The Devil

13

I got a call from Stewart. He was a little warmer, not a whole lot, but easing up a wee bit. Said,

‘I’ve been trying to get a fix on our Mr Carl, Mr K, or whoever he is.’

I waited and he said,

‘He’s like some kind of mystery man. I can’t find him on any business listing, my usual sources have dried up and not even Google had him.’

I asked,

‘What about the students?’

He was rustling paper. A list-maker, was Stewart. I always figured there was something seriously fucking wrong with cunts who made lists.

He said,

nothing,

nada,

zip.

He asked me,

‘You hear from him?’

Apart from the money bonanza, not so you’d notice, discounting the acid in me face. I said ‘No’ and asked about the band, the Devil’s Minions.

These he knew. They were a motley crew, no pun intended, and were appearing in the Roisin Dubh the following Wednesday.

Ireland were playing a World Cup qualifier, so the Roisin would be dead.

I said,

‘Might wander round there, have a chat with the little bastard who threw the shit in me face.’

He asked if I wanted him to come along and I said,

‘Naw, I’m just going to observe. Maybe their Esteemed One will appear.’

He hesitated, knew me too well, then ’fessed up,

‘I have a date on Wednesday.’

Just when I’d been reassuring meself he was as solitary as I was, I tried to be happy for him, asked,

‘Who’s the lucky colleen?’

He didn’t want to tell me, I could sense that, then said,

‘She’s a lawyer…er…her name is Aine and she…well, she likes the things I do.’

Jesus.

Decaff tea,

vegan,

Zen,

clean living.

I said,

‘Terrific, have a great time.’

‘Thanks, Jack. I think you’d like her.’

Right.

I fucking hated her already.

He rung off, saying he’d continue to dig on our Mr K.

Was I jealous?

Big time.

I was edgy, still watching Sawyer, waiting for the right opportunity. Took two Xanax and headed out.

Bright crisp sunny day.

Go figure.

The snow had just evaporated and people looked, if not happy – too many jobs were being lost for that – definitely relieved that at least the fecking weather had improved.

My mobile rang. I answered and heard,

‘Jack – it’s OK to use your first name, I hope – it’s Carl.’

Dare I say, Speak of the Devil!

I said,

‘Hi, Carl.’

Breezy.

His accent still foreign tinged, he asked,

‘You fancy a bite to eat?’

‘Sure.’

‘Excellent. The brasserie in Kirwan’s Lane does a rather splendid coq au vin. Shall we say one o’clock if that suits, aujourd’hui? I mean – excusez-moi – today?’

I kept with the light banter.

‘Works for me, mon ami.’

He chuckled nastily, said,

‘Touché. See you. A bientôt.’

I rang off.

Maybe I could nail the fucker down this time.

I checked me watch. Some time to kill so headed for Charly Byrne’s.

Jesus, how long since I’d seen Vinny?

Too long.

And there he was, mid banter with some old dear and making her day.

He hadn’t cut his hair and still had the look of John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. He certainly had the mouth.

When he finally turned he said, I swear by all that’s holy,

‘Look what the devil dragged in.’

And without further ado added,

‘Come in.’

I did.

We had a coffee in Java’s. He had his Irish Times, his Marlboro Light, putting it out as we entered the café, and for one brief moment, everything was OK.

We got the coffees ordered and a croissant for Vinny, then he sat back, said,

‘I thought you’d abandoned us.’

I gave the Irish response:

‘Would I ever?’

I told him I was living in Nun’s Island and he recommended I read Sanctuary.

It was just good to see him.

No flak, no bullshit, just a real long-time friend. I said,

‘I’ll be needing some books.’

He got out his pen, said,

‘Fire away.’

I ordered:

Seamus Smyth, Quinn and his new one, Red Dock,

Straley,

Gary Phillips,

Jim Nesbitt,

Brian McGilloway,

Adrian McKinty,

Tony Black.

Vinny said,

‘Nice list.’

Vinny had much the same upbringing as me save his mum was lovely, but Catholic in all the ways that screwed with you. I asked,

‘What do you think of the Devil?’

