like to turn out for the U.S. as they are the only gang to buy my books.”

I asked,

“How’s that going for you?”

He considered, then,

“If I put girl in the title, had a troubled but feisty female narrator, well, I’d have a shot.”

We toasted with,

“Sláinte amach.”

And I asked,

“Will you go that route?”

He laughed, not from humor but something like weariness, said,

“It’s that or a misery memoir.”

I said,

“I’m reading Thomas Cook, Tragic Shores.”

He had the Bud bottle mid-lift, waited, asked,

“And?”

“Masterpiece.”

He said,

“I’m going for a smoke.”

Didn’t ask, just stated it. That is very appealing. I joined him. He produced a soft pack of Camels (they still sell those?) and I smiled, said,

“The U.S., right? Your loyalty?”

“Fuck, no. A guy gave them to me.”

He offered but I declined, said,

“I’m vaping.”

He gave that odd smile, said,

“Is it on meself or does that sound just the tiniest bit gay?”

He lit up, coughed, exclaimed,

“God, they’re stale.”

“When did the guy give them to you?”

He thought for a moment, then said,

“A year ago.”

I realized he had a way of speaking that you never were quite sure if he was taking the piss or it was some private gig that amused him alone.

He said,

“The guy? He told me he was a barrister.”

“Okay.”

“But turns out he meant barista.”

Starbucks had recently opened in the Eyre Square center and was thriving. A phone shrilled. He took out one of the very old mobiles,

No camera

No video

No GPS

No paper trail.

He answered, went,

“Uh,

  Huh,

    Yeah,

       Okay.”

Finished the call. I said,

“You talk too much.”

He looked like he might give me a hearty pat on the shoulder or a wallop in the face, said,

“Gotta boogie.”

And took off.

I sat there and wondered if for writers a person wasn’t ever real,

Simply part of the plot. A guy at the bar asked me,

“Was that that writer bollix?”

Which in Ireland is as near a left-field recognition as you will get. But okay, it pissed me off, so I snarled,

“Have you read his books?”

Got the incredulous look and this,

“They’re stabbing books.”

Argue that.

More and more, odd events triggered events from my past. My father was a good, gentle man. How he ended up with my walking bitch of a mother is a mystery. He never once laid a finger on me. Which, nowadays, abuse seeming to be almost mandatory, is indeed remarkable.

But my dear mammie?

Phew-oh, cunt on wheels.

I came home from school, I was about eleven, a hot dinner and care was not the order of the day. She was waiting behind the door and floored me with a wallop to my head, stood over me with her weapon of choice, a thin nasty reed, with tiny embedded studs.

No wonder the clergy loved her. She was their poster girl of punishment, the embodiment of piety and pious posing.

She hissed, spittle leaking from the corners of her small, mean mouth.

“Did you steal the rich tea biscuits?”

We had biscuits?

I burbled,

“No, cross my heart and hope to die.”

She had systematically beaten me for a full four minutes.

I counted.

You think, four?

That’s not so bad.

It is.

Immersed in a dark past, I told myself,

“Get some air, pal.”

I did.

The sun was still beating down and hordes of Irish bewildered thronged Eyre Square. I sat at the top, near the John F. Kennedy memorial. God, we love them there Kennedys, even Teddy.

A woman, nicely dressed, with a solid bearing, holding the hand of a gorgeous little girl, dressed like Holly Hobbie. (Remember her? Little bonnet, cute booties, channeling Laura Ingalls Wilder.*[1])

The * is for “footnote”; if you want to go literary, have at least one footnote.

The woman approached, the little girl smiling hesitantly.

The woman.

Something in the way she moved.

She stood right in front of me, said,

“Gretchen, say hello to your father.”

17

I stared at the woman, asked,

“Kiki?”

Oh, my sweet shocking Lord.

My ex-wife.

Though if you measure in time quantity it barely scraped under the legal wire.

After the Guards, such is how I see my dismissal from said force, I went to London.

Went to bits.

