Purgatory

28

I met with Westbury in his office. If any of the deaths had affected him in any way, he wasn’t showing it. Dressed in a suit that must have cost three fortunes, he asked,

“How exactly can I help you, Mr. Taylor?”

A lawyer calls you mister, lose your wallet as he already owns it. I said,

“Call me Jack.”

Got an enigmatic smile that gave away precisely zero. He didn’t extend the courtesy so I figured we were still definitely not on first-name territory. I said,

“Just a strange coincidence. Five of the people you represented are dead. Worse, murdered.”

He looked at me, then,

“Is there a question in there. . Jack?”

Leaning, oh so slightly, on my name. No fucking with this guy. I said,

“I wondered if you’d an opinion on that?”

His smile spread, a joke he’d written the punch line for many times. He said,

“Jack, my opinion is very, very measured. You can read that as expensive.”

Before I could answer, he asked,

“You are here in any, how shall I put it, legal capacity?”

Like he didn’t know. I said,

“Stewart was my best friend. I don’t know what legal weight that carries.”

He shot back,

“Well, I can answer that easily and, better, not charge you. Its weight is zilch, nada, and, as they say in our native tongue,

Níl rud ar bith agat.”

That last bit nicely translates as,

“You’ve fuck all, Jack.”

Kelly was sipping a Bloody Mary in the bar at Jury’s, bottom of Quay Street. I hadn’t arranged to meet her. It was one of those bars where you could see the interior from the street. I’d been fuming along, simmering after leaving Westbury, when I glanced to my right, saw her. Turned and went in. If she was glad to see me, she was hiding it well. Lunch hour was looming and I asked,

“Getting an early start?”

She was wearing a dazzling white tracksuit, her hair tied up in that no nonsense bun that women do effortlessly. A hardcover of The Importance of Being Oscar was open before her. She stared at me, mused,

“Taylor or Wilde?”

Then, deciding, shut the book. A waitress approached and I ordered a Galway sparkling water. Kelly said,

“Another of those.”

Indicating her own now-finished drink, the girl asked,

“Tomato juice?”

Kelly sighed, said,

“Yeah, with a shipload of Grey Goose.”

Kelly asked,

“And how are you, Jacques?”

Like a damn fool I began to tell her. During the telling, her drink arrived and finally she did that

. . wind it up fellah motion.

Said,

“Jesus, Taylor, when I asked you, I didn’t really care and guess what? I care even fucking less now.”

I physically moved back, said,

“Phew, you really are not in a good place.”

She looked at her empty glass, like,

“How’d that happen?”

Said,

“I’m sorry, Jack, it’s just Stewart.”

And trailed off.

WTF?

I echoed,

“Stewart?”

She seemed to be tearing up, said,

“We’d become close. Well, Zen proximity.”

Christ, she sounded like him. I asked,

“You and Stewart?”

She said,

“Not sure you were the friend to him you could have been.”

And, with that blow, stood, touched my face with her hand, said,

“I need to grieve.”

And was gone.

Leaving me the bill and the Wilde book.

Trust me,

1. Bloody Marys and, yeah, a sparkling water

2. Are not cheap.

I left the book as a cheap tip and got out of there before I had to face the waitress. I was out of cash and definitely out of options.

I went after her, determined to ask about her husband, Reardon, the new drug named C33. But, on Quay Street, there was no sign.

Back at my flat, I cracked a beer, sat down to watch the last four episodes of Life (Season 2) with Damian Lewis. And you guessed it, another canceled show. A crime. The final episode had writing and drama the equal of anything on HBO.

All of this to distract my mind, the reeling conflicting notions:

Stewart and Kelly?

Reardon and C33.

Ridge and extreme annoyance.

The brew was good, a batch of Sam Adams I found in McCambridge’s. All I needed was an NFL game, shout,

“Go Giants. .”

And I’d have the U.S. to me.

Without leaning on the metaphor too much, but a drink-fucked PI, with mutilated fingers, bad hearing, watching shows that got canceled, yeah, that’s about right.

My phone shrilled. It had that whine that cautioned,

“This is nothing good.”

Said,

“Better be good.”

Got,

“Taylor, Reardon here.”

I took a breath, spat,

“You son of a bitch, you’ve been Mickey Finning me.”

Pause.

“Mickey what the fuck?”

“Doping me, with some untested shite that could kill me or worse.”

He laughed, asked,

“You’ve been free from hangovers, am I right?”

“At what price, can you tell me that, you bollix?”

More snickering, then,

“It’s life, Jack. We’re all fucked.”

Maybe we’d been watching the same TV series.

“Jack, you need to rein it in. You’ll be suitably rewarded.”

“Not in heaven, I hope.”

“You’re a funny guy, Jack.”

“So assholes keep telling me.”

“I’ll drop by this evening. We can. . chat.”

When I didn’t answer, he said,

“One more thing, buddy.”

“Yeah?”

“That sense of humor. Keep it honed. You’re goanna fucking need it.”

He rang off. I cracked another Sam, idled on shooting the bastard the minute he walked in the door. No prelim, no chat.

Just blow his shit away.

Made the beer taste even better than it had, gave it an edge.

I was half in the bag when he eventually showed. He was still sporting the grunge look, like a reanimated Cobain.

A pair of combat pants that had designer stains or not. A T-shirt with the logo I’d kill for a hit.

Cute.

He said,

“Yo, bro.”

Jesus.

Flopped in the sofa, asked,

“I could go a brew, my man.”

Went to the fridge, lobbed a Sam, and he caught it expertly. Looked at the label, said,

“Class.”

My desire to wallop him had waned as I’d downed enough booze. Normally it fueled my murderous compulsion but not this time. I asked,

“This dope you’re feeding me, the name, is it, like, C. . for chemical?”

He drained the bottle, belched, said,

“C33?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t know?”

He seemed genuinely surprised. I said,

“Like I’d be fucking asking?”

He stood, danced to the fridge, grabbed a brew, flicked the top off, said,

“But, correct me if I’m wrong, you were in the bookstore together, right?”

I was lost, gestured with my shoulders. He said,

“Kelly. She got the Wilde book that day, I think. Shit, you paid for it, she said.”

I stood in front of him, said,

“For fuck’s sake, just tell me and quit the fucking riddles.”

Unfazed, he said,

“Kelly had a thing for Wilde, so, C33, the number of his cell in Reading Gaol.”