He laughed – and he is one of the great laughers I know – asked,

‘Which Devil had you in mind?’

He was buttering his croissant, laying the butter on with just the right delicacy, and Jesus, it looked tempting. I said,

‘No, the real McCoy. Satan, the fire-and-brimstone, cloven hooves and eternal damnation fellah.’

He took a sweet bite of the pastry, relished it, then said,

‘I watch Reaper, does that count?’

I waited and he added,

‘OK, Jack, I can see this is a serious question, so my answer is serious. Look at the state of the country and whoever is stalking the land – it ain’t God.’

*

I had time to kill before lunch, so I headed for the main street and heard a guy mutter to his wife,

‘Hear about Ryanair?’

She gave him the look of generations of Irish women, sighed, asked,

‘What?’

Like she had the slightest interest.

Ryanair, run by Michael O’Leary, was our no-frills, cut-price airline. I admired O’Leary – day after 9/11, he offered free flights to any destination for one cent. I’m not saying he saved the industry, but by Jaysus, he got planes back in the air. I thought he should be running the country.

The man said,

‘Ryanair is going to charge to use the toilets.’

The woman gave the universal,

‘Hmmmph.’

A sound that men never have and never will understand.

Carl was due to arrive at the restaurant in about half an hour and I had one of me rare bright moments. What the Bible terms the still, small voice.

I bought one of those disposable cameras, complete with flash, roll of 24. The radio was on and Keith Finnegan’s show was taking a music break. The Killers with ‘Human’.

Seemed kind of like an omen.

I went to Kirwan’s Lane, passing McDonagh’s fish ’n’ chip shop, with a line of Americans already waiting. I stationed myself under a canopy that hid me from view.

Saw Carl arrive, strutting along, women turning to watch him.

He knew.

Small smile perched on his handsome face.

He was wearing a light suede jacket that whispered, serious bucks, black shirt with a muted red tie, dark slacks and those Loke shoes, handmade jobs I could never afford.

A little sun had emerged and bounced off his bald head like bad karma.

I began to shoot off a whole range of shots, catching him, if not in his full glory, at least in his smug esteem.

He strolled into the brasserie as if he owned it.

For some odd reason, the beautiful words of Francis de Sales’ Cross crept into my head. I muttered them like some form of incantation.

I knew it by heart. One of the Patrician Brothers had taught me – and I use taught with more than a little bitterness.

He beat it into me with the canes they favoured. Those suckers hurt like a bastard.

I can still hear the swish as it came down

again,

again,

again,

palms of my hands, my bare legs, till the sweat rolled down, staining his cassock.

Did I cry?

Not then.

Some might suggest I’ve been crying ever since.

I used the rest of the roll to shoot the swans in the Claddagh Basin and had a batch of French bread to feed them.

Pocketing the camera and brushing the breadcrumbs off, I headed for the restaurant.

I was thinking about coq au vin, and call it a hunch, but I knew it wasn’t ever going to be on the menu.

And as it turned out, it wasn’t.

During the lunch we had, he never once mentioned it, so did I?

Did I fuck.

I’m not all that sure what it is, except it sounds…lewd.

But then I was raised on spuds and cabbage.

Meat was what the priests had.

Later, we discovered, very young meat.

He had the best table.

Quelle surprise.

Rose to greet me. Was he going to embrace me?

Changed to a handshake.

My imagination?

But his hand felt like a dead person’s. Waving me to the chair opposite, he said,

‘Jack, bienvenu. I took the liberty of ordering for us. Champers to start, n’est-ce pas?’

Holy fuck.

He clicked his fingers, said,

‘Garçon.’

The waiter was there in jig time, uncorked the bottle with a flourish, filled our glasses and backed off.

Carl said,

‘Moët.’

Is there a reply?

He suddenly produced a fountain pen – Mont Blanc, of course, to accessorize his slim Rolex, no doubt – and held up a finger, motioning me to be quiet.

Jotted down something on a napkin, folded it, put it beside his glass, then said,

‘Sorry, Jack, just a business inspiration.’

He raised his glass, toasted,

‘Here’s to you, fellah.’

Had he now an Irish lilt?