Living on Ladbroke Grove (not at all like in the Van Morrison song), and in some barely remembered haze, met and married a German professor of metaphysics. In her defense, she was even more into booze than me. I think she thought I was some sort of Behan manqué.

Two weeks and she was howling for divorce.

I had a beard as my hands shook too much to shave.

A child?

Really?

I thought,

What the fuck.

The chronology I figured would be about right.

I think.

She asked,

“You do not remember me?”

In a tone that leaked a now recalled severity in her speech. Maybe it was a German thing to be so direct. I said,

“Guten Tag, Gedichte und Briefe zweisprachig.”

How I dredged that up, Christ knows.

But she liked it and, even better, so did the child.

Fuck, the insanity of the alkie mind-set. In my head I was already playing happy families. The child was staring at me with utter bewilderment. I asked in my dumb fashion,

“Does...

   Does...

She

  Speak

     English?”

A fleeting irritated expression danced across Kiki’s face. Now I remembered her intolerance of my ill-thought-out processes. She snapped,

“Gretchen was raised in New York where I got sober. She speaks three languages.”

I nearly asked,

“Any of them civil?”

As Kiki spoke, the sleeve of her Barbour jacket rode up, showing a gold Rolex oyster on a nicely tanned arm. The Germans coming to Ireland have obviously heard of our soft rain as the first thing they pack is ye old royal Barbour.

Even the child sported a Rolex.

Fuck.

This retriggered the happy family shit, and mindful of Kiki’s Ph.D. in metaphysics I said,

“The meta racket paying better than you’d expect.”

Gretchen piped up,

“Mommy is a doctor for sick souls.”

This, in an American twang. I wondered if maybe it was Teutonic humor.

Kiki said,

“My second husband is a very successful man.”

Second.

What kind of floozy was she?

I asked,

“How long are you in town for?”

She patted the child’s head and I for a split second wished it were me.

Madness.

She said,

“We must leave tomorrow for Berlin.”

The must bearing all the gravitas of the German imperative.

Then, with a sad smile, she referenced the TV show we’d watched in our brief time, said,

“Auf Wiedersehen, Pet.”

As they turned to go, the child whispered in German to her.

I figured she wanted maybe a hug, asked,

“What did she say?”

“She asked why you are so old.”

18

“They threw a dead dog into the hole after the consul’s body.”

Such are the end lines of Malcolm Lowry’s

Under the Volcano.

Lines I always found shocking on so many levels. In the movie version, Albert Finney produced the best on-screen depiction of an alcoholic ever.

Such were my meanderings after discovering I had a daughter and, gee, I had all of ten minutes with her.

My cup fucking overflowed.

Across town, Joffrey was walking home from school.

He felt independent.

Didn’t take any notice of the white van a few yards from him. As he approached, a fat man came quickly around the side, grabbed him, pushing a cloth over his mouth, a cloth that smelled of hospitals. In seconds he was limp.

Peter Boyne was sweating profusely, but joy mixed with adrenaline coursed through his body. He muttered,

“Oh, my beauty.”

He slid the side door open, threw the body inside, didn’t dare look around but moved quickly, got in the driver’s seat, and slowly pulled away. He hit the music deck. Queen blasted forth,

“We Will Rock You.”

“Too fucking right.”

He shouted.

Punched the air in victory.

As he disappeared in traffic, a lone schoolbag lay on the path, like a discarded wish.

19

Lockdown.

In a whirl of grief, rage, frustration,

I barricaded myself in the apartment.

“Some are born to endless night.”

My mind was a cesspool of

Remorse

Recrimination

Revolt.

Any word beginning with R, especially revulsion. Blocked out the world. My phone turned off. Sipping on Jay, trying to measure out how drunk I intended to get. Watched

Fargo 3.

David Thewlis, in a performance to rival Billy Bob Thornton in series one. This was indeed the time of Noah Hawley, his novel Before the Fall winning a shitload of awards, his early books reissued, and Legion receiving rave reviews in its first season.

