The Devil

12

I went to a pub in lower Salthill.

Not my usual stomping ground.

It’s not quite upmarket.

Yet.

But getting there.

The barman had a dicky bow, but alas, had neglected to iron the almost-white shirt.

I could tell by his eyes, he was probably the best customer.

I ordered a pint. Unlike in the UK, here you don’t tip, or ever offer the bar crew a drink. I asked,

‘Something for yourself, maybe?’

Large brandy.

I had me guy.

He muttered,

‘Normally I don’t, you know, but…’

I gave him my best smile, said,

‘If a man can’t have a wee snort now and again.’

He clinked my glass, said,

‘Slainte amach.’

And threw it back like a man in dire straits.

Straits I knew better than I cared to admit.

I put a fifty note on the counter and his red eyes, the brandy giving them that artificial respite, fell on it eagerly. He put out a hand, said,

‘I’m Bob, pleasure to meet you.’

I’d most of me pint gone and he volunteered,

‘Another? On the house this time.’

By tea time, he’d be gone.

Once the owner showed up, he’d be so out of the game, it was done but to shoot the poor bastard.

I said,

‘Terrific.’

And excused meself to go to the toilet.

Let him wreak havoc on the optics.

Gave him five minutes.

Sitting back on the counter, he was by now my new best mate.

I said,

‘You look like a guy who’s clued in.’

He rubbed his nose in that way of the doomed coke addict, figuring I wanted to be hooked up, smiled – God, it had been a time since he saw the dentist – said,

‘I’ve been around, could tell some stories.’

I tried to suppress,

‘Gotcha.’

Sipped at the fresh pint, let him stew a little, eye the fifty, and then I asked,

‘A guy named Sawyer, you know him?’

I won’t be daft and say it sobered him, but it definitely got his attention.

He leaned forward, the brandy fumes like a blast of bad news in my face, said,

‘Whoa, you don’t want to, like, you know, be messing with that dude.’

I waited, touching the fifty lightly with my index finger.

He took a deep breath, then,

‘The guy is a major player, got connections, y’know?’

I smiled, us dudes just shooting the bull, and asked,

‘I was just wondering, as I have a little biz I might put his way and hopefully put a little something your way, in the light of a finder’s fee, no one to be the wiser, of course.’

He took the fifty, pushed it in his pocket, said,

‘Every day, like clockwork, he plays nine holes, then has a brew or two in the bar, members only.’

Bitterness came off him like rabies as he said that. He knew ‘members’ was a term he’d never have dealings with.

Half my pint was going sour as the atmosphere went south and I stood, said,

‘Be seeing you.’

He was as close to stunned as it gets.

He was at that stage where he was about to lay out his whole shitty life.

He near pleaded,

‘You’re leaving? I never got your name.’

As I opened the door, I said,

‘Dude, that’s like, cos I didn’t give it.’

*

My dad always told me,

‘The golf club is not for the likes of us.’

Seeing my crushed face, he’d quickly added,

‘But they always need caddies!’

Don’t they fucking just?

James Ellroy used to be a caddy.

Need I add more?

But for once, I didn’t go blasting in, decided to do this right.

I watched.

For one whole week.

Loitering, you might say.

With serious intent.

Sure enough, my brandy buddy was right. Every day, like jig time, Sawyer played nine holes.

And he cheated.

O.J. Simpson did too and there’s a moral there.

Not of any uplift.

Mostly I clocked the two heavies who followed him around.

Big fuckers.

Built to hurt.

He had a drink in the clubhouse after, and then the gorillas drove him home.

One usually sat outside in the BMW. He would have had a Humvee if the market would take it. The second heavy usually stayed at the clubhouse. Minding the clubs, perhaps?

Come three thirty, having safely delivered Sawyer home to his mansion, the car guy moved off to collect the three daughters, who were no doubt exhausted from a day bullying the wee Down syndrome girleen.

Monitoring a case, following a guy, is just about as tedious as it sounds.

But I stayed with it.

At one point, I even read a discarded cig packet.

The government warning went:

SMOKING MAY REDUCE THE BLOOD FLOW AND CAUSE IMPOTENCE.

At close to nine Euro a pack of twenty, you’d think nobody would smoke. But the country was still smoking like Bette Davis in her prime.

Broke but fuming.

I kept tabs on Ridge’s progress.

She was due to leave the hospital in a day or two.

Figured I wouldn’t be on the welcome committee.

Rang Kelli’s mother and right off the bat she began,

‘Mr Taylor, I’m so sorry your friend got hurt by the father of those girls.’

Her tone.

Something off.

I said,

‘She’s OK, and as a Guard, she knows to expect trouble in the line of duty.’

She hesitated, then said,

‘Well, I so appreciate your time and efforts, and if you send me your bill…’

I said,

‘The fuck is this?’

Blowing me off?

I could hear her compose herself and then the shite sandwich. She said,

‘My husband and I have decided to let the matter go. We may change Kelli’s school, but truly, we are so thankful for your time and help.’

I’d take the money, out of pure rage. Gave her my address in very clipped tone, then said,

‘Sawyer got to you, didn’t he?’

She was nailed. Tried,

‘Mr Taylor, really, you’ve been terrific, but we wish the matter to rest now.’

I asked,

‘At the next school, if Kelli has any bullying, what will you do? Let some scumbag scare you off protecting your child?’

She was silent, then said,

‘I have to go, but truly, thank you.’