A line from his early novel The Punch spooling in my head:

“Different bullets, same gun.”

The Hound of Heaven was no longer simply snapping at my heels but in full sit on my chest, heavy as death. I read a long account of the failed attempt by Andrew O’Hagan to write the bio of Assange, then followed that with a book of the twelve marines who guarded Saddam in his last months before he was hanged.

Nearly laughed in an insane fashion that Saddam had a special liking for Mary J. Blige.

You mutter,

“Like dude, seriously?”

Reread the classic horror by Anne Siddons, The House Next Door.

Then I turned my phone on and hell reared up on its ferocious legs and howled.

I heard hysteria, writ large, the weeping and keening of tears. I was as aforementioned, not in the best set of patience, snarled,

“Cut the drama, I can’t hear you.”

Marion.

A moment as she composed herself, then,

“It’s Joffrey, they’ve taken him.”

WTF?

I took a second to focus, then did the ice gig, asked,

“Who? Who took him?”

“We don’t know. He’s been missing for three days.”

I managed to stay on the cool vibe, asked,

“Where are you?”

“I’m staying with Maeve. I flew home as soon as I heard. Oh, God, Jack, what will I do?”

Like I had a clue but the even tone was working, so I said,

“Come over here. I will get right on it.”

“Oh, thank you, Jack, and I’m sorry the way I spoke to you last time.”

Me, too.

But

“Just get here. I’ll be making calls.”

What, I’d call the Guards?

Gave me time to shower, clean up the debris of my bender, did some lines of coke to fly right, wore a crisp new white shirt, the camouflage of the seasoned drinker. It near blinded me in its brightness and those fucking pins they put in them left my fingers shredded. The shakes, sure, but the coke was kicking its ass.

As I did the mop-up, I saw the cover of the DVD.

Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter.

Yeah.

Shows how nuts I’d been for those lost days. It was brilliantly bonkers and had Dominic Cooper whom recently I’d watched as Preacher,

With Joe Gilgun

Giving a master class in demonic craziness, playing, wait for it,

Irish vampire who was also a dope fiend and boozer.

You don’t need to be way out there to appreciate these dark insane series but it doesn’t hurt.

Maybe I’d watch

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

Finally, a way to watch Jane Austen without being bored shitless.

Then, oh Lord,

A sheet of paper with this in barely legible writing:

Two feelings colliding:

Horror at what I might have said if I did call her.

Kind of fucked-up delight that she still used my name.

How utterly lame was that?

I checked myself in the mirror, the white shirt did help but the eyes...

Seriously fucked. I couldn’t answer the door in shades.

Could I?

She’d think Bono’s dad was staying with me.

I rang Owen, my Guards contact. He was not pleased, growled,

“The fuck, Jack? You can’t ring me every time you have a problem.”

I had to rein in my urge to blast him out of it.

I said,

“You don’t even know why I’m calling. It might be to ask how you doing?”

He sniggered, went,

“Yeah, like that would ever happen. I’m like the cop Dennis in The Rockford Files, used only for info.”

I was surprised he was familiar with James Garner but then guys of a certain age...

I asked,

“How are you, Owen, how are the family? The children must be big now.”

Deep sigh, then,

“My wife left me and we never had a family.”

Ah.

Before I could work any more insincerity, he said,

“It’s about that kid, right?”

“How’d you know I’d be asking?”

Bitter laugh.

“You’re riding his mother.”

I was nearly shocked at the casual crudity, but I asked,

“Any developments?”

He went quiet, said, after hesitation,

“It’s four days now.”

I tried,

“But you are looking?”

“The boy is dead, Jack.”

Pause.

“Or worse.”

Fuck.

I asked,

“Any leads?”

He sighed, said,

“All the usual suspects and some new names the public provided. There are even more crazies out there than you’d imagine.”

I heard him draw a deep breath. He asked,

“What’s up with you, boyo? You’re four days late to the party. What’s that about? Didn’t you give a fuck until now?”

Bollocks.

I tried,

“Um, I was attempting my own inquiries.”

Hoped to God that would fly.

It didn’t.

He laughed without a trace of humor, near spat,

“Jesus wept. You were on the piss. I fucking don’t believe it. Seriously? That’s a new low even for you, Taylor.”

Hung up.

I muttered,

“All in all, I think it went okay.”

The doorbell chimed.

Marion.

Looking like the wreck of many Hesperuses.

She didn’t quite fall into my arms but did wobble in near faint.

I led her into the flat, got her a solid drink.

She took the drink, tears rolled down her cheeks, made a very soft plink against the rim of the glass. What could I say?

The utterly lame,

“It’s going to be all right.”

Yeah, that would fly.

I said,

“It’s going to be all right.”

She gulped the drink, a moment, and then color returned to her cheeks.

When mega-comfort was necessary, the very devil poisoned my soul. I asked,

“How is Sean?”

She was stunned, if more stunning were even possible. She near whimpered,

“Who?”

“Your husband, you know, the guy you forgot to mention.”

Fuck.

It looks bad.

It was. She got to her feet, swayed.

The doorbell rang.

She said very quietly,

“Maybe it’s news of Joffrey.”

It wasn’t.

Kiki.

The women stared at each other, not in friendly fashion.

Marion asked,

“Who’s she?”

She said,

“I’m his wife.”

20

I found myself in Freeney’s, a quiet pub on Quay Street. The tourists stroll right on by, probably misled by the fishing tackle in the window. You get your pro barmen here.

Not quite surly but definitely not big greeters. You get a nod, that’s it, but the service is excellent and the pint is pure quality. The sort of pint that is so fine it seems a sin to disturb the perfect creamy head.

It stocks Midleton whiskey, a brand but a prayer away from Jameson. The selling point, the clincher for me, is nobody can find you there.

Almost.

I was midway through the black, with just a hint of the whiskey, when Tevis sat in the chair opposite me.

He asked,

“Are you a death metal headbanger?”

I looked at him with suppressed fury, snarled,

“Do I look like I am?”

He smiled, shook his head, then,

“You’re a piece of work, Monsieur Taylor. Two women, count ’em, one a wife and the other... fiancée? Or significant other? What puzzles me is the nature of your game — apologies to the Rolling Stones — how you manage to piss them all off. Is it love ’em and dump ’em?”

I said,

“How you know so freaking much about my life is not only creepy but becoming seriously threatening.”

The barman brought him a tall glass of sparkling water.

Unheard of.

To receive table service here... I was fucked if I’d ask him how. He said, holding the glass up to the light,

“Vodka and sparkling water, a surprisingly refreshing if, alas, somewhat gay beverage.”

I said, very slowly,

“You need to think carefully how much it is you want to annoy me.”

He leaned over, gave me a playful punch to my shoulder. I asked myself,

“Is he stone fucking mad?”

He said,

“You’re thinking, am I mad? But let me ask you this. How much would you like to be the guy who saves the boy?”

I stared at him in complete astonishment.

He said,

“Impressive, huh? How much would your intended be grateful if you brought back that snotty little fuck of hers?”

All I had was,

“How?”

He stood up, said,

“It’s a biggie but you mull it over for, like, two minutes.”

He went to the bar, got drinks and an armful of Tayto. Came back, mega-smile in place, dumped the lot on the table, muttered,

“Who’s the daddy?”

Raised his glass, clinked mine, said,

“Here’s the heroes.”

My turn to lean. I did, put my index finger bang in the middle of his forehead, said very quietly,

“Who has the boy?”

He pulled back, a fleeting dance of fear across his face, said,

“A pedophile, and Two for Justice has the location.”

I was outraged, wanted to spit with anger, asked,

“That fucking lunatic, the ex-soldier or who the fuck ever he calls himself, the Quietness?”

He put up his hand, to shush me.

“The Silence. It’s important to get the terms right, especially if you want his um... assistance.”

I tried to dial it down, asked,

“This... guy... knows where the child is, even after four days and is, what, negotiating with me?”

Tevis tut-tutted. I mean he actually made the sound, said,

“You need to tone it down, fella, else I walk and kiss the boy good-bye.”

Later, I’d kill the fuck, asked,

“What does he want?”

He gave a conciliatory smile, said,

“Better. Now to give yourself some breath to chill, hop on up there, get me another one of these refreshing drinks.”

Was he serious?

I asked,

“You want me to ask for that punkish drink?”

He nodded, then,

“Time is a-running, lad.”

The barman responded with a huge smile, said,

“Gay rights, eh?”

I brought the drink back, sat, waited.

Tevis rummaged among the bags of crisps on the table, selected Shamrock with cheese and onion, pulled the bag open, put a fistful in his mouth, then, between noisy chews, managed,

“Call them there crisps chips in America.”

I said,

“I’ll do whatever it takes to save the boy.”

He finished the chips & crisps, said,

“That’s the spirit. Two for J is very loyal to its, um, clients, and their protection is vital to the ongoing, so it is felt that even though you are a mess, an alkie mess...”

He paused,

Winked,

Said,

“Not my words or indeed even sentiments,

But

You do tend to somehow get results and so your word is needed that no investigation into their affairs will happen.”

I said,

“I give my word.”

“Bravo. Here is what will happen. The boy will be delivered to your apartment, you will ring the mommy, be the hero.”

“How do I explain the rescue?”

“Lie. Lie big.”

He got up, smiled. I said,

“Your name, I figured it... from Walter Tevis, who wrote perhaps the best novel on chess, The Queen’s Gambit.”

He wasn’t fazed, said,

“You need to learn forks, pins, and skewers.”

And he was gone.

21

I was sitting in my apartment, not drinking, waiting on the call about the boy.

I’d popped a Xanax but a dread had settled in my stomach, not helped by the cigarette I’d smoked.

Ring.

Put me through the roof. I answered, heard Tevis.

“The lad will be delivered to your front door in minutes. Do not wait outside the door. You will then bring him to the hospital, call his mommy, and, for the Guards, you will say you got a call from a source to go to Eighteen, Water Alley, off Devon Park. You found the door open and the child unconscious on an air mattress. The occupant had fled. You immediately rushed him to the A and E. Got it?”

Silence.

Then, irritated,

“Got it?”

“I’m only partially deaf. Is the boy okay?”

A nasty chuckle, then,

“Okay? He’s fucked is what he is.”

Click.

Five long minutes, I counted every damn second, then my doorbell rang. Opened to find the boy unconscious on a sleeping bag, dressed in a white tracksuit, bruising on his face. I called a cab, then his mother, who was hysterical. I said,

“I found Joffrey, am rushing him to the hospital.”

Deep intakes of breath, then she asked,

“Is he alive?”

“Yes, a bit banged up but he’ll be fine.”

Yeah, right.

I clicked off, picked up the boy, blood congealed on the bottom of the boy’s pants. I daren’t think on that, got him to the cab, managed to ignore the driver’s barrage of questions.

The hospital was pandemonium. A hysterical grateful Marion, suspicious Guards, worried doctors. Within a short time the press arrived and the Guards had to extract me from a babble of reporters.

Whisked to Mill Street, the Guards’ headquarters. Shoved, pushed into the office of the new superintendent.

A woman.

In her late forties, with blond hair tied in one of those severe buns that screams: I am not a sexual being. Her face had the requisite hard edges that cautioned,

“Do not even think about fucking with me.”

She said,

“I am Mary Wilson.”

A thug / sergeant was right behind me, breathing curry chips on my neck. I said,

“I didn’t even know you left the Supremes.”

Bang.

From the thug.

It hurt.

I said,

“If this moron hits me again, I will come across the desk and he’ll have to beat me senseless to subdue me. Then how will the press like that the boy’s rescuer had the shit kicked out of him?”

An eye signal to the ape, who moved to my side.

She asked,

“How did you find the boy?”

“Through the very grace of God.”

I managed to move fast to my side to avoid the intended heavy blow to my ribs.

Wilson said,

“Your story reeks. If I find you are connected in any way you are in deep shit. Now get out.”

As they pushed me to the door, I managed,

“Was Diana Ross really a diva?”

The press surrounded me, a gallon of questions until I managed to get into a cab, told the driver,

“McSwiggans.”

As I got out, reached for my wallet, the driver said,

“No charge. You’re a hero.”

Fuck.

22

Michael Ian Allen.

They called him the Silence.

Meaning, he was usually the last thing you ever heard.

He was the only child of an Irish mother, American father, grew up in Watertown, Boston.

Quiet

Studious

Religious.

A Catholicism verging on fundamentalism instilled in him a fierce passion. He seemed destined for the priesthood but that other organization the Marines claimed him first.

He was a fine soldier, if not outstanding.

Until

Two patrols in Fallujah.

Both patrols were wiped out. He was the sole survivor — if just still breathing counted as life.

His initials had been almost a foreboding.

Some essential part of him had been MIA.

Chess and a warped sense of assisting those who were unable to help themselves lodged in what had been his soul. On leave, he had

  2

   4

    J

Tattooed on his arm.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his mission was until by chance he read an article about a man who tormented his family, received a slap on the wrist from the court.

“Pawns.”

He thought.

Victims who had no recourse to justice.

He’d be their advocate. His sense of definition varied from going after a man who beat his son in a supermarket to a bully who taunted a fat girl on the street. A crash of sounds roared in his head, the explosion of the Humvee.

With that first doomed patrol to the shrieks of the second as a mortar fired on them. Such times he physically shook his head to plead for ease.

A brief visit to the West of Ireland, land of his mother’s people, led to a chance encounter with Pierre Renaud, who had come across Allen curled in a terrorized ball on the shores of Lough Corrib. Renaud had sat with him and gently soothed him down to a quiet green platform and whispered to him,

“Le silence est magnifique.”

A rare confluence of events:

Kindness

The soft words in a soft French

Compassion

Created

A jellying of benevolent quiet in the mind of Michael Allen.

Renaud had gone further... provided a small cottage in the wild of Connemara.

Many weekends the duo spent fishing, hunting, and just finding a solace in each other’s company. One late Sunday evening, the men, tired from a day of hiking along the mountain trails, sat outdoors, sipping pure poteen, a turf fire fresh from the very bog they had traversed, when Allen said,

“You seem troubled, my friend.”

Renaud, prodding the fire into a blaze, said,

“My sons plan to kill me.”

He explained years of rebellion, bad behavior, insufferable attitudes, resulting in the twins’ becoming obsessed with the Menendez brothers. Renaud thought they were just adding another layer of abuse to irk their father.

They had the books, documentaries on the trial and eventual jailing of the two young killers. Mocking their father with comments like

“The difference is we won’t get caught.”

Their mother, a drunk, refused to see or heed anything that was less than one hundred percent proof. He had managed to find a way to live that had him work every hour he could until...

Until.

He was searching the garage for old tax returns when he came across two brand-new shotguns.

Allen had listened with no interruptions.

When Renaud finally wound down, he was weeping softly. Allen asked,

“What do you want to do?”

A sudden wave of anger crossed Renaud’s face. He spat,

“I want them to go away.”

So it was.

23

Harley, the documentary maker, was frustrated.

He was sitting in the Quays, on his second vodka, staring at Raoul, his camera guy. Raoul was, in fact, the whole crew.

The filming had been going well. He’d hired Jimmy Norman Media to get some very fine aerial shots of Galway at night. Norman Media used drones to huge effect.

Harley had been impressed but hid it from Jimmy lest he wanted payment then. Harley had perfected the fine art of never

Ever

Paying anybody.

He’d told Jimmy,

“Soon as the American money hits, you’re first to be paid.”

Jimmy had smiled, used to Galway shenanigans, said,

“No problem. I’ll hold on to the footage until then.”

Fuck,

Thought Harley.

There was American interest. A film about a broken-down PI in the West of Ireland, what was not to love? Harley had engaged the Galway singer-songwriter to compose a score for the doc. Marc Roberts had been easygoing and didn’t demand cash up front.

Don Stiffe, another in-demand singer, had expressed interest but Don hailed from Bohermore, so he wasn’t writing anything until he had a contract.

Locals had been great, happy to talk about Taylor, and Harley had got a ton of stuff on exploits, mostly false.

The Guards?

Not so much.

Had told Harley in no uncertain terms,

“Fuck off.”

He wished Raoul had caught that on camera.

But best of all, the freaking money hook, Taylor, was now a bona fide hero.

You believe that luck?

Saved a snatched young boy.

Gold.

Pure guaranteed white gold.

Save

Taylor was unavailable.

As

Harley yet again laid out his frustration to Raoul, he noticed Raoul was not listening but watching as a man headed determinedly toward them. He was dressed in black jeans, black sweatshirt, and moved with a sure ease. His blond hair was cut in the buzz style, giving his face a granite look. He reached their table, said to Raoul,

“Get lost.”

Raoul, accustomed to angry creditors, went without a word. The man took his stool, faced Harley, stared directly at him. Harley, uncomfortable, tried some East Brooklyn hard, said,

“Help you, fella?”

The man smiled, said,

“I’m Michael Allen.”

Harlow shrugged, the vodka giving him some artificial spunk, said,

“So what?”

His phone beeped and he reached for it.

Allen’s hand snapped out, gripped Harley’s wrist. Allen said,

“Not now.”

Harley, shaken, tried,

“You know who you’re fucking with, buddy?”

Allen leaned real close, near whispered,

“You are what we used to call back home

A huckster

Flimflam man

Grifter.

But that’s okay. Your Micky Mouse operation could use a major jolt.”

Harley sensed opportunity, so went,

“Tell me more.”

The bar guy, who was already lured by Harley’s claim to celebrity, had watched the proceedings and now moved quickly. Strode over, put a hand on Allen’s shoulder, addressed Harley,

“Everything under control here, Mr. Harlow?”

Letting a nice shade of hard dribble over his tone.

Without a movement, Allen said,

“You have twenty seconds to remove your hand and ten to scuttle back to the bar and get me a sparkling water.”

You work in bars, especially on a hopping street like Quay, you know when to exercise caution. This was such a moment. He withdrew his hand and moved back to the bar. He poured a long glass of water from the tap, added Fairy washing-up liquid to get the bubbles and hopefully poison the bollix.

Walked back, plonked the glass down in front of Allen, winked at Harley.

Allen said,

“Taste it.”

The bar guy was thrown, muttered,

“I don’t do sparkling water.”

Allen said,

“Neither do I, but you will drink that.”

There it was.

Plain as day.

Implied violence. The bar guy stepped back. Allen turned, looked at him, said,

“Hey, just pulling your chain.”

The sound of a cold humor was even more sinister than the outright threat.

As the chastened bar guy retreated, Allen threw,

“Soon as I find out where you live, I’ll drop by, we’ll have us a sparkling old time.”

Then turned to Harley, asked,

“Where was I?”

Harley wanted to cry, just straight out bawl. He said,

“You were mentioning an opportunity?”

Allen smiled, asked,

“An exclusive, a hook to get the U.S. in on the project, an interview with the sicko who snatched the boy.”

Harley saw the lure of that but,

“Will the Guards permit an interview?”

Allen continued the weird smile, said,

“The Guards don’t currently have him.”

Harley worked the angles, didn’t see it, asked,

“Is he out on bail?”

Allen waited a beat, then,

“Peter Boyne is presently staying with me.”

Harley echoed,

“Peter?”

“Indeed, Peter Boyne, and, if I say so, very keen to, how do you say, spill the beans.”